Woe to those who are heros at drinking wine,

who are fearless at mixing beer,

Isaiah 5:22

It's not really meant to be funny I guess, but it made me laugh.  A dash of hyperbole in the midst of judgement and doom.  A cartoon image of the foolishness we so often choose to honor. 

Who really are the heros of our world?  The courageous, the caring, the ones who serve others, who rescue those in danger, who give all they have to make life better for someone else?  I think those are the answers we would like to give.  The one we would like to believe mirror our choices. 

But are they?  Sports, movies, musicians, and money; that's where the focus of the world lands.  What do they offer?  A couple hours distraction.  An insolation from the pain of the world.  A refuge from the responsibility to act in what I no longer take time to see.  No different really than cheering at the pouring of another drink. 

Woe to those who drag wickedness

with cords of deceit

and pull sin along with cart ropes

Isaiah 5: 18

A dusty trail on a sweltering day,

a wooden cart thudding over ruts and stones,

Ropes digging deeply

 into sunburned shoulders

sweat stinging squinted eyes

he strains at the heavy load.

What treasure is worth this effort? 

What beauty that consumes a soul?

Wickedness,

sin,

the deceit of ourselves,

Release;

the only freedom,

from all that was never worth having.

They do not perceive the Lord's actions,

and they do not see the work of his hands.

Isaiah 5:12

I haven't seen a whole lot of anything in the past three days.  Broken glasses on a weekend morning on the other side of the state means no insurance information, no help from company call trees, and no chance of fixing anything until Monday afternoon. 

I've wandered through a blurry fog of formless colors and bloated lights.  I've stumbled through a day of work, my nose almost touching the board to decipher my own notes, while giggling teenagers wave their hands and ask me how many fingers they're holding up.  I chose to ignore the implications of that one.

I wonder how often I stumble around with glasses securely on, believing I'm seeing it all.  Where is the touch of God all around me, where is the work of his hands?  Do I miss it, ignore it, or assign it another source?  Where are the glasses that will let me see everything that really matters.  

In the last days

the mountain of the Lord's house will be established

at the top of the mountains

and will be raised above the hills.

All nations will stream to it,

and many people will come and say,

Come,

let us go up

 to the mountain of the Lord,

to the house of the God of Jacob.

He will teach us about His ways

so that we may walk in his paths.

Isaiah 2: 2 - 3a

We climbed a mountain at church camp once.  Really it was hardly more than a pile of boulders, but enough to impress me at the time.  The teacher asked us to walk silently behind him, and in great testimony to his influence over thirty giddy and sleep deprived teenagers, we actually pretty well did it. 

He sat us down among the rocks and in the character of Jesus gave us word for word, completely from memory, the sermon on the mount.  It was an awe inspiring experience that lives with me thirty years later whenever I hear any of the words of those verses.

I've camped in the Colorado Rockies since then, coasted through the winding hills of the Smokey mountains of Tennessee and lived within sight on a clear day of the incredible majesty of Mt McKinley, Alaska.  Yet these verses still take me back to that rough hill where the words of Jesus were as fresh and real to me as the day they were first spoken. 

He will teach us his ways, all nations, all people, climbing that hill in breathless awe waiting for the gift of his words. 

"Who will you compare me to,

or who is my equal?"

Asks the Holy One.

Look up and see:

Who created these:

He brings out the starry host by number;

He calls all of them by name.

Isaiah 40: 25-26

I've been a space geek since I was five.  A solar eclipse and and a man on the moon sealed my heart in the heavens.  Lying on the ground on a summer night on plains of Oklahoma, the stars stretched beyond the scope of my craning neck.  A stunning song to the heavens, to the God who created it all, that transports me half-way there in the glory of it all. 

They barely peek through now in night of  my city life.  A sliver of sprinkles amidst buildings and trees and the glow of the airport lights.  I stare at them still, not quite the glory of my early days, but even that little sliver beyond anything I could begin to count or name. 

Yet He knows them, he counts them, he calls them by name, and somehow cares to know mine too.   

...Do not grieve for the joy of the Lord is your strength.

Nehemiah 8:10

Summer breezes, children's giggles, and a never quite in tune guitar.  We stumbled through endless verses of the bouncing song in half a dozen keys at once.  A Bible school staple, a guaranteed net to capture their fleeting attention.

I guess I always knew it was in the Bible, but I never wondered from where.  If anything, I would have guessed a time of great celebration, a victory in battle, the song of a conquering hero.  In one sense it was of course.  The children of Israel have returned to their land.  The walls have been rebuilt.   The Law of God has been proclaimed before them as they've gathered to acknowledge his gifts. 

But there's no celebrating now.  The grief of all they've lost overwhelms them.  The missing years, the forgotten commands, the guilt over all they could have been, over all they were meant to be. 

In the crushing weakness of failure, "Go," Nehemiah told them. Eat, drink, celebrate together.  Their strength, their hope, their new beginning were powered by the joy of the Lord at their return. 

Give your servant success today, and have compassion on him in the presence of this man.

Nehemiah 1:11

Eleven verses  into the prayer.  Three rather magnified pages on my reader.  The very last line of a lengthy petition, before Nehemiah gets to what we would consider the point;  an impassioned cry for personal help.

He opens with worship, with a recitation of the glory of God, of the promises of the covenant with his people.  He acknowledges the sin of himself and his people and the fairness of their exile in exchange.  He reminds himself, he reminds his God of the promise to restore them if they just turn back to his way.  He glories in the power and strength of God, in his faith in his goodness to act. 

When he finally reaches his petition, he's so full of the glory of God, that the King of Persia becomes almost an afterthought, "this man" just a man, though he holds Nehemiah's life in his hands.