From the stump of Jesse
Is 11:1-10; Ps 72:1-2, 7-8, 12-13, 17; Rom 15:4-9; Mt 3:1-12
In your life right now, where do you feel most limited? Maybe it’s your health: a chronic illness, or a sudden, terrifying diagnosis. Maybe it’s a particular relationship: an old friendship has come to an end, or a marriage is nearly stretched to its breaking point. Maybe it’s your self-awareness: finally admitting the grip of a deep addiction, or realizing that a self-focused attitude has alienated family for decades.
Next, consider where in your life you see your greatest reason for hope; that strength or blessing you could leverage as a resource to overcome despair. Would your reason for hope be strong enough to overcome the impact of your limitations?
What if you were told that your greatest hope exists not despite your limits, but because of them — that the reason for your hope (cf. 1 Pt 3:15) can emerge from your failings, insecurities or defeats? As ludicrous as that sounds from within popular culture, it lies at the core of the Christian worldview.
“A shoot shall sprout from the stump of Jesse” (Is 11:1). This line from Sunday’s readings is arguably one of the most important in the entire Bible. The “stump” referred to is the seemingly lifeless remnant of the Kingdom of Israel.
The great city of Jerusalem had been sacked by the Babylonian empire and the Temple had been destroyed. Many of Israel’s most prominent citizens had been taken to Babylon into exile, and there was no prospect of their ever returning. It must have appeared that their religion, and hence their identity, was a fading ember.
Yet, in the face of that hopelessly bleak prospect, the prophet Isaiah proclaims the promise from the Lord that new life will spring from the lifeless stump. And so it does, but not in the way that Israel had hoped.
The Persian ruler Cyrus would defeat Babylon and allow the Israelites to return home, but the kingdom they had once gloried in would never achieve its former degree of independence or luster. The shoot would grow, but slowly, and it would never blossom as before.
Even when Jesus arrives — the king whose triumph we celebrated two weeks ago — there is little to suggest greatness: born of a simple couple from a small town in Galilee; mocked, rejected and killed by the very people who were most waiting for the shoot to flourish. It would indeed flourish, in a way that no one could have predicted. For its victory had to come through Jesus’ vulnerability and radical self-gift of himself. That required an equally radical acceptance of his heavenly Father’s love.
We may well ask: Why did it have to be that way? Why the slow, tortuous path through history, longing and waiting for the small shoot to grow? Why didn’t the Lord just plant a new, towering tree? When it comes to the ways of the Lord, asking “Why did it have to be that way?” is rarely fruitful. God could have chosen any way. Perhaps the better question is: “Since God chose to do it this way, why is that the most helpful way for us?”
Jesus’ human vulnerability, just like yours and mine, brought him to an important crossroad: either rely on the Father for everything, trusting in his guidance, or resist his limitations, seeking a self-focused power (the original sin of Adam). We know the choice he made, and the result of that choice. Therefore, we too should be confident that the same dynamic is offered to us, who are like him “in all things but sin.”
So how can we find hope emerging through the midst of our limitations, fears or sufferings? It’s not an easy or quick journey to be sure. But to the degree that we can allow our vulnerabilities to become the pathway for trustfully reaching out to others and to God, accepting their love, we can undergo the transformation that such love accomplishes.
The love of God is not a consolation prize, it is all he has to offer, and it is ultimately a source of peace. The shoot of hope will grow out of the holes in our hearts, and it will be fertilized by our trust.