Summoned

A sermon on Luke 5:1-11 and Isaiah 6:1-13
Preached Sunday, February 9, 2025 at Saratoga Springs UMC.
Video available here. (Sermon begins around 42:58)

“Woe is me” and “I am lost, for I am [one] of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips”.

Would you pray with me?

Maker and Sustainer of all things, thank you for bringing us safe to this time and this place. Be with us here today. And may the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be acceptable to you, our Rock and our Redeemer. Amen.  

I wanted to start of this sermon by thanking Pastor Heather for inviting me to preach while she’s away and to thank you all for welcoming me in, even amidst the weather this morning. And I am thankful. Thank you. But goodness, this passage from Isaiah!  

You know, I was going to transition into a story from seminary, because I figured it’s probably been a minute since y’all heard someone reflect on their call the way you do in seminary, and I can still tell you that story, if you like, but man, these words from Isaiah!

I want to talk to you this morning about call. I want to talk about how you don’t have to be special or separate or holy to make a difference in this world, to do essential work in our times. You don’t need a direct call from the Savior to catch all those fish—you know where the deep waters are. I want to get into all of that, and I will, but cheese and crackers, did you hear these verses from Isaiah?

“Woe is me! I am lost, for I am [one] of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips, yet my eyes have seen the king, the Lord of hosts!” I mean, Isaiah, knowing that the Assyrian Empire is at the gates in the northern kingdom of Israel, has just spent five chapters railing against the injustice in Jerusalem and the southern kingdom of Judah, predicting destruction left and right, and yet, when the righteous prophet arrives before the Lord God of hosts, all he can say is “Woe to me for I am a man of unclean lips!”

And you’d think that’s it, right? You think that’s going to be the turning point. You think that Isaiah has had his revelation, that he has repented of his harsh words, that he sees the error of his ways. This is where grace is going to begin to pour in and God, gentle as a mother, will pick up Isaiah and sing to him that he is beloved and called for such a time as this. You’d think, in the face of Isaiah’s overwhelm and outburst, that this is the moment for a steadying presence and quiet determination.

But seraphs don’t skip a beat.

When Isaiah declares his lips unclean, an angel of the Lord of Hosts flies to the altar and picks up a coal from its bed on the altar, burning incense or sacrifices, and puts this coal to Isaiah’s mouth. The seraph flies over, quicker than thought, and holds it to Isaiah’s unclean lips, a holy fire that burns away all of Isaiah’s fears and excuses. Is he harmed? Does he stand there, holding scorched lips as an angel with six wings hovers above him and proclaims, “Now, your guilt is gone. Now, you have no excuse.”? Does he struggle to speak, blisters bursting, as he whispers the words, “Here I am, send me!”? This prophet, this righteous man who has called for the destruction of all things, does he now face his own destruction, holding on to his call by the skin of his teeth?  

Or does Isaiah stand tall, now that he’s been cleansed, ready for action? Is he ready when God tells him to say to the people, “Keep listening but do not comprehend; keep looking, but do not understand, so that they may not turn and be healed”? Is his cry of, “How long, O Lord?” a moment of anguish, realizing that God has no intention of relenting, or does he smile in crazed delight as he watches his prophecies come true?

How long, O Lord?

Until the cities lie in waste and the land is utterly desolate, until everyone is sent far away and there is a vast emptiness in the land, until, like a felled terebinth or oak, only a burned, smoking stump remains.

How long, O Lord?

Until everything is in ruins and everything is lost. Until everything and everyone is gone. Until the world totally ends in fire and woe. Then, and only then, will a seed begin to sprout from this stump.

I am ashamed at how much like Isaiah I am.  

I am one of unclean lips. And an unclean heart.

Because I have to be honest, friends, I have had moments like these in recent days. I have despaired at the world I live in. I have wished for destruction so that something new could begin. I, too, have spent five chapters railing against the injustice amongst my people, in my country. And I have to say, if I were to see the Lord sitting on a throne, high and mighty, such that the hem of God’s robe alone filled this place, I’d take the coal and the message, and proclaim it without ceasing. “This world, this way of being, must end. And you clearly weren’t listening before. You clearly didn’t hear me before, when I said this is the way things would turn out. You clearly been blocking us out, so don’t start paying attention now! Go ahead and run this place into destruction. And when you and every dream you ever had lies in ruins, then and only then do we have the smallest seed, the tiniest hope of making things right.”

Have you ever felt like this?

Have you ever been this angry, this lost in despair? Have you ever been this hurt and afraid, and rightly so? Have you ever felt like you were shouting into the void? Have you ever felt this alone and isolated? Have you ever felt this doubt and misery about yourself?

God, I didn’t know I could feel this way, but Jesus knows I do.

I am so thankful that the Bible can hold all my rage and loss and desperation. I am so thankful that I can be holy too.  

Now, I’m not saying that Isaiah gets it right here. I’m not saying that we need to speed along some future potential destruction. I’m not saying that we need to go out to the street corners holding signs that tell the world, “The end is nigh.”

I am saying that when someone is trying to tell the world that it’s going to hell in a handbasket because it’s not taking care of the poor and vulnerable, God and a whole host of angels are up there in the cheap seats shouting, “Yeah, you tell ‘em!” And when that prophet gets discouraged and says, “Who am I to do this? I’m just as bad as everyone else,” God gives them a kick in the pants and says, “Get back out there. Someone’s got to say this.”  

That’s call.

Now, I may have graduated from seminary six years ago this spring, but when you spend three years of your life trying to answer the question, “What is God calling me to do?”, you don’t stop hearing that question in scriptures like this one from Isaiah or our earlier one from Luke. Isaiah’s call story, this chapter of Isaiah, is one of the big ones people consider. Jeremiah’s, well, jeremiad, where he complains that everyone is after him and yet, the word of the Lord is “a fire shut up in my bones and I become weary of holding it in,” that’s another popular one. And of course, when Jesus calls his disciples to fish for people, that’s one we’ve all sat with at one time or another. Is God calling me to proclaim God’s word? Is God calling me to be there for God’s people? Is God calling me to serve my neighbor, no matter where my neighbor is? Is it everything all at once? Is it nothing at all?

It's easy to get lost in these questions. It’s easy to get lost wondering what you’re supposed to do at times like these, because the Bible has many answers. Christian tradition has many answers. Ethicists, scholars, pastors, lawyers, organizers, everyone is laying out a smorgasbord of answers to the question, “What am I called to do right now?” It’s hard to know. It’s hard to know.

But what I want to draw your attention to in these two passages this morning is that in both stories, God is sending folks out again. Isaiah has been proclaiming that people must change their ways. God sends him out to do this again. Simon Peter and James and John have been fishing all night. Jesus sends them out again.

See, Isaiah, and Peter and James and John, they know what to do. They’ve been doing it all their lives, practically. It is when they see what great good thing God can do with what they’ve done that they dive to their knees and declare their sinfulness. And we get that, I think. We can see how Isaiah’s vision would be overwhelming, but we can also imagine that net full to bursting of fish, how you would realize that you’re in the presence of something much bigger than you, much more powerful than you, and how you might only see the smallness of what you can do.

But in both stories, God lifts up folks to continue to do what they already know how to do. The fishers are told to fish. The preacher is told to preach. It is humbling and overwhelming to be told that you’re enough and that you know what to do, but that’s what we see in these call stories. God is calling us, right where we are. God is summoning us to this moment.  

In the days ahead, when you are angry, and there will be plenty to be angry about, remember that you are called and you already know what to do.  

When you despair, and there will be plenty to despair about, remember that you are called and you already know what to do.

When you feel lost, when nothing seems like it’s working, and there will be days like that, remember that you are called and you already know what to do.

You know that you need to resist the urge to isolate, that you need to reach out to folks, to call and check on people, to build and sustain connections, to strengthen your community, because God is love, and this is what love does.

You know that you need to offer hospitality, to welcome folks in, to provide a space where everyone feels safe, welcomed, and wanted, and to open yourselves up to risk by letting in vulnerable people even if they’re strangers, because the ancestors of our faith were once strangers in Egypt.

You know that you need to speak up when you see something wrong, to step in when you see someone harassing or attacking the vulnerable and the least of these, to challenge family, friends, and colleagues when they say something hateful or unthinking, even if it’s awkward, because a persistent widow can persuade even an unjust judge.

You know that you need to care for the least of these, to give good food to the hungry, clean water to the thirsty, warm welcome to the stranger, and clothing and shelter to those without, and that you need to visit those who are sick and in prison, because these are the things that will guide the judgement of the Son of Man who sits in glory on the throne.

You know to listen to the cry of the needy. You know to resist evil and injustice in whatever forms they present themselves. You know how to do these things. You’ve done them before.

My friends, you know where the deep water is. All you have to do is go out once again. And you know the right words to say in the face of injustice. You do not need a hot coal against your lips to say them. You have seen the Lord God of Hosts. You have seen Jesus. You have seen the Spirit at work in you and among you.

You already know what to do. Now go out and do it again. That’s your call. That’s your summons. Because God knows, we need you.

Amen.