We were sorting through left-over Halloween candy the other
day. Not much was left. All of the Reese’s peanut-butter cups and the fun-size
Snickers had long ago been consumed. We really had to scour the bowl to find
anything worth eating. Our five-year-old daughter picked up a small piece of
candy with a purple wrapper. “What’s this?” she asked. I looked. It was a Mega
Super-Sour Warhead—something I knew right away that she wouldn’t like. And, in
that moment, I had a choice.
I could simply tell her that it wasn’t good to eat and ask
her to throw it away, ignoring the fact that some people inexplicably do
actually like Warheads before quickly moving on to another option. Or I could
describe what it really was—a super-sour almost-inedible piece of candy that
some people like but that she almost certainly wouldn’t. I chose the latter.
It took longer than I thought—three or four seconds—before
her face shriveled up uncontrollably and far longer than I thought—ten or
twelve seconds—before she spit it out. “That’s yucky!” she resolutely declared.
And a week or so later, when we were looking through the bowl again, I asked
her if she wanted another one, and she quickly said, “No thank you!” She had
learned an important lesson—sometimes candy isn’t good.
There are lessons in life, it seems, that one must learn by
screwing up royally. We all know some of them—bad girlfriends, bad haircuts,
bad menu choices. Even though someone might tell us that we’re about to make a
bad choice, sometimes our own experience is the only thing that will get through
to us. Usually, we learn that lesson as individuals—one painful mistake at a
time. But what happens when a whole nation needs to learn it through a painful
experience that will last generations?
Today’s reading from Isaiah articulates what I like to call “a
theology of obfuscation.” The Lord says to the prophet,
Go and say to this people: 'Keep
listening, but do not comprehend; keep looking, but do not understand.' Make
the mind of this people dull, and stop their ears, and shut their eyes, so that
they may not look with their eyes, and listen with their ears, and comprehend
with their minds, and turn and be healed. (Isaiah 6:9-10)
In all honesty, that’s one of the most difficult passages of
scripture to interpret and explain that I know. Why would God send his
messenger to prevent the people from hearing his message? Why would he keep
their eyes and ears shut so that they would walk into apostate disaster? The
only thing I can think of is that it’s because he knew they needed to learn the
lesson the hard way.
What if they had heard the prophet’s call to repent? What if
they had stopped their sin and said, “Dear God, we’re sorry. Please forgive us?”
How long would that last? Until the next generation had a chance to screw it up
all over again? Whether it’s as individuals or as an entire nation, sometimes
we need the hard, sharp lessons of life to ensure that we won’t make the same
mistake again—even for generations to come.
Looking at it from the other side—the historical-critical
side—we might conclude that God didn’t actually want the people to ignore him. Instead, the prophet looked at the
situation (repeated refusal to repent and impending disaster) and made sense of
it by creating a theology of obfuscation. (As a prophet, you kind of need a
back-up plan if the people won’t listen to you, and one way to keep your job is
by claiming that God didn’t want the people to listen.) But the end result is
the same—we are supposed to learn from our mistakes so we won’t repeat the same
mistake over again.
But here’s the really tricky part for me—this is the Old
Testament passage used at presbyteral ordinations in the Episcopal Church—at least
the first half of it. We don’t get to the “do not comprehend part,” but it’s
there—just verses past where we stop. What does that say about my role as
preacher and teacher and, yes, even as prophet? Is my job also to stop up ears
and harden hearts? No, I don’t think so. I think that’s just human nature.
Instead, I think it’s my job to help us realize that we’re supposed to learn
from our mistakes and not repeat them.
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