Comfort In The Morning
The Restored “Rose Window,” Notre Dame
My daily prayer app, Pray As You Go, began this morning’s meditation with the rousing opening from Handel’s 1741 oratorio The Messiah: “Comfort ye, comfort ye my people, saith your God.” Through the magnificent language of the King James translation, we listen to the stirring words of Isaiah 40:1-3:
1 Comfort ye, comfort ye my people, saith your God.
2 Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem, and cry unto her,
that her warfare is accomplished,
that her iniquity is pardoned:
for she hath received of the LORD's hand double for all her sins.
Of course we shift immediately to the historical context. We think of Israel’s suffering and loss at the hands of Babylonian ruthlessness. We take on a corporate identity. This is God’s people we are talking about here. It is the fate of Jerusalem. It is war and carnage and destruction. It is the peoples’ iniquity of having lost trust in her faithful God.
But take comfort, says, the Lord. Stunning words: You are now in the Lord’s hands, not the hands of your enemies. And God speaks “comfortably” to you.
With powerful scripture like this, of course, we are always encouraged to think personally as well as corporately or historically. Yes, Lord, I need this comfort, just this morning. I have friends who are very sick. My world seems ever engulfed in turmoil and danger. My priorities are not always as clear and healthy as I would like them. I carry regrets. I rise up in the middle of the night anxiety-ridden about even small matters. I carry guilt over things done and things undone. I need for you to speak comfortably to me this morning.
Comfort, comfort ye my child, came through loud and clear as I greeted the rising sun. Because I needed these words, this very morning. And I heard the word. The war is over. Your battle is accomplished. You are forgiven. You need to carry that guilt no more. You are in my hands of comfort. Comfort ye, my son.
The word comfort means a lot here. It has to do with consolation or solace from distress and affliction. I buy that. The roots of the word call up finding strength. It can be soothing. It brings rest from anxiety. It can bring answers to the seemingly unresolvable. It can tell us there is a source for peace beyond our understanding. Stop worrying. Cast off your guilt. You are forgiven. Your war is over. Be at peace, says our comforting Lord.
And then this great poem shifts into sheer poetry:
3 The voice of him that crieth in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way of the LORD,
make straight in the desert a highway for our God.
4 Every valley shall be exalted,
and every mountain and hill shall be made low:
and the crooked shall be made straight,
and the rough places plain:
5 And the glory of the LORD shall be revealed,
and all flesh shall see it together:
for the mouth of the LORD hath spoken it. Isaiah 40:1-5
We now get a vision of the Messiah yet to come. Of course this is why this passage is used in Advent. It reminds us of all the promises we have heard through the ages, that our Messiah will guide us out of the wilderness. Get ready for the way of the Lord.
And then, where we might have wrestled in the abstract with warfare and iniquity, the path will be made straight and the rough spots made smooth and the mountains of obstacles made low. A highway will be opened up through the desert. Just listen, the mouth of the Lord is speaking. All of us will see it together.
The poet has taken over the poem. What is being said is so profound it can only be said in poetry. These are the moments when the poet speaks.
Comfort! Yes, comfort! Even as the world swirls around me this morning with all the discomfort I can imagine. Take comfort, I was told this morning. The Lord has spoken. And the poet passes on fresh words by which to enter my day, where the path will be straight, the hills low, the valleys smooth, the rough places plain—don’t you see it?