Lift your voice, even if it's a little rusty at first (we all feel like dead grass sometimes)

Isaiah 40:1-11

Mark 1:1-8

On the corner of Halstead and Polk not far from UIC sits an old mansion. In the spring of 1898, two friends stood in front of it discussing their plan: it was in such decrepit state that the owner had agreed to let them lease it for free.  They would start small: they would move in to the house and offer some classes on basic life skills for folks from the surrounding neighborhood. This was the turn of the 19th century and Chicago was rapidly industrializing. Thousands of people were flocking to cities from the countryside and along with them, a steady stream of migrants was flooding in. There were Greeks, Italians, Russian Jews, Bohemians, Irish, and Poles.  This was the first time cities had seen so many people living together in crowded spaces like these ethnic enclaves. Most houses didn’t even have running water let alone plumbing—my great-great grandparents immigrated around this time to this part of the city from Poland and this was their story.

The two women, who stood there that day, eventually moved into the house on the corner of Polk and Halstead and the project quickly took off.  One of the women’s father had died and left her a little money.  She set to work. 

By the second year, they were serving 2,000 people a week. There was a kindergarten, a day care, English classes, social clubs and art classes. There was legal aid, employment counseling and momentum continued building. Within 10 years, there were 13 buildings with a coffee house, a theater, Chicago’s very first public playground and a kitchen.  The complex even included a space for 20 women to live. 

Jane Addams had started a settlement house in Mr. Hull’s old mansion, but she had also started a movement. 

In the coming decades, living and working conditions in Chicago would improve. Chicago had led the way with this groundbreaking idea of settlement houses for migrants. In the coming years, Ida B. Wells would begin the famous settlement house a few miles away in Bronzeville called the Negro Fellowship League which served African Americans migrating north in the early 20th century. 

Eventually, the social work movement would grow out of these seeds of Jane Addams work through the Hull House.

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Hopeful movements begin with just a few small sparks: with two friends standing outside an old house at the corner of Halstead and Polk dreaming of what could be. 

In today’s scripture, we meet Jesus’ advance man, John the Baptist. His role was to “prepare the way” for Jesus and call other people to prepare it with him. God had a dream that John had caught on to. But that dream wasn’t John’s to fulfill. It was God’s dream to fulfill.

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A few days ago in our council meeting, we were discussing how we pass hope on to each other. Who were those people who came before us and brought hope when we couldn’t see the road in front of us? Who taught us how to hope?

For John, his parents, Elizabeth and Zachariah were certainly two of those people, but also in that mix was the prophet Isaiah.

In the scripture reading from the book of Isaiah the people are hopeless. Jerusalem had been sacked by the Babylonians and the people were enslaved and carted off where they had lived for decades in exile far from their homeland, their traditions, and their their temple. The prophet Isaiah is one of these Jewish people sitting by the waters in Babylon far from home. He is an unlikely person to launch a period of change and transition, but one day, he happens to overhear a conversation between God and some heavenly host in the divine council up there.

Comfort, O comfort my people,” God is saying
Speak tenderly to Jerusalem 
and cry to her that she has served her term.”  (Is. 40:1-2)

Tell them that their war is over, God will reign in peace forever.

Isaiah’s ears perk up—is change on the horizon? God goes on:
 A voice cries out:
 “In the wilderness prepare the way of the LORD,
  make straight in the desert a highway for our God… (Is. 40:3)

God pauses in the conversation with the heavenly host: “Isaiah!” She claps her divine hands!

“Are you listening down there!?”

Isaiah snaps to attention: "Who me?!" He croaks. 

“Cry out!” says God.

Isaiah’s voice is rusty, creaky, way out of practice (it has been decades since he last used it). He clears throat: “Oh, God, what shall I say??” (Is.40:6)

What?--I imagine him thinking--could I ever say, Oh Holy One? have you seen what it’s like down here?! The people are like grass, actual dried, dead grass, Oh God! We are like withered flowers, despondent, depressed. There is no sparkle, no joy! (ref. Is. 40:6-8)

As Isaiah goes on, this funny thing happens: his voice seems to grow steadier, stronger, and more confident. (I don’t know if that has ever happened to you: once you get the words out about what you hope for, or what you long for, something in you starts warming. Something in you starts to wake up. Like Hull House that slowly added a kindergarten, and then art classes, and then a shelter, and then, and then, and then…the flame quietly grew brighter.)

Isaiah lifts his head. He straightens up.  “…the word….” He says slowly “The word of the Lord… will stand… forever…” (Is. 40:8) It’s like the very act of speaking is awakening the spirit and something in him starts to stir and gain momentum. His voice strengthens! The candle in his hand brightens! And before you know it, he calls out to the city: 

Everyone!: "Get ye up to a high mountain, O Zion, herald of good tidings!; (Is: 40:9) 

His flame roars as he tips his candle outward to light those candles around him. And now you!: 

 ”lift up your voice with strength,
  O Jerusalem, herald of good tidings,
  lift it up, do not fear;
 say to the cities of Judah,
  “Here is your God!” (40:9)

For as it turns out, change is on the horizon. Those people in exile will soon head home to Jerusalem.  And this time, the path will not be winding and confusing like the last time they were stuck in the wilderness searching for the promised land. This time, every mountain and hill shall be made low and every valley shall be lifted up.

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Christmas begins with hope against hope.  

We stand at the edge and look out to what could be: 

A neighborhood in Chicago at the turn of the 20th century full of migrants hoping to make a new life for themselves.

An ancient people in exile longing for a way home.

A group of early church Jesus-followers—who had been persecuted by the Emperor Nero and were despondent, hopeless, like scorched grass and faded flowers—who  wait for the Prince of Peace who will soon come to be with them.

John the Baptist holding a single candle of hope, lighting the flame of each person who came to him seeking baptism, all the while crying out to prepare the way for Jesus, Light of the World, who would soon come to be with them.

Isaiah passed hope on to John and the people in the early church and that hope grew into a blaze as God sent Jesus to come to be among them.

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Who holds out that hope to you when you can’t see the road in front of you? How do you receive that light of God when your own candle is barely burning or even burnt out?  

Who is God pointing you towards and encouraging you to pass your own flame to in your life?  Maybe it’s a friend or a family member. Maybe it’s a whole people or a land that is faded and dried out that yearns for the love of God.

The long arc of God’s love stretches towards justice and will redeem and remake the whole world—and us in it.  As the psalmist said, one day, righteousness and peace will kiss. (Ps. 85:10) 

But we’re not there yet. 

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This season is not always the easiest. So many times, right along side of the razzle-dazzle of Christmas is some sort of pain or regret.  It could be grief for someone who has died, pain for some broken situation in our own lives, or sorrow for some place in our shattered world. 

That is exactly where Christmas begins.

This voice cries out—maybe it’s rusty at first, maybe it’s crying out from deep loss—but there in the night or even in the tomb, something stirs. This hope flickers bravely out from the profound shadow. This story of hope against hope is part of our heritage and even our DNA as people of faith. Generation after generation remembers this story that longs for a different world and for the promise of healing where all will be made well. This is the story of the One who will come to mend us and be with us in the midst of it all.

If you are one of the ones who is hurting and searching for the path forward right now, you are not alone. 

If you are one of the ones full of hope and assurance, and wondering where you can tip your candle outward and wish “comfort, comfort o, my people,” you are called.

This glowing good news of God’s gracious love sings in us and, to riff off of the Maya Angelou, poem we just heard, we lift our voice and share the good news 

with our brother, 

with our sister, 

with our city, 

with our soul.