”The Lord God helps me; therefore I have not been disgraced; therefore I have set my face like flint, and I know that I shall not be put to shame” [Isaiah 50:9].
The Revised Common Lectionary appoints the same OT passage every year for Palm or Passion Sunday: the familiar “Suffering Servant” pericope found in Isaiah 50:4-9a. I suspect you’ve heard it read many times. Scholars say the servant portrayed here in chapter 50 is likely the same figure who, in chapter 40, responded to God’s summons to “Comfort, O comfort my people!” — the one who fervently asks of God: “What shall I cry?” [Isaiah 40:6].
The servant in chapter 50 seems much like that figure in chapter 40; his mission likewise is to comfort the people. He affirmatively states that he knows “how to sustain the weary with a word” [50:4]. In spite of that knowledge and skill, this servant in chapter 50 faces harsh conflict. He has been struck, stripped, insulted, and spit on (50:6]. Will he lash out against his adversaries?
I’ll bet that you have crossed paths with suffering servants. Indeed, dare I say it? Perhaps you are one yourself. Perhaps you’ve known someone who quietly worked in the background, invisible to most of the world, someone who cared for those around her with utter humility and love. I particularly recall one such wonderful soul. To some of you in Gastonia: She crossed a number of your paths as well.
Her name was Faye Armstrong. I met her in Gastonia back in 1969, when, as a senior in high school, I started courting a lovely, young lady named Jane. Literally a servant, Faye was a domestic worker employed by my future mother-in-law. I won’t give too many poignant details, but the relationship between Jane’s mother and Faye, forged in the late 1960s, blossomed into a deep and abiding friendship that lasted until Jane’s mother’s death in 2005.
Faye did not have it easy growing up. Although she was quite intelligent, educational possibilities for young, black women born in the South during the 1930s were meager. Women in general were only rarely favored with education. The minds of young, black women, of course, were ignored. Moreover, as the oldest sister of eight or nine children, one of Faye’s primary responsibilities was always to help rear the younger ones. And, oh! She did so much more than “help” in their rearing.
Never marrying, Faye helped raise a half dozen siblings, their children and sometimes even their grandchildren. In the late 1960s, to some degree, she “escaped” domestic life in her mother’s home by taking on domestic life in the homes of others in the prominent strata of Gastonia. And so, as I say, when Jane was in high school, Faye came to help care for the Albright family.
By the early 70s, Faye had worked full-time for almost five years for Jane’s mother, until Jane’s father counseled her that as much as Faye was loved on Sheffield Drive, she would have a more secure future if she took a job in one of the local textile mills. He pointed out that Burlington Industries offered steady work, plus basic healthcare and a modest pension — benefits that could not be provided for her as a domestic. And so Faye went to work in one of the Burlington mills, but she still saved most Saturdays for “Mizz Albright.”
When Jane and I returned to Gastonia in 1976, after law school, we already had one-year-old, Anna, in tow. Walker followed along in 1978, Blair in 1981, and Gray in 1985. Faye, who by this time was quite experienced with child-care, suggested to us, soon after our return, that if we needed a sitter, that she’d be happy to watch the children. And so, Jane and I instituted our wonderfully habitual weekly “date night” — a practice that we continued until the recent coronavirus outbreak. Of course, we haven’t needed a sitter for many years.
In Gastonia, on Friday afternoons, either Jane or her mother would pick Faye up about 3 pm, and Faye would come to our house “to play” with the kids. Oh my! How they loved her — how we all loved her! Because of Faye’s gentle nature — her easy, quiet manner with young ones — Anna and Walker literally pushed us out of the house on Friday evenings, telling us not to hurry home. When Blair was about four — he’s now 39 — I once asked him what he wanted to do when he grew up? “Buy a big, red truck, ‘cause Faye and me are going to Mexico,” was his quick reply.
I remember one Friday evening, after our return from dinner, I “carried” Faye home. It was a 15-minute drive. She chatted on quietly in the passenger seat beside me, “I do love your children.”
“They love you,” was my reply. I hesitated for just a second and then added, “Faye, are you alright, after that mess with your cousin?”
A few weeks earlier, one of her cousins — it may actually have been a nephew — had brusquely come into the small, neat, little house that Faye rented for herself, and for a much younger half-sister and that sister’s two children. He’d barged in on a Saturday afternoon, while Faye was at the Albrights. Looking for money — she kept none there — he took the TV, a small stereo, and some other household items that he thought he could sell. He hadn’t threatened anyone, but he made a mess of things as he searched the house for money.
“I’m fine …, we’re all fine,” she said wistfully. She chuckled softly and added, “He didn’t take my Bible and he can’t take my faith.”
“I know,” I mumbled ineffectively. We’d stopped for a red light. “But don’t you get tired of the conflict? Doesn’t it all make you want to strike back?”
Faye was silent for a full fifteen seconds or so, as we sat there waiting for the traffic signal to change. A light rain fell on the windshield. The wipers slowly whipped back and forth. Headlights were shining around us, the light diffused somewhat by the late evening mist. I turned to see her lean, strong profile as she gazed slightly to her right. It was as if she was staring at something a thousand miles away.
And then she said, “I know that I shall not be put to shame; for He who vindicates me is near” [Isaiah 50:8].
I shuddered at the strength and resolve within her voice and her words. I wouldn’t, of course, tie her words to the prophet Isaiah until several years later, after Jane, the kids, and I left Gastonia for Durham and Duke Divinity School. Yet virtually every year, on Passion/Palm Sunday, I have read the OT lesson (Isaiah 50:4-9a), and I have been reminded that, like Faye, the Suffering Servant was similarly ambivalent to the violence and retribution around him.
I gave my back to those who struck me, and my cheeks to those who pulled out the beard; I did not hide my face from insult and spitting [Isaiah 50:6}.
Within the heart of the Suffering Servant, there is not anger, but resolve:
The Lord God helps me; therefore I have not been disgraced; therefore I have set my face like flint, and I know that I shall not be put to shame; he who vindicates me is near [Isaiah 50:7-8a].
This Sunday, we are invited again to see and hear our Lord, Jesus Christ, in the Isaiah passage. And so, we see that Jesus is more than the One who submits to the insults, to the whip, to the nails, and to the Cross. Within His submission, He shouts out His affirmation for and identification with all those to whom He was sent by the Lord God — to Faye, who now rests from her labors, and to you and me as well. All praise to you, Lord Jesus!
Be First to Comment