Commentary on Isaiah 2:1-5

Isaiah 2:1–5 welcomes congregations to Advent across the globe. As the first scriptural reading of the first Sunday of Advent, the image of nations flocking to God’s holy mountain, converting their weapons of personal and mass destruction into tools that feed the world, provides a preview of the ending of the liturgical year. 

Reading the text outside of its canonical context and inside this year’s liturgical one provides an invitation to recognize the text’s multivalent potential, connecting ancient worlds and modern assemblies. Within the book of Isaiah, these five verses of stunning hope are embedded in two chapters of vitriolic judgment on the book’s narrative audience.

The beginning of chapter 2 in Isaiah sharply contrasts with the surrounding material in both style and content. Instead of divine decrees condemning the leadership of ancient Judah and forecasting defeat of the nation, these verses imagine an idyllic future in which Judah becomes the center of the world. Instead of foreign nations as enemies who will carry out God’s terrible sentence, here they flock to the temple as a sign of Yahweh’s universal rule.

The passage opens with the statement that what follows is a vision that the prophet Isaiah experienced. Isaiah lived during a very turbulent time in Israel’s history. The Assyrians were attempting to establish an empire that would include Egypt. In order to achieve this worldwide power, they first had to defeat all the smaller kingdoms in what is modern-day Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, and Israel. As they conquered city after city, they deported the indigenous populations to various locations under their rule to serve as cheap labor supporting the war effort. 

At this time, no longer was Israel comprised of 12 tribes under a single king. Instead, it had split into two distinct monarchies: Israel in the north with 10 tribes, and Judah in the south with two. The Assyrian army, following the highways of the Fertile Crescent, would have advanced from north to south. They sacked Israel’s capital city, Samaria, in 722 BCE and continued their march southward, arriving at Jerusalem, Judah’s capital, around 700. 

Isaiah was a prophet who worked for the monarchy in Judah at this time. Although Assyria defeated almost every city it besieged, Jerusalem escaped this fate because of a civil war in Assyria’s capital that required the return of the army. The people of Jerusalem saw this as a miracle: Their God had saved them, due in part to Isaiah’s intercession on their behalf.

These verses may reflect that immediate period of joy as those inside the besieged city watched the enemy pack up their beasts of burden and march back north. Certainly, that would have been an occasion for joy and wonder. Why not dream big, in such a moment? 

Isaiah 2:1–5 asks you to listen to a prophetic voice that magnifies this miraculous moment. Isaiah himself sings, “If you think that was amazing, just wait! Someday, these very same enemies will return here to this city, not in hostility and violence, but in humility and kindness.” Note that the nations come back because they realize that Israel’s God is the source of wisdom. They come to learn.

Once they have been “schooled,” then and only then can the audience’s imagination be let loose. “Imagine what we could do,” the prophet seems to say, “if we lived in a world where there were no more wars. If we lived among people with shared values and a shared humility.” I think about that a lot these days. What could we do with all the money and resources, natural and human, that we spend on active and anticipatory wars? 

The book of Isaiah does not stay there for very long. After five short verses, the prophet’s vision dissipates, and the same old human folly enters back in. These verses are more than a commercial break in the action, however. They keep hope alive, over the course of centuries, even when the darkest days remain. The flavor of the vision tastes sweeter set amid the bitterness of their reality.

Advent provides room for the conflicted feelings many of us feel about the future that God intends for us. On the one hand, the Christmas journey is not the story of a baby; it is an epic of hope in the form of deep tragedy. Joseph’s feelings of fear, acceptance, and joy map out the emotions of this strange narrative arc. 

But the lectionary reminds us that this is not a new story. The emotions tied to the temple, which for its audience was a concrete representation of God’s real presence among the community, resonate with the stubborn assertion that what we see now is not the whole story: Whether it is a temple that has lost its glory or a baby in a backwater town, if these cannot be sites of hope, then hope is not possible.

Many people listening to sermons this Advent have the same conflicted emotions, but too often church settings appear to only validate the hope and filter out despair. I am not alone in dreading watching the news anymore, whether it is local, national, or global. Where can there be hope in that? But Isaiah 2 reminds us that if we can afford to build weapons, then we can choose instead to feed the nations, metaphorically and literally. Whether our weapons are missiles or missives, warheads or words, we can choose which to build: armies that destroy each of us, or sacred sites that feed all of us.