“They shall build up the ancient ruins,
they shall raise up the former devastations;
they shall repair the ruined cities,
the devastations of many generations.” (v. 4)
There’s a romantic aura around newness. Shiny new things make us feel shiny and new. A new pair of shoes, a new car, the newest gadgetry—who doesn’t feel the lure of the new?
Of course, part of the allure of new stuff is its promise that we won’t have to deal anymore with the brokenness or shabbiness of our old stuff. We can just replace it. Tossing’s easier than fixing.
We’re struck, in today’s passage from Isaiah, by the prophet’s vision of a God who repairs. Israel’s broken present isn’t simply trashed for something brand new. Rather, captives are freed, mourners are comforted, the lowly are lauded, and wrongdoers are judged as Israel is redeemed, restored, replanted—in a sense, “fixed.” To be sure, the Book of Isaiah envisions a “new heavens and a new earth” (65:17). But newness here seems grounded in the hard, careful work of reclaiming what’s been neglected, ill-used, and broken. The prophet sees this as joyful work: “Because their shame was double, / and dishonor was proclaimed as their lot, / therefore they shall possess a double portion; / everlasting joy shall be theirs” (v. 7). “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing,” says Jesus in the synagogue in Luke’s Gospel, reciting from Isaiah 61.
Ruth Stone’s wonderful poem “Plumbing” begins, “Plumbing is so intimate.” The poet marvels at how the repairman working on your toilet or faucet gets to know you, perhaps a little more than you’d like, in the course of doing his work. “He crawls through your dusty attic / over the boxes of doll furniture, / the trains, the ripped sleeping bags, the Beatles posters, / the camp cots, the dishes, the bed springs, / to wire up the hot water tank.” Your life is laid bare before your plumber. And there’s something saintly about his work, meeting you where you live and how you need:
… you admire him
as you would Saint Francis,
for his simple acceptance
of how things are.
And the water comes like a miracle.
Stone’s vision of the intimate, attentive, and even miraculous work of repair is not so far from Isaiah’s.
We’re grateful that God has not seen fit to toss us, but has rather become “so intimate” with us in the repair job of the Incarnation. We’re wondering what needs fixing, rather than tossing, in our own lives this Advent. How about for you?
Prayer:
Lord, you are nearer to us than we are to ourselves. Give us eyes to see what’s broken in us and give us grace to confess it. By your Spirit, help us join you in your work of repair, in ourselves and in the world. Amen.
