NOTES for Isa 43:1-28

At first sight, today's passage sounds paradoxical: God, who is returning the remnant of His people to the land of the fathers (verses 1–7), reproaches them for betrayal and apostasy, as though He cannot quite bring Himself to forgive those who, it would seem, had already become in exile the new people they were meant to become (verses 23–24; 26–28). Yet on closer reading the answer can readily be found in the text: it turns out that the people deserve no credit at all for what is happening (verses 23–25). In exile there truly could be no question of sacrifices, which God did not require (verses 23–24). The only thing demanded of the faithful in that period was that they not hinder God from acting by their sins. But as we can see (verse 24), even this went badly for them, if they managed it at all.

Such preaching must undoubtedly have come as something like a cold shower to the returnees to whom it was addressed. They were utterly convinced that they had done everything necessary to become the very remnant of whom the pre-exilic prophets had spoken. This was, indeed, what everyone in Babylon who had preserved the faith of the fathers believed. Those who, after Cyrus's decree, resolved to go to Judah to rebuild the city and the Temple felt themselves, so to speak, the “remnant of the remnant”: they alone had gone while the others remained, and those making the journey probably did not doubt for a moment that, if the Messiah did not meet them while they were still on the road to Judah, He would certainly not delay His coming once they were there.

And, of course, they attributed all their victories not only to God but also to themselves. They were ordinary religious people, after all, and religious consciousness has always tended to regard religion as a sphere for the application of human effort just like any other, with the sole difference that in this sphere the effort must be applied in a special way and according to special rules. Thus in religion, as everywhere else and in every age, there have been notions of success and failure, of those who are ahead and those who lag behind, and naturally of the achievements attained by various activists in this field.

The returnees traveling to Judah were sure that they had achieved much. Isaiah does not merely diminish these achievements; he simply reduces them to nothing. Speaking on God's behalf, he says that they have done absolutely nothing for God and have only hindered Him, while He has done everything Himself. Thus not only their triumphant return to the land of the fathers but they themselves, together with all their religious achievements, were created wholly and entirely by Him. The truth proved bitter, but without acknowledging it they could not enter the Kingdom. For the Kingdom is received as a gift, not earned by merit.

The prophets always called God's people to faithfulness to the covenant, to service of the Lord, and to unwavering faith. Indeed, God created His people, and all people in general, so that we would love Him, serve Him, and seek to know Him. Yet, like the rays of dawn, through the prophets' calls to faithfulness and service breaks forth a new message of good news that had not previously been revealed to people: the Lord created human beings not only so that they might love Him and do His will, but far more so that He Himself might love them, care for them, serve them, and lead them into His glory.

The world was created for love, not merely so that we could love one another, but so that we might receive God's love, which surpasses all our conceptions. That is why it was so difficult to express this in words, and why it is so difficult for us to understand and accept this News that each of us is chosen, each is God's most beloved. Today we see it in the subdued light of Old Testament prophecy; tomorrow, God willing, we shall see its fulfilment with our own eyes.

Speaking of the people's past and future, God, through His prophet, reminds those willing to listen of former times, of times of widespread apostasy in practice. Evidently, this preaching took place while they were still in Babylon, before the Persian conquest of Babylonia and before the decree of Cyrus the Great giving the Jews the right to return to the land of their fathers. Apparently, the main problem lay not only, or even chiefly, in the past, but in the present. By the end of the Exile, the Jewish community had put down roots in Babylon, taking an active part in local economic, political and cultural life.

Within Yahwism, a new religion had taken shape in the Babylonian community: Judaism, well adapted to life in the diaspora and enabling people to preserve their Jewish national and religious identity in almost any environment, sometimes even a fairly hostile one. Moreover, a generation had already grown up in Babylon that effectively regarded it as its homeland and knew Judea only from their parents' stories. They did not, of course, reject what the pre-exilic prophets had said, but those prophecies apparently did not shape their everyday lives.

So when a new prophet appeared in Babylon and began saying that the end of the Exile was near, that God had redeemed His people and that their return to the land of their fathers would soon begin, he was not readily believed, especially since there were no outward signs of any imminent change in the situation. It was then that God's words about His people's lack of faith were spoken. Indeed, the age had changed, a new religion had been born, and the Jewish community's life in Babylon resembled its pre-exilic life so little that, when the returning exiles arrived in Judea, the local inhabitants who had not been deported regarded them as strangers.

The spiritual problems, however, remained the same as before the Exile. Chief among them was distrust of living revelation. People trusted tradition, and trusted the pre-exilic prophets because they had already become part of that tradition. But when a new prophet appeared, it became clear that, apart from religious forms, nothing had changed since pre-exilic times: at the end of the Exile, people trusted God and His living word just as little as at its beginning. Of course, after Cyrus's decree and the start of the return, attitudes to Isaiah's words changed. But this was already acceptance of an accomplished fact, not of God's word.

When the whole world is gripped by uncertainty, how welcome such a promise from God is to us. But is it really addressed to us? And if so, in what way? God had already spoken similar words to Moses (Ex 3:12) when He sent him to lead the people of Israel out of Egypt. And now, through the prophet Isaiah, the Lord repeats, ‘I am with you,’ because He is calling His people to leave their Babylonian captivity. In both cases God promises His protection on the journey ahead, and this matters, since in the ancient understanding every deity had its own habitat, its own land where it held full authority. But this God, the God of the covenant, proclaims His authority over Egypt and Babylon and all along the way to the promised land. And, as we know, in those specific historical circumstances these promises were fulfilled.

For us today, the words ‘I am with you’ are nothing new. God, after all, is everywhere. But He promises not merely His presence, but His protection. And here things are somehow less clear. Of course, there are countless testimonies of God saving people, protecting them, answering prayers—we have all heard such stories. But were the people in the Twin Towers or in the planes directed at them not praying? Or does God hear the prayers of suicidal fanatics better?

Once again, considering the preservation of the order of things to which we are accustomed the highest value, we begin to expect God to act as a policeman who maintains that order. But once again He calls us to a new exodus: an exodus from the most terrible slavery, slavery to sin; an exodus from the most terrible captivity, the captivity of hell, from that kingdom of evil where death is more natural than life. And on the path of this exodus the Savior is with us, leading us through the waters of the abyss and the fire of Gehenna.

What is monotheism? Belief that there is one God? Certainly, that too. But what follows from such belief? After all, even if God is one and we know it, we can relate to Him in different ways. It is not only a matter of there being, by definition, only one true God. It is also a matter of whether He has anything to do with our life. If, for example, He really exists and really is one, but does not intervene in our life at all, knowing the truth about God gives us no relief. Such knowledge can become relevant to us only if we also believe that the One whose existence we know for certain is ready to enter this life. No philosophy or theology can help here: personal experience is needed, experience of communion with this One that speaks of His readiness to take that step. Otherwise, one can be a monotheist in theory and a pagan in practice.

But why is communion with Him sometimes so difficult for us? Perhaps precisely because in practice we are not true monotheists. True monotheism knows only one ultimate cause and one real driving force: the One who created the world. Yet we keep thinking that, besides the God in whom we believe, there is someone or something else in the world capable of determining the course of events and the state of affairs. As soon as we allow this possibility, the very assumption separates us from God, and we fall under the power of created forces and elements, to which God would never have surrendered us had we not cut ourselves off from Him by our doubt. Here no rational arguments, however correct, can help any longer: only repentance and turning back to God can save us.

So, the Lord says that His people have forgotten everything He did for them, forgotten all His wonders. And once again He performs wonders for His people. Why? After all, the people did not cry out to Him, did not offer sacrifices, did not ask for help... All the people did was hinder God from acting in their lives: burdening Him with sins and weighing Him down with iniquities, as the prophet Isaiah says. Why, then, does the Lord blot out all iniquities and agree not to remember sins?

And the answer He gives here is universal. He says: "For My own sake." He is ready to forget sins not because the people have corrected themselves or politely asked. He forgives because He is good and merciful, because He loves.

Reading the Bible, we realize that God's patience is truly boundless. Yet what is it for? After all, it is not only a matter of His mercy, which is indeed immeasurable. It is a matter of a covenant, an alliance that imposes obligations on both parties, not just one. What if one party disregards the alliance, often openly and defiantly, breaking every obligation it has assumed—obligations it cannot be unaware of, since the corresponding promises were made publicly, and cannot have forgotten, since God's messengers have reminded it of them so often? By our earthly logic, such an alliance should have been broken off long ago, and appropriate sanctions imposed on the party that violated it. Yet God goes on making attempt after attempt to reach those who seem long since to have wanted nothing more.

What for? Why? Probably because there is no other way with fallen human beings. Of course, everything could be started again, including the history of God's people. But where is the guarantee that it would turn out better next time? In their fallen state, people are more or less the same in every age, at least where their spiritual and moral life is concerned.

But perhaps that is not the only reason. After all, God has His own plan, an exceptionally important plan concerning not only humanity and its salvation, but quite possibly something still greater, in relation to which our salvation is only part of the design, though probably a fairly important part. Can the fulfilment of this plan be made dependent on the failures of the human will and the corruption of human nature? If not, the only course left is to carry out what has been planned despite everything that might obstruct it, including the imperfections of God's people.

And God does indeed carry out His plan, despite the failures in His people's history that would seem to have brought it to a definitive end. The price, of course, is high: the Messiah He sends dies on the cross. Yet the Kingdom still enters the world, and with it the hope of salvation.