No Ifs About It.

If I were to summarize the reading from Isaiah today into ten words, it would be: “How to Make God Love You in 5 Impossible Steps.” As I read, I could feel my anxiety rising. Of all the words to read in a text about God’s blessing, can you guess the hardest? For me, it is the “if.” It is harder when the “If” is followed by a bunch of things I am fairly confident I am unable to do – even on my best day: “If you remove the yoke from among you, the pointing of the finger, the speaking of evil, if you offer your food to the hungry and satisfy the needs of the afflicted…” and we begin arguing with God, bargaining, justifying our actions and our failure to act because, at the end of the day, life seems a constant struggle for survival in which we have little time to do the things we enjoy, let alone unbinding the bound, guarding our thoughts and actions, feeding the hungry, and satisfying the afflicted.

There are so many who are bound – some by their own doing, some by others’. There are so many who take advantage of generosity. There are so many hungry. There are so many afflicted. They live in our towns, the drive down our streets, and some of them might even sit next to us in church. Maybe they don’t have jobs. Maybe they have struggled with substance abuse. Maybe they’ve just had one tough break after another, leading to a life of struggle. They had a choice, we might say to ourselves. They could get a job, could work harder, could give up a few things here and there, and still their stomachs grumble and Isaiah’s words echo “If you…”

What Isaiah is asking in this chapter is exceedingly difficult. The people of Israel had just been released from the Babylonian captivity. Some of them remained away from their homes, having made new lives for themselves in Babylon. Others returned home to a place that they thought they had remembered. Like troops coming home from war, the looks and smells of home are familiar, but home never feels the same again. Normal becomes a moving target. Remembering the rhythm of home and family is just… different… foreign… like the melody of a song you once knew the words of which you can’t seem to remember no matter how many times you hum it. Home. “Dear Israel, if you do these things which are impossible, ‘Your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt; you shall raise up the foundations of many generations; you shall be called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of streets to live in.’” The promise seems too good to be true. This gift is measured entirely by the word “if.”

Perhaps Isaiah is only talking about the literal physical situation of the people of Israel. Remove the yoke from those among you and they will be free to work alongside you. Feed the hungry, and they will help rebuild your roads. Comfort the afflicted, and they will become a source of comfort. Just don’t do it on the Sabbath.

I imagine her, hunched over from years of raising children, of making meals, of running the house, the stress of agrarian life worn in the wrinkles of her sun-died face and gnarly, veiny hands. She wasn’t looking for anything special, wasn’t expecting a healing, was expecting this time at the synagogue to be like all the other ones, when the people leave just enough extra space between themselves and her to be perceptible but not enough to make it look like they were unwelcoming. So used to accepting her lot in life, quietly enduring with patience, content with the little reminders of God’s providence and presence, she wasn’t expecting Jesus. She wasn’t expecting freedom.

The leader of the synagogue was quick to point out that Jesus – technically speaking – was breaking the Sabbath. Before we too quickly write him off as not understanding salvation or God, we should first walk a few minutes in his shoes. If keeping the commandments was the only way to remain connected to God, would we not do everything in our power to keep them? If we had just returned home from exile and God had promised to rebuild our lives, would we not do anything to have home feel normal: like home again?

Gift and “if” don’t seem to work together very nicely (though some may point out that “if” is in the middle of the word gift). If you are uncomfortable with all of the “ifs” here, you are in good company. The pesky word “if” seems like it may have been as disquieting for the synagogue leader as it might be for some of us. “If you refrain from trampling the sabbath, from pursuing your own interests on my holy day; if you call the sabbath a delight and the holy day of the LORD honorable; if you honor it, not going your own ways, serving your own interests, or pursuing your own affairs; then you shall take delight in the LORD, and I will make you ride upon the heights of the earth; I will feed you with the heritage of your ancestor Jacob, for the mouth of the LORD has spoken.”

It seems God was uncomfortable with “if” as well. Loving humans who can’t seem to get it right, God was not content to remain separated from us by an “if.” As though saying, “If you’re not going to free each other, feed each other, and care for each other, then I’m going to come to you and do it myself.”

If the freedom Jesus gives isn’t a little disquieting, a little uncomfortable, and a little unnerving, we aren’t paying attention. We resist the free gift, living as though the “if” still governs God’s love for us. Luther himself struggled with this. As the lore goes, Luther as an Augustinian monk would leave confession only to return a few minutes later to confess another sin. Never able to convince himself he had been forgiven, he could barely get himself out of the confessional. At one point, Staupitz, Luther’s confessor, remarked to him that he ought to commit a real sin before coming to confess. Perhaps this is why the Reformers – again and again – spoke of justification and, indeed, were willing to be excommunicated for their determined belief that if sinners are to be saved, it is God who must do the saving.

“We are in bondage to sin and cannot free ourselves…” but we have been freed, and we have been freed in order to free each other. In Christ, we have all been bound to him – to his death, to his resurrection, and to this disquieting freedom that comes as a gift in the midst of our trying to earn it. It is difficult for people who are bound to unbind others. It is difficult for people who are hungry to feed others. It is difficult for those who are suffering to comfort others. It is easy in our world, sadly, to take our freedom for granted and to allow others to remain bound. It is easy in our world to take our full bellies for granted and allow others to starve. It is easy to take peace and security for granted and to allow others to live in fear. But this is not what is being asked of us.

God has not removed the “ifs” from our salvation in order that we might place “ifs” in front of our neighbors. For the sake of Jesus Christ, you have been forgiven. For the sake of Jesus Christ, you have been asked to forgive. Christ, who bound himself to all of you in his life, in his death, and in his resurrection, has also bound you to each other. Perhaps he has done this because, in his wisdom, he knows that we need constant reminders of our freedom, of being unbound from sin, of provision, and reminders of in whom you have placed your hope. Your hope is in one who says, “This is my body, given for you.” There is no “if” about it.