Not from a Distance

The LORD has set aside your judgments, removed your enemy. The King of Israel, the LORD, is in your midst. You need no longer fear evil. On that day shall it be said to Jerusalem: Do not fear, O Zion, let not your hands fall slack. The LORD your God is in your midst, a rescuing warrior. He delights over you with glad song [Zephaniah 3:15-16, The Hebrew Bible, tr. by Robert Alter].

Some of you may recall Bette Midler’s 1990 very successful cover of the Nanci Griffith original, “From a Distance.” It reached number one on the US Billboard Adult Contemporary chart and number two on the Billboard Hot 100. The song went on to win a Grammy for Song of the Year in 1991 (for songwriter, Julie Gold) and also reached the top 10 in Australia, Canada, Ireland, and New Zealand.

It had a poignant theme: that from a distance, the world looks blue and green— there is harmony through the land. From a distance, we all have enough, and no one is in need. From a distance, we are instruments marching in a common band. But up close, laments the singer, things are drastically different. Up close, we’re at war. Up close, there is scarcity among us. Disease is rampant.

The song is most remembered for the clear tones of Midler’s refrain:

God is watching us
God is watching us
God is watching us, …
From a distance.

Because of the popularity of the song, the lyrics came up in a discussion within a young adults Sunday School class that I taught during my Asbury UMC days in the early 90s. One of the members referenced the strong religious tones in the song. He allowed that the lyrics reminded him a bit of some Old Testament prophetic writings, that humanity had failed to live up to God’s original intentions, and that surely God was watching us.

But another in the class then spoke up, saying, “I think the song’s theology is lousy. Of course, God is watching us—but not from a distance.”

That classroom observation—that God is present rather than distant—would have resonated deeply with the prophet Zephaniah, a portion of whose writings— Zephaniah 3:14-20—form the Old Testament reading for this upcoming Sunday [Third Sunday of Advent, RCL, Year C]. In fact, Zephaniah goes even further. His point: Not only is God not watching from a distance, God actively “barges” into human history, into our carefully ordered lives, into our comfortable assumptions. The prophet proclaims, “The LORD your God is in your midst” (3:16). This isn’t a polite divine visitation or a gentle spiritual awareness. This is divine presence that transforms everything it touches.

Zephaniah, one of the OT’s Twelve Minor Prophets, delivered his prophesy during the reign of King Josiah in the late 7th century BCE. Zephaniah’s beginning oracles contain some of the harshest language in all of Scripture. The prophet announces cosmic destruction as divine judgment for the sins of Israel and, specifically, the Levitical priesthood. With vivid and at times disturbing language, he envisions the arrival of the “Day of the Lord,” when God will act to restore justice and bring judgment on faithless nations.

Zephaniah posits that God’s presence will especially disturb those who try to have it both ways—those who “bow down and swear to the LORD, but also swear by Milcom” [1:5], the national god of the Ammonites. The prophet stresses that God disfavors those who hedge their bets, who want to keep God at a comfortable distance while pursuing their own priorities. Yet within this stark warning of judgment comes an astonishing turn in the prophet’s message.

The reader/listener is stunned. The same God who earlier in Zephaniah’s prophecy brings judgment and upheaval now brings something unexpected—overwhelming joy. The God who is “in your midst” is not standing there with arms crossed in stern judgment, but is spinning around with delight, singing loudly with joy over his people. The Hebrew text paints a picture of ecstatic divine celebration. This is no distant observer but a God who is so present, so involved, so invested in relationship with us that our redemption causes God to break into song.

Old Testament scholars teach us that this stunning reversal in Zephaniah—from judgment to jubilation—isn’t just a change in tone. It reveals something essential about God’s presence among us. The same divine presence that exposes our divided loyalties and comfortable compromises also brings healing and celebration. This helps us understand why we might prefer to keep God at a distance—it’s both thrilling and terrifying to be encountered by such a God. Yet God doesn’t come among us to condemn, but rather to transform. The judgment itself serves the purpose of restoration—clearing away whatever prevents us from experiencing the full joy of divine presence.

The depth of this divine transformation becomes even clearer as we examine the text’s rich imagery. The text gives us three powerful images of divine presence: warrior, king, and—most surprisingly—singer. Yet this warrior comes not to destroy but to rescue; this king comes not to dominate but to restore; this singer comes not to perform but to join in mutual celebration. One of my commentaries posits that the Hebrew word used here (יָגִ֤יל) suggests spinning or dancing with joy. This is a God who not only tolerates us but delights in us, who not only accepts us but celebrates us.

I think that for many of us the greatest temptation isn’t outright rejection of God but what we might call a functional atheism—where we acknowledge God’s existence but live as if God was unlikely actually to intervene in our carefully ordered lives. We attend worship services now and then, say some prayers, but deep down, we expect little to be disturbed or transformed. Zephaniah’s vision confronts this comfortable arrangement. The prophet proclaims not a deity who politely respects our boundaries, but a God who sweeps into our midst with transformative intent—a God who won’t stay safely confined to sanctuary walls or Sunday mornings. Affirmatively, He does not gaze at us from a distance.

In these final days of Advent, Zephaniah’s message takes on particular urgency. We’re preparing to celebrate not just a distant memory but an ongoing reality— Emmanuel—God with us. The prophet’s vision of divine presence that both disrupts and delights foreshadows the ultimate “barging in” of God into human history through the incarnation. The God who spins and sings with joy over Zion is the same God who would enter human history as a vulnerable child and later demonstrate this divine delight through acts of abundance and celebration—turning water to wine at Cana, feeding thousands on hillsides, welcoming children, sharing meals with outcasts—transforming everything through presence rather than power.

The question Zephaniah poses remains: How will we respond to this God who refuses to stay at a safe distance? Will we, like those who tried to worship both YHWH and Milcom, attempt to keep God at arm’s length? Or will we allow ourselves to be caught up in the divine dance of transformation and joy?