Brothers,
It may seem odd to begin a reflection on Isaiah by quoting Jeremiah, but I want to do exactly that, because Jeremiah 23 sets the tone for everything Isaiah will later say:
“I myself will gather the remnant of my flock out of all the countries where I have driven them… I will place shepherds over them who will tend them, and they will no longer be afraid or terrified…
The days are coming… when I will raise up for David a righteous Branch, a King who will reign wisely…
This is the name by which he will be called: The Lord Our Righteous Savior.”
That promise—of gathering, of shepherding, of salvation—does not disappear in Isaiah. Isaiah 50 carries the same assurance. God does not abandon those He has chosen to be His own. He may chastise. He may purify. He may allow suffering. But abandonment is not part of His economy.
St. Irenaeus wrote in the second century that “God does not reject His handiwork; He patiently fashions it until it reaches perfection.” God’s work across history is not replacement, but formation. If becoming the people God intends us to be is the project He has been working on for centuries, then the real question is this:
When do we decide to make that project our own?
That question is easier for us than it was for Israel or for the early Church. We live in a post-Resurrection, modern world. There are no armies dragging us into exile, no barbarians at the gate, no one hunting us down for confessing Christ. And because of that, we are tempted to take the promise for granted.
We can talk about faith endlessly from warm houses. We can discuss Scripture without ever being pressed to live it. Our faith becomes comfortable, unchallenged. We let God do all the work. When trial comes, we pray for relief—and expect it quickly—because surely God does not want hardship for faithful people like us. If suffering appears, we assume something has gone wrong: sin, the devil, or a mistake in the plan.
But Isaiah 50 does not leave room for that kind of thinking. It ends with words that should unsettle us:
“Let the one who walks in darkness, who has no light,
trust in the name of the Lord and rely on his God.
But you who light your own fires and provide yourselves with flaming torches—
go, walk in the light of your fires…
This is what you shall receive from my hand: you will lie down in torment.”
How can God expect us to walk in the dark? To live in uncertainty feels like abandonment. Surely God would provide light—unless He turns off the light because something can only be done in darkness.
St. John of the Cross understood this well when he wrote: “The soul that is to be transformed must pass through darkness, for only in darkness is faith purified.” Isaiah speaks just before this of being beaten, spat upon, humiliated. This is not language for armchair believers. As St. John Chrysostom observed, “Christ did not flee suffering, so that no one would think obedience ends where pain begins.”
Then comes Isaiah 51, and God shifts the horizon:
“Look to Me. Look to the rock from which you were hewn. Look to Abraham. Look to the beginning.”
In other words: I have done this before. I am not improvising.
I was standing once before a painting of the Crucifixion and wondered: were these the words echoing in Mary’s heart as she watched her Son die? Were these the promises John clung to at the foot of the Cross? Were the Apostles recalling Isaiah 51 as they hid in the upper room, convinced everything had fallen apart?
St. Augustine wrote, “Hope has two beautiful daughters: anger at the way things are, and courage to see that they do not remain so.” Isaiah 51 does not promise immediate rescue. It promises something deeper: that God remains faithful even when the story looks like it has collapsed.
God asks us to carry burdens. And when our knees shake, when the weight feels unbearable, we look up and ask, “Are you coming to help?”
And sometimes the lion still comes.
The flood still sweeps the house away.
The money still runs out.
The sickness still worsens.
St. Teresa of Ávila once said plainly, “God never promised us a smooth journey, only a safe arrival.” To read “Trust in the Lord and rely on God” is easy. To do it is very hard.
But that is the moment of salvation. That is where we become who God intends us to be.
I can look back now—forty years later—at failures and suffering that felt unbearable at the time. Only with distance can I see how each one changed me, redirected me, shaped me. In some cases, fighting God’s path only made the road harder. I could have walked an uphill slope; instead I chose to climb a mountain to reach the same destination.
St. Francis de Sales put it simply: “Nothing is so strong as gentleness, nothing so gentle as true strength.” God’s work was happening even when I resisted it.
I could not have planned my life. But God planned history—and revealed it centuries before it happened. Isaiah spoke what sounded like impossible stories about the future. They came true. If a fairy tale like Jack and the Beanstalk suddenly unfolded in real history, we would never stop talking about it. It would change how we trusted the storyteller.
Isaiah’s “impossible” story came true in Christ.
So when Isaiah records the Lord saying:
“My salvation will last forever,
my righteousness will never fail,”
we have no reason to doubt him.
We are meant to be men that others can point to and say: There is someone who believes the promises spoken by Isaiah, by Moses, by Abraham—and by Jesus Himself.
And when they say, “Yes, he believes—and look how hard his life is,”
we will know our trust is in the Lord.
And when they say, “Yes, he believes—and look how blessed his life is,”
we will also know our trust is in the Lord.
As St. Paul wrote, “I have learned to be content in whatever circumstances I am.”
That is the mark of a man whose trust is no longer conditional.
Because God’s intention is not that we trust Him only in comfort or only in suffering—but at all times, in all circumstances, in light and in darkness alike.
That is the faith Isaiah calls us to.
And it is still the path of salvation.
The musings of Peter 