"The LORD will guide you continually
and satisfy your needs in parched places
and make your bones strong,
and you shall be like a watered garden,
like a spring of water
whose waters never fail.
Your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt;
you shall raise up the foundations of many generations;
you shall be called the repairer of the breach,
the restorer of streets to live in." (Isaiah 58:11-12)
When I die, I hope there are no marble monuments with my name on them, no bronze plaques laid in my honor, and certainly no statues of my likeness (what would we be trying to do--scare small children?). But I do hope that when I'm gone, there will be a legacy of things I leave behind that were mended after being broken, rebuilt after falling into disrepair, and restored after coming apart. I hope there are signs that I was here on earth for however many years it turns out to be, but I sure as heaven don't want them to be carved in granite or--God forbid--with my name in big gold lettering on a building somewhere. I want there to be evidence of my existence in a well-maintained house that didn't fall apart, the sturdy craftsmanship of something I built that remained useful, or even the marks something that wasn't thrown away when it broke, but was repaired and made good as new. Every time I fix a closet door, patch a hole, replace the porch screening, or improve something around my house, I feel like that's the mark I hope to leave on the world. Monuments are cold. Plaques are a waste. But signs of mending are worth spending your life on.
In the Jewish tradition, there has come to be a beautiful phrase to describe that work as, basically, the essential human calling--and the vocation of all who would seek to do God's will. In Hebrew, it is "tikkun olam," and it translates to something like "the mending of the world" or "the repair of the universe." And the idea is that all of creation is the handiwork or craftsmanship of God, for which we have the opportunity to care, improve, and mend whatever places have come apart, been broken, or worn down. (Of course, another part of the conversation is to name the ways that we human beings are often a major part of the reason that something is broken, damaged, dirty, or polluted in the first place, and it would be wise of us to identify the ways we cause harm in God's world, so that we can stop actively making things worse!) This notion of "tikkun olam" comes from the Mishnah, a later collection of Jewish oral tradition around the Torah, but you can see the beginnings of the idea here in this passage from the book of Isaiah, which many of us heard in worship back on Sunday. You can hear the voice of the prophet lifting up the idea of being remembered for what we have repaired, how we have mended things, and the ways we left the world better than we found it.
Of course, these verses follow right on the heels of the verses we looked at yesterday, which culminated with the words, "If you offer your food to the hungry and satisfy the needs of the afflicted, then your light shall arise in the darkness..." The same train of thought continues here. In other words, the prophet is directing us toward what kinds of actions really matter, and what is worth spending our lives on. And as far a God is concerned, it is worth giving our lives to feeding one another, to alleviating the pain of those who suffer, and, yes to mend what is broken around us--both in buildings and in hearts. Today's verses continue with the imagery of someone rebuilding a neighborhood--fixing up the old family homestead, repairing the holes and cracks in the walls and restoring what had fallen down, so that that communities become revitalized, neighborhoods become good places to raise families in, and streets become safe to walk in. And the prophet is again trying to point his listeners in the direction of what is worth leaving as a legacy.
If, in yesterday's verses, we were reminded that God isn't impressed with big flashy shows of piety or displays of religion in the public square, then today, the prophet tells us what would make for a better way of spending our energy. When we care for the most vulnerable, the prophet says, that's how we rebuild the neighborhood (and not, for example, setting up a predatory payday-lending storefront). When we make sure folks around us are able to feed their families, that's how we mend the broken walls and restore the empty streets (and not, say, closing down the only grocery store around that sells fresh produce). The prophet says that's the kind of heritage that matters. Monuments eventually crumble (just ask Ozymandias in the famous poem). Metal plaques rust to illegibility. The prophet says it's not worth devoting your life to that sort of legacy. What will matter in the end are the ways we have helped the hurting and mended the broken places. What will last, in the big scheme of things, are the countless ways, small and great, that we have repaired the world, because it is the world that God loves, and it our calling to share in God's work of mending it all.
To be a disciple, ultimately, is to learn to seek the things that the teacher seeks. To be a part of the people of God will mean aligning our priorities and values with those of the God to whom we belong. Part of what that will mean is learning to get to of the impulse to get name recognition for ourselves in monuments or plaques and instead investing ourselves in the things that truly matter to God. In other words, today we are called to care less about the statues they will build in your or my honor, and more about the houses, neighborhoods, and communities that will be standing for generations to come because of the work we did to help repair the world.
How might you and I be a part of that good work today?
O Lord our God, realign our priorities with yours, to care for the world you love and the broken places within it.
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