2/8/26 Sermon

The book of Isaiah isn’t one single sermon written on one afternoon. It’s a collection of prophetic preaching and poetry that stretches across generations of Israel’s life—before the exile, during the trauma of exile, and into the hard work of coming home.

The portion we’re reading today comes from what many scholars call “Third Isaiah,” likely spoken after the people returned from exile in Babylon—when the temple is being rebuilt, the community is trying to rebuild its identity, and everyone is asking what a faithful life is supposed to look like now.

And here’s the twist: the people in Isaiah 58 are not pagan outsiders. They’re church people. They’re worshipers. They’re fasting. They’re praying. They “seek God daily,” the text says. They’re sincere—and they’re frustrated that God doesn’t seem to be responding in the ways they expect.

So God sends the prophet to say: your worship isn’t the problem. The problem is a faith that stays in the sanctuary and doesn’t change the way you treat your neighbors—especially the poor, the exploited, the hungry, and the unhoused.

Listen now for God’s Word as we find it in Isaiah 58: 1-12

Shout loudly; don’t hold back;
    raise your voice like a trumpet!
Announce to my people their crime,
    to the house of Jacob their sins.

They seek me day after day,
    desiring knowledge of my ways
    like a nation that acted righteously,
    that didn’t abandon their God.
They ask me for righteous judgments,
    wanting to be close to God.
“Why do we fast and you don’t see;
    why afflict ourselves and you don’t notice?”
Yet on your fast day you do whatever you want,
    and oppress all your workers.
You quarrel and brawl, and then you fast;
    you hit each other violently with your fists.

You shouldn’t fast as you are doing today
    if you want to make your voice heard on high.
Is this the kind of fast I choose,
    a day of self-affliction,
    of bending one’s head like a reed
    and of lying down in mourning clothing and ashes?
    Is this what you call a fast,
        a day acceptable to the Lord?

Isn’t this the fast I choose:
    releasing wicked restraints, untying the ropes of a yoke,
    setting free the mistreated,
    and breaking every yoke?
Isn’t it sharing your bread with the hungry
    and bringing the homeless poor into your house,
    covering the naked when you see them,
    and not hiding from your own family?
Then your light will break out like the dawn,
    and you will be healed quickly.
Your own righteousness will walk before you,
    and the Lord’s glory will be your rear guard.

Then you will call, and the Lord will answer;
    you will cry for help, and God will say, “I’m here.”
If you remove the yoke from among you,
    the finger-pointing, the wicked speech;
    if you open your heart to the hungry,
    and provide abundantly for those who are afflicted,
    your light will shine in the darkness,
    and your gloom will be like the noon.

The Lord will guide you continually
    and provide for you, even in parched places.
    He will rescue your bones.
You will be like a watered garden,
    like a spring of water that won’t run dry.
They will rebuild ancient ruins on your account;
    the foundations of generations past you will restore.
You will be called Mender of Broken Walls,
    Restorer of Livable Streets.

WORD OF THE LORD

The other day, I was talking to this amazing Methodist pastor I know. Really just one of the most talented and gifted ministers I’ve ever met.  And they were bemoaning to me that this is the time of year where Ministers who serve the United Methodist Church have to fill out this annual statistical report and it’s all numbers about how many people are coming, how well programs are attended, where the membership numbers are at, where the finances are blah blah blah…

We have something similar that we have to fill out that you’ll see in our annual report this morning. But as a Presbyterian, I’m lucky because Paul Smith has to fill all of that out instead of me.  What’s kind of crazy and what frustrates my Methodist friend is that’s how we decide how healthy or viable or successful a congregation is.  It’s a quantifiable numbers game. Like successful ministry is determined by how many people you can get into the pews on Sunday and how much money you can raise to keep the lights on. And look: numbers can tell a story. Budgets matter. People matter. But numbers can’t tell the whole story.  I think they only tell a small part of the story.

So your homework this morning after the annual meeting is to write an email to the Methodist Bishop on behalf of my dear friend Pastor Violet and tell the Bishop to do away with the annual statistical report and save the Methodist pastors. Us Presbyterians can save yet again. I’m kidding.  Mostly.  I can totally get his e-mail address if you want it…

I’m not going to lie.  I’ve always preached against this kind of stuff.  I’ve always tried to make the quality over quantity argument. But the first thing I always did after every worship service was go to the back where the attendance numbers were for that Sunday, look to see where they were, and then let that dictate if I was going to enjoy the rest of my Sunday or not… We live in a world that prizes production, that feeds us the lie that success is quantifiable, that worth can be measured in output, that rest is a moral failure, and that if you’re not useful, you’re somehow not enough.  And even the church isn’t immune from this narrative.  But none of that is gospel and none of that is true.

Because none of these reports ask how many sandwiches you made for PADS. They don’t ask how many pounds of food you brought in for neighbors who were hungry. They don’t ask about the meals you prepared, the cards you sent, the hours you gave to comfort and care for one another. They don’t ask whether anyone’s yoke got lighter because you showed up.

They don’t ask how you defended your neighbor, what relationships you built across lines that usually divide us, what you studied, when you prayed, how your faith deepened or how your love got sturdier and your courage stronger. And that’s the major failure of statistical reports and trying to measure success by quantity in a field that should be about quality.  So if the spreadsheets can’t measure it, the prophets will. If the institutional report has no line for it, Isaiah shows up with a holy refusal and says we’re measuring the wrong things.

Isaiah is one of those prophets that can feel like he’s talking in thunder. And sometimes he is. But at its heart Isaiah is doing something really simple and really terrifying: Isaiah tells the truth.

Isaiah is speaking to a people who are convinced they’re doing faith correctly. They’re showing up. They’re praying. They’re fasting. They’re serious. They even think of themselves as the kind of people who “seek God daily.” They’re the kind of congregation you’d probably want on your team: active, committed, religious.

And yet God sends Isaiah to say something that should make all of us sit up in our pews. Isaiah is saying here that you can do all the right religious things and still be missing God.

Because the question in this scripture isn’t, “Are you worshiping?” The question is, “What kind of worship are you offering?” Is it the kind that makes you feel holy while leaving the world unchanged? Is it the kind that makes you look devout while other people are still carrying burdens you helped put on their backs? Or is it the kind that not only changes you but changes the world in which you live?

Isaiah 58 is God interrupting a very sincere religious community and saying: If you want to talk about fasting, if you want to talk about spirituality, if you want to talk about what faithfulness looks like, then we’re going to talk about the hungry and the unhoused and the exploited. We’re going to talk about yokes.  And We’re going to talk about liberation. Because that’s where God is.

So listen to what God says here because this is the heart of it. God says:

“Is not this the fast that I choose…”

In other words: If you want to know what I actually want from you, here it is.

“To loose the bonds of injustice.”
Not just to feel bad about injustice. Not just to post about it. Not just to have the right opinions about it. To loose it, to untie it, to unfasten it, to pull at the knot until something that was binding another human being starts to give way.

“To undo the thongs of the yoke.”
A yoke is what makes an animal carry a load that isn’t theirs. It’s pressure. It’s control. It’s being trapped in a system that says, “This is what you’re for.” God is saying: stop putting yokes on people—at work, at home, in the economy, in the way we treat the poor, the immigrant, the vulnerable—and wherever you see a yoke, start unbuckling it.

“To let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke.”
That line is so strong it’s almost offensive. Because it means God’s vision isn’t just charity—it’s freedom. Not “here’s a little help while the chains stay on.” Not “here’s a meal and good luck out there.” God says: break the yoke. End the things and the systems that crush people.

Then God gets painfully practical:

“Is it not to share your bread with the hungry…”
Not your leftovers. Not what you can spare without feeling it. Your bread. The thing you planned on eating. The thing you counted on.

“…and bring the homeless poor into your house…”
Not “somebody should do something.” Not “we have a committee for that.” God says: make room. Let your life be interrupted.

“…when you see the naked, to cover them…”
Cover them—not with judgment, not with shame, not with a lecture.  Cover them with dignity, with clothing, with the knowledge that they’re actually worth something.

“…and not to hide yourself from your own kin.”
That one sneaks up on you. Because this isn’t only about strangers “out there.” It’s also about the people close to you. The people you’ve been avoiding. The people you’ve written off. The people you’ve decided are not your responsibility. God says: Don’t hide.

This is God redefining spirituality as a way of life. Not performance. Not optics. Not religious intensity. A faith that you can’t separate from how you treat people, how you share what you have, how you use power, how you leverage privilege, how you respond to suffering because God is in all of it.

In other words, God isn’t handing us a statistical report to fill out.  God isn’t impressed by worship that’s polished and crowded if it doesn’t tell the truth in how we live. Does God want our worship?  Of course God does.  Is that enough for God? No.  God wants our hearts.  God wants our lives. And God wants those lives aimed outward: loosening what binds, sharing bread, making room, covering the vulnerable, refusing to hide from our own kin. God isn’t grading us on quantity. God is after quality. And the litmus test of the quality of our worship — of the quality of our faith — is simple and brutal:  Its based in how well or poorly we love our neighbor.

And so as we head into a new year as a church, my hope is that we’ll focus less on what’s measurable and more on what’s faithful—on the depth of our worship, the strength of our discipleship, and the kind of love we’re learning to practice together.

So as we head into this new year, here’s what I’m asking for—not as a program, not as a new church initiative, but as a way of life:

I’m asking you to choose discipleship.

Because discipleship is what happens when faith stops being something we admire and starts being something we practice. It’s the slow, steady work of being formed—week by week—into people who look a little more like Christ: people who tell the truth, people who pray, people who repent, people who forgive, people who share bread, people who make room, people who refuse to hide.

So here’s what that means, concretely. This year, I’m asking each of us to choose depth in three simple ways:

1. Choose one practice that roots you—prayer, Scripture, a rule of life, a daily rhythm that keeps you near God when the world is loud.

2. Choose one community that shapes you—come to faith matters, help me start a bible study, a class, a discipleship circle, a place where you can be known and held accountable and encouraged… because nobody becomes a disciple alone.

And 3.  choose one way to aim your life outward—PADS, feeding ministries, visitation, organizing, showing up for a neighbor who’s carrying more than they can bear… something that puts Isaiah’s words into your hands and feet.

Because the point isn’t that we do more religious things. The point is that we become a different kind of people.

And Isaiah says when we live this way, God does something in us and through us: light breaks. Healing comes. Ruins get rebuilt. Breaches get repaired. Streets get restored so that others can actually live there.

So no—God is not asking us to fill out a statistical report.

God is asking us to become the kind of people whose lives are the report.

Amen