A Measure of Comfort

Shabbat Nachamu, Isaiah 40:1–26

Ben Volman, UMJC Vice President

Even the most profound grief among the people Israel, according to Maimonides, must not be excessive: “Weep not too much” he says, “for that is the way of the world.” (Hilchot Avel 13:11–12). In the shadow of Tisha B’Av, after three weeks of mourning and reciting kinot for the horrific ravages of Jerusalem and centuries of tragic exile, the spiritual year comes to a turning point. Our perspective becomes more hopeful and reminds us of the command from last week’s parashah: “You have been going around this mountain long enough! Head north” (Deut 2:3).

Just as there are seven reflective weeks from the opening days of Pesach to Shavuot, we will spend the next seven weeks looking toward Rosh Hashanah and the High Holy Days. Our guide into this new season comes from the poignant opening words of this week’s haftarah in Isaiah 40 that gives its name to this Shabbat: “Nachamu, nachamu ami.” The King James Version memorably gave us the phrase: “Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people.” In the CJB we read:

 “Comfort and keep comforting my people,” says your God. 

“Tell Yerushalayim to take heart; proclaim to her
that she has completed her time of service,
that her guilt has been paid off,
that she has received at the hand of Adonai
double for all her sins.”  (Isa 40:1–2)

Rashi explains that this is God’s instruction to the prophets: their task is to console Israel. The chapter then leads us to value the sovereign majesty of God, despite doubt or despair, despite the resistance of the nations and of other gods, or even our own weariness. Above all, at this turning point in the spiritual calendar, we see how God calls us, in love, home from a bitter diaspora.

We know that the exiles were deeply aware of Israel’s past spiritual failures, their neglect of the Torah that brought God to drive them out. We hear it in contrite confessions from Ezra, Nehemiah, and Daniel and then in the lessons that must be taught to the people again. And yet Isaiah boldly promised that Israel would return with the full assurance of God’s loving presence.

Just as we saw in 1948, Israel took hold of an opportunity through unexpected intervention from the highest political powers. They united to overcome obstacles that seemed impassable. How can we explain it? Abraham J. Heschel provides this insight: “Suffering as chastisement is man’s own responsibility; suffering as redemption is God’s responsibility” (The Prophets, 192).

This week, as I contemplated all this, I looked back to the opening words of the haftarah portion. Did I truly understand what it means to find comfort in the presence of God? How does that prophetic word penetrate our world, fractured, conflicted, and now in constant turmoil?

How excellently Yeshua fulfilled God’s command that a prophet brings consolation. One of his most famous parables, assuring us of God’s love for people under a cloud of sin, is often called “the prodigal” or “lost son.” It holds the essence of the besorah, Yeshua’s message and ministry.

In its day, the tale began with a scandalous demand: the younger of two sons refuses to wait for his father to die and insists on getting his inheritance. As soon as he has it in hand, he rushes off to live in reckless sin, squandering his money among the Gentiles. Broke, barefoot, miserable and friendless, he comes to his senses lying hungry in a pig sty among carob pods. Yeshua’s listeners knew this was food only for those in direst straits, the poorest of the poor. So when the son recalls how even his father’s hired hands ate well every day, he makes a decision.

“I’m going to get up and go back to my father and say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against Heaven and against you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired workers.’” So he got up and started back to his father. (Luke 15:18–20 CJB)

Within sight of home, his father, ever looking out for him, runs to meet his son who tries to make the rehearsed confession—“Father, I am no longer worthy.” Instead, the father kisses and holds him close, calling the servants to clothe him in the finest robe, put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. They must celebrate: “For this son of mine was dead, but now he’s alive again! He was lost, but now he has been found!” (15:24).

We see the celebration in heaven when a sinner repents. Who among us doesn’t recognize that this is how we’ve come ourselves—many more than once?

This story is not an unfamiliar one in Israel—the rabbis shared similar parables. It is a message that calls us to many deeper reflections. When I think about how we often blame God for circumstances that feel so difficult, I consider that this is also the story of a grieving father. But in a further act of love, he has only allowed himself to show his joy, and not his sorrow.

Comfort is hopeful, healing, the reassurance of forgiveness, full of empathy but also tangible, that welcoming embrace. There’s nothing indifferent or cynical about it. So, I had to smile when I read our beloved teacher Rabbi Dr. Stuart Dauermann describing himself in his latest book as “still a cynic.” Well, perhaps I can admit to the remains of a certain cynical streak, but like our esteemed friend, I was brought home by the one Rav Sha’ul calls “the God of all comfort” and I found by grace the ultimate consolation: peace with God through Messiah Yeshua.

The relationship with my father (z’’l) was never easy and this story has always held some pathos for me. One night my Dad revealed both his love and struggles with his own father who died far from his embrace and disappeared into the ashes of Auschwitz. I didn’t know what to say. Later, I wished that I had given him a measure of comfort.

In a recent movie, A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood, we encounter a writer who has a scarred connection to his estranged father. Sent to interview the famous “Mr. Rogers,” he finds in that former pastor a caring, God-centered love that changes his life. Sitting together in a Pittsburgh restaurant where everyone must have known his host, they’re about to share a meal. Before they begin, Fred Rogers pauses to say, “Sometimes I like to take a minute to remember everyone who gave us life. Including your father.” The restaurant goes silent. The minute passes slowly, but oh so meaningfully. Conversations around them resume and then Mr. Rogers says, “Now, I feel much better.”