Call Stories [Epiphany 5C]

The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Isaiah 6:1-8

Call Stories

It was a truly stunning moment of beauty.  Isaiah the prophet, but not yet a prophet, was in the Temple.  And in that holiest of places, the world suddenly melted away.  Around him no longer stone, no more parachuting specks of dust floating lazily through the sunlight, no more stubborn sacrificial bulls bellowing out in panicked protest, all of it gone; until there was just God, with a robe that spilled from the heavenly throne like a lava flow, unavoidable and encompassing.  Divine presence: not in the way one assumes or theologizes that God is always with us but silent and unseen; this was divine presence in that thick, tangible way, like when a dream becomes true. 

It was a vision but it was as real as anything or maybe more real than everything.  Sometimes life pivots on something that cannot be touched, cannot be held, can only be experienced soul-deep.  And this was like that.  Any eye-witness would tell you Isaiah was in the Temple but also he was in the very throne room of God.  And while he had no souvenir to prove the encounter, his soul had been soaked in the kind of glory that one just can’t seem to ever quite shake.

It was as amazing as it was beautiful as it was overwhelming.  A sensual feast.  There, in the center, was God, with that excessive hem, projecting retina scorching radiance.  And there above the throne, circling like floating tongues of flame, were these angelic creatures with wings to spare.  And the sound, a flood of polyphony – holy, holy, holy bouncing off of every wall, beating wings keeping time.  The smoky smell of incense moving through the prophet’s lungs.  Just all of it.  Everything.  It was too much and still not enough.

Caught up in the most perfect moment, an ecstasy that eliminates past and future.  Not thinking just being.  And then that sudden moment of crushing self-awareness: Woe is me!

Their boat was decidedly not the throne room of the Most High.  It did not smell of incense.  It smelled of raw fish guts baked by the Mediterranean sun – overwhelming, yes, but not in a way that evokes holiness.

This was their moment of resignation – at least for today.  They were calling it quits, washing their nets.  They were, however, apparently available for charters, because when Jesus got in the boat, they floated back out into the depths.  But no more fishing; sometimes it is easier to just cut your losses and call it a day.  And this day was one of those days. 

Simon Peter knew about Jesus.  Jesus actually healed his mother-in-law in the previous chapter of Luke’s Gospel.  But he really didn’t know him know him, if that makes sense.  And so when Jesus told him to put down the nets for the catch, Simon Peter’s first instinct was to decline in the politest way possible.  “Thank you for the vote of confidence but we already tried – all night long.  It’s not going to happen, but if it is really important to you, I mean, I suppose we can try again.”  Probably hoping that Jesus would respond, “Oh, never mind.  Maybe you’ll have better luck tomorrow.”

But Jesus said nothing.  And whatever that nothing looked like, Simon Peter dropped those clean nets back into the stubborn sea. 

And you already know what happened.  The haul was so huge that the nets started to break.  And the boats began to sink.  And the worst day in the pond was suddenly the best day of their lives.  It was as glorious as Isaiah’s vision if something so profoundly different can also be kind of the same.

Best. Day. Ever.  It was as amazing as it was beautiful as it was overwhelming.  The frenzy of the stunned crowd.  The admiration of the other fishermen.  The reward for all of the years of hard work and sun burn and sore muscles.  Like winning the lottery.  Caught up in the most perfect moment, an ecstasy that eliminates past and future.  Not thinking just being.  And then that sudden moment of crushing self-awareness: Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!

These are call stories – the stories that launch the featured characters, Simon Peter, the prophet Isaiah, into the wide world of ministry.  There is a kind of romance often weaved through call stories.  And that is often what is best remembered.  But just as important: there is also a cost. 

Peter feels unworthy – unworthy of the call of Jesus, unworthy in the presence of Jesus.  But Jesus doesn’t go.  Simon Peter does.  He walks away.  He leaves the nets; he leaves the boats.  He walks away on the best day ever.  The miracle catch is left to rot on the beach.  Because God was writing Simon Peter a new future – not an easy one, he would follow Jesus all the way to his own cross, but one that would forever change the world. 

The vision in the Temple was amazing.  But at some point the vision must end.  Isaiah’s “Woe is me!” is met with no words of consolation.  Isaiah’s confession just hangs there, all mixed up with the thick clouds of incense.  Instead his absolution is the scalding pain of a red-hot coal pressed against tender lips. 

Isaiah’s task, his calling, was to tell the story of a future in which the precious Temple, the place of his unforgettable vision, was in ruins.  His mission was to tell the bad news of a bad future to a people who did not want to hear it.  His beautiful call story opened out into a devastating life.  You can be sure: his calling was a burden.  And his response to that calling was, “Here I am; send me!”  Because God was writing Isaiah a new future – not an easy one, but one that would forever change the world.   

Jesus wades into the waters of baptism with each and every one of us.  And that water is teeming with new life, new possibility.  In that moment, that amazing moment, the past is washed away and the future is re-written.  And we are called: called by God and marked as Christ’s own.

But we must remember: that mark, that mark is a cross.  And that cross carries death even as it promises life. 

There is always a cost.  That too is weaved through every story of every follower of Jesus.  God has called you; God is calling you.  You have a part to play in the salvation of the world.  And your ministry, the unique ministry to which God is calling you, is as beautiful as a dancing tongue of flame, as beautiful as a glassy, still pool of water; it is the very thing that makes life worth living. But that doesn’t mean it will be easy.

The work to which God is calling us is too important to be easy.  God is changing the world, saving the world – through those who are courageous enough to answer the call.  God is calling you.  What is your answer?