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Isaiah 30:21
واصِل الاستكشاف
مرتبطة بالمقطع الكتابي أو بموضوعات مشتركة.
Our text comes from Isaiah chapter 30, verse 21:
And thine ears shall hear a word behind thee, saying, "This is the way. Walk ye in it, when ye turn to the right hand, and when ye turn to the left."
To understand these remarkable words, we must first consider their historical backdrop. The people of Judah had drifted far from God. Their faith had weakened, and fear gripped them—they dreaded a Syrian invasion. Rather than pray and trust in the Lord, they foolishly planned to make a peace treaty with Egypt, hoping that nation would protect them. It was a hopeless and fruitless idea.
The prophets and teachers urged them to return to their faith, but they refused to listen. As Isaiah describes it:
This is a rebellious people, lying children, children that will not hear the law of the Lord, which say to the seers, See not; and to the prophets, Prophesy not unto us right things, speak unto us smooth things, prophesy deceits.
They wanted comfortable lies, not hard truths. Yet God, in his mercy, did not abandon them. He sent even more effective teachers, and though the people had the message of repentance right in front of them, they ignored it.
This ancient pattern repeats itself in every generation. We rebel against God. We ignore him. We are indifferent to him. Yet in his mercy, he speaks to us again and again before finally his voice goes silent, and we are left to ourselves—a tragedy that leads to judgment without forgiveness.
But God offers us something better: Thine ears shall hear a word behind thee. It is a word that comes quietly, unexpectedly, often when we least expect it.
I know of a man who passed by this church regularly, yet he was far removed from any spiritual interest or concern for God. He was in trouble, down and discouraged, seeing no point in continuing with all his difficulties and burdens, with no end in sight. Then a voice came to his ear—not audible perhaps, but unmistakable: You need almighty God. You need the Lord. That voice changed the course of his life.
I have read many testimonies from the time of Spurgeon, when this church was in its fullest ministry. People would say: "I was on my way to a place of entertainment, and I passed by. A voice within said, 'You cannot live without this. This is the purpose of life. This is what you need.'"
Have you ever felt that voice? That checking within your soul, especially when something has fallen to pieces and you find yourself questioning the deeper things of life? Surely you have. Surely you are not so inexperienced that you have never heard that murmuring from God within you: What is the purpose of life? Should I be living like this? Is this all there is?
The text uses a vivid illustration. Before we come to understand our need for God's forgiveness and truly seek and find him, we make our own plans about life. We decide our direction. We plot our course. And we face constant choices—when ye turn to the right hand, and when ye turn to the left.
When we turn to the right, we may be pursuing some ambition that is purely for ourselves. We chase possessions, riches, influence, fame, and power. We want to be noticed. We want to matter. But none of these will satisfy the soul. They may cost us far too much. They may involve all kinds of wrong and corrupting things.
When we turn to the left, we may be drawn into the power of lust—something we want that we should not have. Perhaps you are young and have been drawn into pornography. Perhaps you are trapped by some sexual sin. It will consume you. It will rule you. It will dominate you. It will deeply corrupt and ruin you as a person. You will reach a point where you cannot resist it and cannot get out of it.
And the voice comes: Not this way. Not this way. I cannot go this way without shame.
But there is another voice—the voice that says: This is the way. You have heard something about Almighty God. You have heard something in your past about the right way.
I became an unbeliever in my youth—an atheist, really. I went in the opposite direction entirely. But when God met with me and I heard the gospel and found the Lord, I began to remember things that were not as new to me as I thought. I had never truly understood that Christ died as a substitute for sinners, that he took the punishment of sin for all who would come to him and depend upon him. I had never known that he was knowable, that I could walk with him and have him and be set on a heavenly road, changed as a person.
But then I remembered: I had heard about these things before. A schoolmaster took morning assemblies and spoke about them. It meant nothing to me at the time, but I had heard. I spoke once with a leading politician who asked me, "What is there in the Christian faith for me?" As I explained it to him, he said, "Yes, I know. I know about this. I was taught about this. I had a friend who urged me to listen."
We have all heard something. We are all without excuse. When the inner voice says to you:
Not this way that you are about to take. Not this way that you have planned. You have left out Almighty God. You have left out your Creator—the one who gave you life and breath and all your gifts and powers and capacities. The one who made you for himself. The one who rightfully owns you. You have left him out. Worse, you have insulted him and spurned him and rejected him and trampled on him and ignored him and rebelled against him.
Then comes the call: This is the way. Walk ye in it. This is the gospel—the good news of Christ, unique in this world. Only one faith has a Savior and a gospel. This is the gospel that saves souls.
The gospel is first about God—only secondarily about us. I have offended Almighty God, my Creator, to whom I owe everything. I have spurned him and insulted him. One day I will stand before him and give account.
I have offended the one who is love—the tenderest, kindest being in the universe. God is an infinite, eternal, spiritual being. Three persons—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—and yet one God, one spiritual entity. Surely, to have offended him is the most foolish and wicked act imaginable.
Secondarily, the gospel is about me. I need his forgiveness. I need to be rebuilt. I need a new heart, a new character, new tastes and desires. I need to become a different person entirely. I need his blessing from on high, his guidance and strength. I need a walk with God that I can be certain of—a walk that will give me peace and inner joy. I need a purpose for living: to be his and in his service, worshiping him, on the road to eternal glory.
When I was a boy, I thought the Christian faith was all about thou shalt not—don't do this, don't do that. While it does address sin and what blocks us from God, the Christian message is profoundly positive. It is about having things—forgiveness, reconciliation with God, knowing him, having his blessing, having your mind flooded with understanding, knowing what life is really about, having a certain place in God's family and eternal glory.
It is so simple, yet so profound and clear. I have heard people say, "This is too simple. If you knew what I've done, how I've behaved—and you're saying Christ died for me and I only have to repent and trust him and all the guilt is gone? That's too simple."
Yes, it is dreadfully simple. But consider what it cost him.
Christ was pure, spotless, and clean—a member of the Godhead. He laid his glory aside and came to earth. He assumed human flesh and lived as a poor man, buffeted and provoked at every turn. He lived a perfect life so that his perfections and holiness would earn heaven for all his children.
And then he died on Calvary. The most awful thing happened: God the Father put upon him the invisible burden of all our guilt—millions and millions of sins. And on top of that stench of guilt came the punishment, not only in the body but infinitely worse in the soul. The eternal Son of God, pure and holy, felt the punishment of our sin. The eternal punishment of sin, somehow concentrated into the space of six mortal hours, so that he could take it for us and have the right to forgive us and pardon us.
There was no other way. God is so holy. He cannot make peace with sin. He cannot forgive without paying the price. How could God's infinite justice be satisfied and at the same time his infinite loving-kindness? It seemed impossible. No human mind could solve it. But God solved it by coming himself—the holy one who is indestructible—taking human flesh so that he could suffer as a man in our place, bear our punishment, and cancel it out.
The cross of Christ—the atoning, substitutionary death of Christ—that is the heart of everything. This is the way. This is the way.
But I must speak a solemn word to some who may be here today. You have heard this message. You have responded to it in some way. But you are doing something impossible. You have repented of your sin—perhaps not deeply enough, perhaps not sincerely enough—and you have said, "Lord, forgive me. I repent. Change my life. Set me on the road to heaven."
Yet you have done the impossible. You have heard the voice. This is the way. You have taken it. But you have not left the old way. You still walk down the wrong path. You cannot take both paths. You cannot take a flight to New York and a flight to Beijing at the same time. It is nonsense. Everyone knows you cannot take the gospel way and keep on the old path.
This is what repentance means: not only sorrow for sin, but a turning away from the old life.
If somebody says, "I believe in Christ," but still listens to the old music, goes to sinful places, does worldly things, satisfies themselves in sin against God—they are still on the old track. They have never really taken the new.
Someone may be doing that here. You say you have found Christ, but have you? If you had truly found him, you would be different. Your heart would be changed. Your tastes would be changed. You would want spiritual things. You would have no part with things dedicated to self, to sex, to drugs, and the rest. You would be a different person. This is the way. Walking in it. Come to him. Come to Christ.
We have many visitors here, particularly from the United States. You will know all about Adoniram Judson. He was almost the first American missionary and the first missionary to Burma. He had Christian parents—they were in the ministry. He grew up understanding the gospel. He went to college at age sixteen and made a friend. That friend was a deist.
We do not get many deists today. A deist is virtually an atheist—a functional atheist. A deist believes there was a God who made everything and set up the universe like winding up a clock. But having done so, he lost interest and paid no further attention. The world proceeds entirely according to the laws of nature. There is no possibility of knowing God. There is no divine intervention. There is no walk with Christ. There is no salvation.
Adoniram Judson was persuaded by this reasoning and abandoned the faith. When he graduated at twenty, he told his parents, "I no longer believe." They tried to persuade him, but in vain. He was a very able writer and decided he wanted to write for the theater and act. He went off and involved himself in all kinds of things, chiefly the New York theater scene. He indulged himself in every kind of sin. He was completely off track.
He got into debt and difficulty. The theater world—full of vice and sin—let him down and broke its promises. Nobody could be relied on. Nobody's word meant anything. Disillusioned almost with his life of unbelief, he heard the voice within: "This is the way. This is the way." He made for home, very uncertain and mixed up, fighting the voice within.
Passing through a town, he stayed at an inn. The receptionist was reluctant to give him a room—only one remained. "You can have it," he said, "but the person in the next room is very ill. You'll probably be disturbed." And he was. The person coughed and hacked through half the night. Eventually, it was quiet.
When Judson checked out, he casually asked the receptionist, "What happened to my neighbor?"
"He died in the night. Consumption—tuberculosis. He passed away."
"Poor fellow," said Judson, almost carelessly.
"He wasn't old," said the receptionist. "He was a young fellow like you."
For some strange reason—it does not sound logical, but Judson asked, "What was his name?" When he was told, it was his college friend. It was the one who had led him down that path away from God.
Judson came back to the Lord and was saved. He walked with him.
This is the call of Christ to your soul. This is the way. When you are about to turn from him down another route—a path that will take you even further away into scorn and derision of God, disregard of him—this is the way you need.
You need pardon. You need to repent. You need reconciliation with God. You need the change which he brings about in a life. You need to be on the road to eternal glory. You need Christ.
Listen to the voice behind you.
