Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?” And I said, “Here am I; send me!”
Oh, I love this. Here am I; send me. I genuinely want God to ask, and I want to be like the second grader, holding up their arm, waiting to be picked. Ooh, ooh. Send me. It sounds noble. And it dons the front of one of the few T Shirts I’ve saved over the years from a glorious mission trip to Guatemala. Here I am. Send me.
And yet. This morning, I’m thinking about the darker side of this passage. My thoughts aren’t dark enough to knock it out of my top 10, but certainly enough to dampen my enthusiasm a little.
First, there’s a certain amount of pride that comes along with wearing the shirt, or raising my hand. There’s almost a sense of vain-glory that comes from thinking that I am such a good person to raise my hand, to believe that I’m willing to go wherever God wants to send me. It’s almost like that second grader, hoping to get into the teacher’s good graces, or at least to point out how smart they are. Ooh, ooh. Pick me. Hmm. I think the antidote to this is to just be aware that there’s always a risk of feeling superlative, when we find something like this that we think we do well. I’m reminded of Jesus’ words to pray in secret because God knows what you do in secret, as opposed to those who pray loudly so others can hear and see them; they’ve gotten their reward.
My second challenge with this snippet is what it follows. “Then one of the seraphs flew to me, holding a live coal that had been taken from the altar with a pair of tongs. The seraph touched my mouth with it and said: “Now that this has touched your lips, your guilt has departed and your sin is blotted out.” I’m not sure about anyone else, but I don’t like the idea of a live coals being touched to my lip, even if it results in my sins being blotted out. Seraphs are frightening looking majestic winged beasts, and if one came towards me with a hot coal, that would surely get my attention. To touch my lips? Ouch.
My literal brain knows that this might be symbology, but it seems that it’s a symbol of something that’s majestic, frightening, and that the ritual of becoming clean is unlikely pleasant or comfortable. If after God sent a seraph to purify me, would I be as ready to say, Here I am, send me? I hope so. Reading this passage in its entirety reminds me that to be asked and to respond to God’s sending takes the seraph and the purifying too. And it’s not a one time thing. It’s every time I want to raise my hand to be sent, I need to understand that first bit that comes with the hot coals.
The final challenge with this section is that I don’t always get to pick where God asks me to go. It’s not as simple as responding to a friend’s invitation to go to Guatemala. Right now, I’ve been sent into the depths of serious brain disorders. My hand did not go up quickly for this sending. Frequently, I want a different assignment. Let me go somewhere else, that’s less emotionally taxing, less 24/7. Let me go somewhere that’s a little easier.
Here I am; send me. Ultimately, I think this is less about heading to another country, although that could be your calling. For most of us, we are called to show up for God right where we are, doing God’s work in the everyday trenches we find ourselves in. Whether that’s in the Pacific Northwest and ministering to people affected by the wildfires, or medical professionals battling this pandemic, or people caring for their children or parents or other sick family members. I believe that most of us are called to be precisely where we are, even if we don’t like it, or even if we think the grass is greener, the call is more noble, on the other side.
This morning I’m thinking about how to respond with a resounding “here I am, send me” even when it’s hard, and when the seraph is heading my way.
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