Based on Isaiah 66:10-14
The Consolation That Defies Logic
Dear Sisters and Brothers,
"Rejoice with Jerusalem, and be glad for her, all you
who love her; rejoice with her in joy, all you who mourn over her—that you may
nurse and be satisfied from her consoling breast." (Isaiah 66:10-11)
These words fall upon our ears this morning like a gentle
rain in the midst of a long drought. We are in the fourth week of Lent—a season
of introspection, of honest confrontation with our mortality, of discipline and
fasting. The violet paraments cover the altar. The hymns are subdued. And
suddenly, the ancient liturgy commands us: Laetare—Rejoice!
The church in her wisdom knows something about the human
heart that we often forget. She knows that we cannot bear forty days of
unrelenting sorrow. The pilgrim who walks toward Good Friday must be given,
halfway through the journey, a glimpse of the destination. So, the violet gives
way to rose. And the prophet Isaiah is set before us, not with a message of
judgment, but with the image of a mother comforting her child.
The God Who Refuses Abstraction
My friends, we must pay close attention to the language the
prophet uses here. It is not the language of the courtroom or the battlefield.
Here, the Spirit inspires Isaiah to speak of God in imagery that is tender,
intimate, even vulnerable.
"As a mother comforts her child, so I will comfort
you." (Isaiah 66:13)
This is not merely poetic flourish. It is revelation. The
God of Israel, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, possesses not only the
strength of the father but also the tenderness of the mother. God's compassion
is not an abstract concept debated in theological faculties. It is the instinct
of a nursing mother toward her infant—an instinct that precedes thought, that
overcomes exhaustion, that defies explanation.
In the Brazilian context where I have served, we know
something about the strength of mothers. We have seen them rise before dawn to
fetch water, walk miles to find work, intercede for children who have lost
their way. And the prophet dares to say: God is like that. God's comfort is
bodily, tangible, nourishing.
The Scandal of Suffering
But we must be honest. This text comes to a people who have
known profound suffering. The original audience of Isaiah 66 was a community
returning from exile, only to find their beloved Jerusalem in ruins. They had
dreamed of triumphant restoration. Instead, they found rubble.
Perhaps you know something of this disappointment. Perhaps
you came to this Lenten season hoping for spiritual renewal, and instead you
have encountered only your own weakness. Perhaps you have prayed for healing,
and the healing has not come.
The text does not deny this reality. The prophet addresses
those "who mourn over" Jerusalem. The comfort of God is not for those
who have never suffered. It is precisely for those who have mourned, who have
waited, who have wondered if God had forgotten them.
This is the paradox of our faith. We do not rejoice because
suffering has been eliminated. We rejoice because suffering has been taken up
into the very life of God. We worship a God who does not stand aloof from our
pain but enters into it—fully, completely, unto death.
The Cross as Maternal Embrace
And here we must make the connection that the early church
always made. On Laetare Sunday, as we pause in our Lenten journey, we are
invited to see the cross not only as an instrument of execution but as the
ultimate expression of divine comfort. On the cross, God in Christ gathers all
the suffering of the world—all abandonment, all betrayal, all despair—and takes
it into God's own heart. From that wounded side flow the sacraments: water and
blood, baptism and eucharist, the nourishment of the church.
The prophet speaks of nursing from the consoling breast. The
evangelist speaks of living water flowing from within. These images converge in
the cross. There, God becomes mother. There, God becomes fountain. There, God
becomes food for a starving world.
The Church as Mother
But the text also speaks of Jerusalem—not merely as an
earthly city, but as a symbol of the people of God. "Rejoice with
Jerusalem... that you may nurse and be satisfied from her consoling
breast."
The church, dear friends, is our mother. The church gives
birth to us in baptism. The church nourishes us at the table of the Lord. The
church instructs us in the faith and accompanies us through the valley of the
shadow of death.
We live in an age that has little patience for the church.
We are told that faith is private, that we can follow Jesus without belonging
to his body. But Isaiah will not allow us this illusion. The comfort of God
comes to us through the community of faith. It is mediated through the
preaching of the Word, through the breaking of the bread, through the embrace
of brothers and sisters who have also mourned and who have also been comforted.
I have seen this in the base communities of Brazil—poor
women and men gathering in humble chapels, sharing their burdens, discovering
that God's comfort is not an individual possession but a shared reality. This
is the church as mother. This is Jerusalem, our mother, from whose breast we
draw the milk of consolation.
The Peace That Flows Like a River
The prophet promises more than momentary comfort. He
promises transformation: "For thus says the Lord: I will extend prosperity
to her like a river, and the wealth of the nations like an overflowing
stream." (Isaiah 66:12)
The word translated "prosperity" is the
Hebrew shalom—wholeness, flourishing, right relationship with God,
with neighbor, with the land itself. This shalom flows like a
river, bringing life wherever it goes.
We are not there yet. The river has not flooded the whole
earth. But we have tasted its waters. In baptism, we have been immersed in the
death and resurrection of Christ. In the eucharist, we have drunk from the
stream of God's own life. These tastes are promises—down payments on the
full shalom that is yet to come.
Living Between the Times
And so we find ourselves, on this Laetare Sunday, living
between the times. We have not yet reached the full comfort of the new
Jerusalem. The old Jerusalem—our lives, our communities, our world—still bears
the marks of sin and death. We mourn. We wait.
But we do not mourn as those without hope. For we have seen,
in the death and resurrection of Jesus, that God's comfort is stronger than
death. We have tasted, in the sacraments, the milk of divine consolation. We
have experienced, in the community of faith, the embrace of a mother who will
not let us go.
Therefore, we can rejoice—even in Lent. Not with the loud
celebration of Easter, but with the quiet confidence of those who have seen the
dawn breaking on the horizon.
Conclusion
Dear friends, as we continue our pilgrimage toward the
cross, let us hold fast to the promise of Isaiah. Let us believe that God's
comfort is real, that God's shalom is flowing, that God's
maternal tenderness is not a metaphor but a reality we can experience even now.
And let us be, for one another, instruments of that comfort.
Let us be the arms that embrace, the voice that speaks peace, the community
that nourishes. For the church is our mother, and through us—broken, fragile,
sinful as we are—God continues to nurse the world with consolation.
"As a mother comforts her child, so I will comfort you;
you shall be comforted in Jerusalem."
Thanks be to God. Amen.
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