Isaiah 49:1-6; 1 Corinthians 1:18-31; John 12: 37-38, 42-50

The summer I was 14 my mother sent me and my younger siblings off to camp.  My father had been called to active duty, and she wanted to spend the summer nearer where he was stationed.  One of the things I got to try that summer was archery.  It was a good and creative challenge, one of those things that you can train and train for, yet never do quite perfectly, or ever make exactly the same shot twice.  There’s something almost meditative about focusing so closely on what you’re doing.  It’s not unlike the ministry of presence involved in sitting by a hospital bed with somebody who’s just gotten a hard diagnosis.

The same kind of presence, practice, and focus is akin to the Benedictine description of ministry:  show up, pay attention, tell the truth, and leave the results up to God.  Letting the arrow go, or offering a pastoral word, means doing the best you can and letting God deal with the rest.  But the ability to let go, with a touch light enough not to misdirect the arrow, takes frequent and continuing practice.

Isaiah speaks of his ministry in just that way, God has made him a polished arrow, and tucked him away in the divine quiver, ready to be sent off with a word.

That is an intriguing image, being a polished arrow.  Especially if we are willing to play with it a bit, and I am convinced God calls us to that kind of creative and playful work.  Arrows can be weapons or tools for killing game that will feed self and others, but they can also be messengers, things sent beyond the range of easy travel by foot.  A modern version might be a missile or an airplane.  That latter-day arrow can carry death or it can be a vehicle bearing life-giving medicines or mail.  It can be a tool for building relationships as it bears diplomats or family members seeking reconciliation.  Another version might be a letter to Congress, which could either go infected with anthrax spores or as a cry for justice for Haitian refugees.  Will this arrow bring death or life?

What would it mean to become polished arrows?  What might those arrows look like in our varied ministries?  An email to a discouraged colleague?  A pastoral visit to the biggest troublemaker in the parish?  An op-ed in the local newspaper?

There’s something about that polished arrow that reflects the effective word of God, the word that goes forth from the mouth of God and accomplishes that which it intends.  The prophet Isaiah is that kind of arrow.  His message cuts through the forest of obfuscation, the mad bedlam of words that seek to deceive or avoid or turn back the message of God.  But his arrow is not meant to settle to earth forever in the promised land, but rather to circle the world.  His message is meant to keep flying round all the nations, like Dick Rutan’s globe-circling Voyager, bringing good news to the world.

At the beginning of this service, we prayed for grace, to be filled with truth, clothed with holiness of life, so that we might be faithful servants, polished arrows of Christ’s reconciling love.  And in a few minutes, we’re going to be invited to remember our promises, both baptismal promises and those made by the ordained, to pray and study, minister the word and sacraments, and shape our lives to be a wholesome example.  There is no quiz or evaluation involved.  Each one of us is simply invited once again to affirm those promises.  As Jesus points out in the gospel, he didn’t come to judge the world, but to save it.  Judgment comes later, much later, we hope and assume!  Our job is to keep polishing the arrow, or permitting the arrow to be polished.  The arrow gets polished for service by remembering, to pray and study, to gather with colleagues for worship and support, to live in a way that bespeaks a holy rule of life.  It also gets polished by proximity to the other arrows in the quiver, the ones we would choose and the ones we would rather avoid.  Do we run unerring every time?  I certainly don’t, and I haven’t met many who do, but we stand a better chance if we keep polishing ourselves and the others in God’s quiver.

Nor does the arrow leave the bow only once.  We have continuing opportunities to be sent off into the darkness to seek a willing target, or a timely opportunity.  Every lost opportunity will be replaced with multiples of others, God seems to take great glee in giving us those challenging ones over and over, whether they are the folks we find most difficult to love or opportunities to get a few more of our own rough edges sanded off.  Isaiah’s fellow prophets are probably a good example of what a diverse lot of messengers God can use.

Arrows come in many forms, but most of them began as weapons or potential instruments of death.  We ourselves have a strong streak that seeks the destruction of whatever opposes our own most dearly held desires, the original core of sin.  Arrows can be made for target practice, with sharp and bullet-like points (I’ve known some on vestries).  Some are made for killing game, and usually come with ends that look like razor blades (a fellow priest or two).  Some are bent into shapes that are made only for comic relief, perched on or over a fool’s head.  Some come with a suction cup on the end, but they don’t fly very far or very straight.  Yet even holy fools can bring good news.  And some are known as the darts of Cupid, capable of passionate mystery or mayhem.  All of them have hopeful feathers to guide their journey, on their hind ends, steering.

Isaiah, like most prophets, was honed into a messenger of both critique and hope, a diagnostician of the ills of society and a prescriber of healing.  The tool or instrument of his sword-sharp mouth could easily have been turned to less life-giving ends.  It is the polish of practice that keeps us as messengers directed toward healing ends.

The drama of this Holy Week is about messengers, misdirected ones as well as one who went straight to his target.  Directness may not come easily, it certainly didn’t for Peter, but even he eventually remembered his call to serve.  And even Judas seems to have reached his mark, if we read the Orthodox midrash that speaks of Jesus going trolling in hell for him, on Holy Saturday between grave and resurrection.  

We who take these vows can become profoundly sharp instruments, capable of piercing despair and darkness, capable of bringing light and hope, but only if we are willing to be servants.  Isaiah hears God saying, “You are my servant, in whom I will be glorified.”  He says just the same to us in baptism.  There is great possibility of glory in the work we do, and great possibility of ignominy.  When we lose that sense of service and servanthood, we can begin to turn into hunting arrows, loaded for our own gain.  We may even begin to look around for other bows to send us on our hunting way.

Perhaps the most central question asked of messengers this Holy Week is what bow inspires and propels us?  What wood has been crafted into that bow?  The wood of the tree of life or the wood of that other tree in the garden?  The splintered wood of the cross is what will eventually send us with the heart of a compassionate servant, filled with good news, hope and words of new life.