“Listen now to this, you who sit in luxurious security saying, ‘I, I will never live as a widow nor one bereaved,’ these two things will come to you, in a moment, a day: widowhood and bereavement will fall greatly upon you despite all your conjuring and all your schemes” (Isaiah 47:8-9).
In context, the verses above come from Isaiah’s rebuke of Babylon, his declaration of its coming downfall. The “I” is the nation itself declaring itself beyond defeat. Never will it know the great loss and grief that come from the hands of another. Yet, the prophet declares they are not beyond defeat and destruction. Nor, for that matter (as history shows) is any nation.
But this passage struck me differently this week. Widows and widowers are close to my heart these days. My mother-in-law has been a widow for more than fifteen years and my dad just last month crossed the first anniversary of the day my mom passed.
Scripture is very clear that God has a particular sensitivity to the vulnerable, and widows are mentioned (alongside orphans) by name. And this makes sense because of the real financial vulnerabilities of those who have lost a spouse, both in Biblical times and in our own. But I’ve been thinking that, perhaps, there’s another reason God calls the widow and widower to our attention.
Isaiah’s words above are, as mentioned, a repudiation of Babylon and its perceived invincibility. But it also rings true for the thoughts of us as mortal, human beings. Particularly from places of comfort and security, like that experienced by a nation, it is tempting to believe that we’re different, we’re unique in history and we’ll not know grief. We are, unlike those people, exempt from knowing the loss of someone so close and loved.
Listen again as if it were a person speaking, saying to themselves that “I, I will never live as a widow nor one bereaved.” It’s a declaration that says, I’m different. I’m special. I’m better than you.
It’s a dangerous thought. For one, it denies the reality that we are all mortal—subject to the whims of illness, injury, and time. But, it also leads to denial that others are like you. That leads, far too easily, down a way that begins to see our fellow travelers as less than us. And from there comes free reign to do whatever we want to those folk: even so far as to create widows and orphans.
Besides a very real admonition to care for the vulnerable around us, God’s calling to not neglect the widow is a means of reminding us not to forget our own fragility and mortality. Awareness of them is an awareness that we, like everyone else on this wounded world, are mortal and will face grief—the kind that comes when a part of our heart is lost.
With that in mind, we find it impossible speak as though we will never know widowhood or bereavement. We remember that we are dust as are those we so dearly love; so, in critical moments, we remember that the person before us, no matter their belief, their politics, gender, color, or place of birth is loved by someone in the way we are loved.
And we might choose not to cause their beloved grief.
God who breathed life into us, may we treat everyone we encounter as we move through this world as someone precious and beloved, careful not to cause those who love them grief.