"Fear not, for you will not be ashamed;
be not confounded, for you will not be disgraced;
for you will forget the shame of your youth,
and the reproach of your widowhood you will remember no more.
For your Maker is your husband,
the Lord of hosts is His name;
and the Holy One of Israel is your Redeemer,
the God of the whole earth he is called.
For the Lord has called you like a wife deserted and grieved in spirit,
like a wife of youth when she is cast off, says your God.
For a brief moment I deserted you,
but with great compassion I will gather you.
In overflowing anger for a moment
I hid my face from you,
but with everlasting love I will have compassion on you,"
says the Lord, your Redeemer.
The act that confounded our minds and silenced our mouths for shame is the very act that empowers the words of Isaiah. Fear not. It is the same act which removes our confounding and our disgrace, the very act which covers our shame and clothes us with security, peace and light.
The Almighty has become our Husband, in total compassion and love. As Boaz, He who had no compulsion to cover us has wrapped His coat around and redeemed us.
The sense of God being far off is now only fleeting. It is temporary. The perception of the wrath of God is not lingering, but passes overhead. And I think these words may offer to us a glimpse of the Father's heart towards His Son, deserting for a moment's space, anger overflowing, but returning to perfect union again. And, unfathomably, returning to a union that has made space for us. You and I may now existing in relationship with the Maker, the Lord of hosts, the Lord of Israel, the God of the whole earth.
The joy of the resurrection is mirrored in the sunrise. As light bursts into darkness, I am often awoken, beams piercing the dusty eastern windows in my attic room and stretching to my pillow. Right around 8, these days, though it'll get earlier as the days lengthen.
But the sunrise occurs without me, to me. It is an external joy in which I participate, but to which I do not in any way contribute. Sunrise has a beauty of it's own: truly, I do not add to it.
So too the resurrection. Were I a bystander, watching, the joy of life returning to the Son would be enough to stir my soul, to pare off my dim dreams and wonder at reality. If the world grew dark at the crucifixion, I believe the sun rose brighter on Sunday. I believe the earth responded to the reunion of the Father and Son, and to the reunion of flesh and spirit. The earth shook as the stone was rolled away. It shivered awake. Joy had returned to walk in the garden.
And now with everlasting love the Father will meet the Son. The deed had been done, and peace ensued.
Yet, as though watching were insufficient, we now have been invited to participate. As the sun rises I am drawn to sing, to pray and read and cook and eat and water the seedlings on the porch. And as the God-Man rose, the compassion that did follow the Father's wrath then followed us. The love of a Husband, a good husband, henceforth wrapped us in light. God, whose face was no longer covered, now pursued us.
And so there is immeasurable hope now, for those who are tempest-tossed. Those who are afflicted, weary, ashamed, silently begging. Peace is extended. There is joy for those who have suffered immeasurable pain. There is hope, for the children who have passed away, and their parents, and their brothers and their sisters. Because the One who was lost rose again. Redemption has come, and the whole earth rejoiced. For truly all creation had been barren for so long.
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