December 22, 2019 “Promised Baby” – Isaiah 7:1-16

Isaiah 7:1-16
“Promised Baby”
December 22, 2019 – Fourth Sunday in Advent

“Yes, you’re pregnant.” Both times, six years apart, we were thrilled and excited to hear a medical person deliver that news to my wife Beth. It was a promise filled with hope and joy to come for us. And those promises have more than delivered as we’ve watched our girls grow up, even when at times when it was not easy for them or for us. We are very thankful for how those promised babies arrived and then turned out.

In our Scripture lessons today we hear the promise of the same Child delivered more than 700 years apart to two very different men. I just read from Isaiah 7 about the first man, a king. Ahaz became king of Judah in 732 B.C. Our Gospel reading from Matthew 1 told us about the second man, Joseph. Though of royal lineage, he was a carpenter. He was engaged to a young woman named Mary. Each man heard God’s promise of a baby, but they received it differently. Please listen to the difference, please listen first to the king:

A baby! I didn’t need a baby, even a pretty one. Truth be told, King of Israel though I was, I was not far from babyhood myself. My father Jotham died when I was twenty and left me ruler of Judah. You might think it a young man’s dream to rule a kingdom, but it was only misery for me.

I inherited a political snakepit. Even as I came to the throne, trouble was brewing in the north. Not just one, but two enemies conspired against me. One was Pekah the ruler of our long-separated brethren, the nation of Israel. The people of the other ten tribes who were once kindred and allies were now our foes. My other adversary was Rezin, king of Aram. You know it as Syria, a land of foreigners and strange gods. Pekah befriended Rezin. Now the two were allies and getting ready to invade Jerusalem.

My people were shaken. I was shaken. I was too young, too inexperienced to stand up to those two older and battle-ready kings. I lay awake nights trembling beneath the blankets on my bed. I shook with fear… until a plan came to me.

In secret I sent out envoys, ambassadors with scrolls carefully sealed with wax. But in public I began to prepare for an invasion, to make a show of strength. As king I began to shore up our defenses, our supply lines, all the infrastructure which made Judah and our capital at Jerusalem secure. I marched the army in review, I toured our storehouses, and I inspected the water supply. That’s where Isaiah the prophet found me one day.

Here he came, walking along the road to the Upper Pool. By the hand he held his son. What a picture, a man with a long, white beard and a scraggly little boy. What business did they have with me? What message could such a scruffy pair deliver?

You can read what Isaiah said. In his book, you would call it chapter 7, verse 4, though we didn’t number lines in scrolls in our time. He and the boy walked right up to me by the aqueduct and the prophet began to offer me ridiculous advice: “Be careful,” he said, “keep calm and don’t be afraid.”

What arrogance! True as it might be, how dare he suggest the king was afraid? Or that I wasn’t careful or calm? Even as I performed my sovereign duty, preparing my country for war, this wild-eyed preacher insulted my dignity, implied that I was anxious and fearful, rather than calm and brave. My own dark, but sparse beard bristled at the insult.

Isaiah picked up none of my displeasure. He went on without noticing my scowl. He rehearsed what I already knew much too well, the vicious plot of my enemies, Pekah and Rezin, ready to take my country and divide it between them. They would set up someone even younger in my place, the son of Tabeel. In spite of the anger I felt, my heart sank just to hear it all again. I opened my mouth to cut off this speech, to have my guards drive this storm crow from my sight. But then Isaiah spoke unexpected words:

“It will not take place, it will not happen.” That’s what he said. All I feared would not be. Aram and Ephraim (that’s what we called Israel) would be shattered and scattered. There would be no invasion, no destruction of my country. He laid his hand on his son’s shoulder and said, “This is Shearjasshub.” The child’s name meant, “A remnant shall return.” The prophet was telling me our little nation would be preserved, a remnant would be left. All that was asked of me was to stand firm… in faith. Isaiah said, “If you do not stand firm in your faith, you will not stand at all.”

Faith. What use had I for faith? What had our supposed God ever done for me? What had He ever done at all? When I offered my sacrifices to the spirits on the high places, where was the Lord? All the stories of His great miracles and salvation were ancient history, mere legend. I was faced with real enemies, but Isaiah offered me the comfort of old stories. I laughed in his face. Faith. Hah.

The prophet’s eyes grew distant. He took on the aspect of a man listening, listening to a voice far away, a voice only he could hear. And then suddenly, he turned and looked at me again, “Ask!” he said, “Ask the Lord your God for a sign. Ask anything you want, whether it be in the deepest depths or the highest heights. On earth or in heaven. Whatever it is, God will do it. Ask, and the Lord will prove Himself to you. Just ask.”

That lined face gazed at me with troubling intensity. Even the little boy looked up with worry at the tone in his father’s voice. At that moment I had no doubt that God had truly spoken to him. I was hearing heaven’s own words directing me to ask for a sign. I knew I should imagine some miracle and ask for it. But I couldn’t.

I had a problem. Isaiah came offering me God’s assurance, but I had already bought my own. You can read in second part of the record of the kings how I secretly sent out envoys who snuck around my stupid enemies to the north and made a secret alliance with the Assyrians. I took silver and gold from God’s temple and sent it off to Tiglath-Pileser king of Assyria to pay for protection from Israel and Syria. Now I was caught. God was offering me help, but I had robbed God to buy help elsewhere. What could I say?

“No,” I replied slowly, “no, I will not ask.” Then a thought struck me, a line from the ancient writings of Moses, “No, I will not put God to the test.” And I raised my chin with a haughty smile, meaning to convey my surprise and indignation that the prophet would suggest such a thing. I expected him to leave me then, but there was more.

Sternly, Isaiah told me the Lord had lost His patience. If I didn’t want a sign, then, well, He would give me one anyway, one of His own choosing. The prophet’s voice grew, if anything, stronger and deeper and more majestic. I was the king, but I felt like falling to my knees as he slowly intoned the words, “The maiden will be with child and will give birth to a son and you will call him Immanuel.”

The prophet kept speaking but my mind fixed on the word “maiden,” a young woman in my Hebrew tongue, almost always an unmarried, untouched virgin. One of these was to have a baby. What was that to me? Maidens were always getting married and bringing more little brats into the world. What kind of sign was that? It was pointless, meaningless, unless… could he actually mean? No, that would be impossible. No maiden could remain a maiden and bear a child. No virgin still a virgin could bring forth a baby. This wonderful “sign” was either so common as to be mundane or so incredible as to be unbelievable. This sign, this baby, meant nothing to me. What did I care? Why should I believe?

I did not care then, I did not believe then, but now I feel myself near the end. I am not old, only 36 summers have passed for me, but I am sick and know I will soon be gone. The prophet was right, you know. My enemies were no real threat. Pekah died a few years ago. I had nothing to fear. I’d like to think it was my scheming which turned them away, in fear of the Assyrians. But I know that had I only remained calm and had faith, as Isaiah said, all would have been well.

As it was, my treaty with the Assyrians cost me dearly. I did all I could to appease their king and keep his favor. I stripped treasures from our temple and sent them in tribute. I even adopted their form of pagan worship. On a visit to Tiglath-Pileser in Damascus I saw a great altar to their god. So I had it copied at home, replacing the bronze altar of the Lord’s temple with something grander on the Assyrian model. I did everything I could to maintain the security of a powerful friend, but oh how it cost me.

In the end, friendship with Assyria even cost me a child. In an awful moment of fear I imagined I could have the same power they had by adopting the most horrible of their worship practices. I still shudder when I think how I sacrificed my infant son to Moloch just as those pagans do, committing him to the fire. And what do I have to show for it, for sacrificing children to an evil God? I am dying young and the Assyrians are now more of a threat than were the others. I was such a fool. Isaiah promised me a baby and instead of welcoming that gift, instead of believing, I killed my own child. I should have found the faith to trust God instead of my own plans. I should have believed. But it’s too late now.

Perhaps it’s not too late for you. I still have no idea who or what that promised Baby might have been. I’ve no idea what the prophet meant. I can’t believe. But maybe you can.

That was the king, now please listen to the carpenter:

A baby! How could she be having a baby? Mary, Mary, Mary, what have done? How could you to do this to me? How could you do it to yourself? I thought the years between us did not matter. I thought that despite two decades which separate our ages you truly loved me. I believed your promise at our betrothal. And now it seemed all was a lie, a sham.

Looking back, I know I saw the signs. One day as we talked in the garden, my beloved turned deathly pale. She arose and fled out to the street where she was sick. But I believed her when she said it was only a passing illness. But then I heard other women whispering about her. Then finally, beyond all doubt, I discerned a telltale roundness in her features, a definite rising of her stomach beneath her robes. It couldn’t be, but it was. My pure and spotless bride was no better than a woman of the streets. She spurned me for the secret love of a younger man. And then she could not hide it any longer.

For nights I tossed and turned on my bed as it all ran through my mind. I struck my head with my hands to drive out images of Mary locked in embrace with another. I wept to think that the treasure of our wedding night was all spent in a moment of casual lust. I screamed, I raged, I beat my fist on the wall. But the facts remained. What had happened could not be ignored, not be forgotten. The hard truth was there in Mary’s womb.

Eventually I calmed. I even managed to pray. And I came up with the only plan I could devise. I still loved her. And I was afraid for her. I had no desire to see her disgraced, dragged out in the street to be spit upon and called a whore. For all the sorrow she brought me, I had little desire to cause her pain in return.

Yet I also feared for myself. The marriage could not happen. If it did, I also would be disgraced. My business would be ruined. What decent person would ask the husband of a prostitute to come into his house to repair a table or build a shelf? My life would be hopeless. I would lose everything. I could not do it. I was too afraid.

No, I decided, it should all be kept quiet. Only a few of Mary’s female relatives knew the truth. There could be a quiet divorce. An engagement was legally binding in my time. Breaking it was almost like ending a full marriage. Mary could go off to some distant town and have her baby, her baby. I had dreamed of Mary with a baby, but it was always ours, a child belonging to the two of us. Now I would try to forget her, forget all that, forget the baby. My dreams were over.

To my surprise, not quite all my dreams were done. I made my plans and then lay down upon my bed. For the first time in a week I fell into deep sleep. And God met me in a dream. He sent an angel as I slept. That heavenly messenger told me not to fear. No, he said, “take Mary home as your wife.” Lying on my bed I wondered in my sleep, “How? How can this be?” And then I heard the most wonderful and beautiful thing I have ever known. Take Mary home, he told me, “because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins.” I heard it, and somehow, with my eyes closed and my mind floating on the tides of sleep, I began to believe, to have faith.

Jesus. Jeshua. It means “God saves,” “God is salvation.” This baby was to be a Savior, to be the Savior, the angel told me. And somewhere from far back came a scrap of memory, words from the scroll of Isaiah. “The virgin will be with child and give birth to a son, and they will call him Immanuel.” Jesus. God saves. Immanuel. God is with us. As the angel left me I awoke, those two names ringing in my head. I believed. I believed they were the right names for Mary’s baby. And unlike so many names, these were literal truth. When my beloved’s Child was born, God truly would be with us and He would save us.

I arose, went to the rabbi’s house and woke him. “Read me Isaiah,” I said. He looked at me with sleepy amazement, but went and found the scroll. I told him nothing of the angel, but asked him to find the words I remembered. He read them to me, read the ancient story of evil king Ahaz. Listening, I discerned that the prophecy of a Baby named Immanuel had meant nothing to that foolish king. He had no faith. But I did. I believed the angel and I believed the prophet. And it meant everything to me.

So I did as the angel said. I took Mary home with me as my wife. Her entry into my house was a quiet affair instead of the usual seven day wedding feast and celebration. Almost no one attended us. We had only a simple blessing from the rabbi. Friends and family shunned us. But I believed the angel and did as he said.

Now years have passed and you may know some of our story. Mary came into my home, but did not sleep in my bed, not until the Baby was born. Despite all my care, there was no bed for her even when giving birth. That winter the cursed Roman emperor rousted all the people of the land from our homes, sending us to ancestral birthplaces for a census. With her time almost near, Mary had to accompany me to Bethlehem. God help me I tried, but there was no place to be found for us there, nothing but a stable. There among the beasts, little Jesus, baby Immanuel was born.

You might think that unfortunate birthing place would make me doubt. How could I believe this baby was God’s own Son when God cared for Him so little as to make His first resting place a cattle manger? You are right. I did doubt in those cruel hours when I heard Mary’s labor cries and had nothing to comfort her, no pillow even for her head save my cloak wrapped around straw.

Yes, I doubted then, but that same night, there came another sign. Not an angel, but shepherds speaking of angels. They came saying they were called, that they were told to seek there in Bethlehem for a baby, a baby in a manger. Wondering, I welcomed those rough men into our crude shelter. I watched them kneel before the infant lying in Mary’s arms and nuzzling at her breast, and my doubts and fears vanished once again.

I could tell you more, a story of wealthy strangers from the East bearing gifts, of a fearful journey to Egypt, of all the ways in which Mary’s Child has surprised me through the years. Most recently she and I were together amazed to find the boy at twelve years of age conversing wisely with the learned men of Jerusalem.

I could tell you more, but my time is short. The years which separate me from Mary have caught up. I will not live to see her Son become a Man. I will not be on this earth when He does whatever He has come to do. Yet after all these years, and despite all my doubts, I believe what I have seen and heard. I have faith. Little Jesus was and is truly God with us. However it might be, He will save us. He will save me. I believe. God help you also to believe.

You have heard these two men tell their stories. Which one is more like you? Will you try to save yourself or will you let that promised Baby save you? Will you have faith? May it be.

Amen.