“Comfort, comfort my people, says your God.”
Isaiah 40:1
Have you ever been outside in the cold, wet snow? Your face is wind-whipped, numb; your hands, your toes, frozen. And then, you go inside your house, and you are instantly, almost magically warmed, thawed; comforted. Standing in front of a crackling fire, hands out, feeling the heat, the warmth, stretching your fingers towards the glowing, golden light.
Isaiah 40 brings a sudden shift—from unimaginable distress, to immediate, abundant comfort. A rare kind of comfort that comes suddenly, without any effort of your own. A kind that appears all-at-once. Like when Cinderella is in the garden, weeping in her torn-up dress, and the fairy godmother suddenly appears to adorn her in a glimmering gown with glass slippers and royal carriage to take her to the ball. Isaiah 40 is the dramatic shift from worst-case, to best-case scenario. The kind of comfort that comes in the dark, when you are least expecting it, when you thought it was surely the end—but then suddenly the sound of hoofbeats riding in from the distance, and a small torch coming nearer and brighter, until suddenly he appears—with this message. The message of comfort.
Desperate for Comfort
The backdrop of Isaiah 40 is dark. God’s people had been ripped from their homes, stripped of their belongings, and torn from their children in the Babylonian captivity. The people of God were in terrible distress and desperate for comfort.
Have you ever been desperate for comfort? Aching for good news? Longing for a voice, any voice to calm the wind and waves tossing in your heart and mind?
As Zion (God’s people) sat in darkness, she cried, “The Lord has forsaken me; my Lord has forgotten me” (Isa. 49:14). And she meant it.
So much that the Lord later describes her, “O afflicted one, storm-tossed, and not comforted” (Isa. 54:11).
Storm-tossed and not comforted.
Bitter tears probably ran down her cheeks, as she mourned for her children, her husband. Her home. Her identity and hope had been stripped from her. With hope snuffed out, she had become a bruised reed, a smoldering wick. Her hands clasping the cold iron bars of a dungeon, that not a million men could wrench open.
But then, a voice.
It is precisely here, in the midst of this long, dark night where the glowing torch of Isaiah 40 suddenly bursts into flame. It is into the dungeon of captivity that the Lord’s message of comfort suddenly comes. It is in the lonely shackles of Babylon that the sound of hoofbeats are heard galloping, where the sound of footsteps come running, and a voice cries out. Who is it?
It is the Lord himself crying out.
But, what does he cry?
Comfort My People
His cry is this, “Comfort, comfort my people, says your God ” (Isaiah 40:1). This is the Lord’s own personal comfort to his people.
What is comfort?
One definition means to “give strength or hope,” or “to ease the grief or trouble of, or to console.” However, the Hebrew word used for comfort here adds an even deeper layer. It is (nāḥam) which means to sigh; to breath strongly, to be sorry for, to have compassion on. It rises up from a place of deep pity; almost like a groan from the core of your being. Think of an audible lament, a sigh of compassion, or the “Shh, shhh” of a mother consoling her crying baby.
There is breath behind this word. God’s own breath.
And he “speaks tenderly,” which means, he speaks directly to the heart.
He uses the intimate language of fatherly care “my people,” and reminds them of his covenant love, “says your God.” Helping them to remember, “You are mine, and I am yours.” He is the God who gives himself.
Also, the phrase, “says your God” (Isa. 40:1) in this passage is literally translated “keeps saying.”
Keeps saying.
So, when you read, “says your God.” It’s not a one and done thing, but a tender, beautiful call. Something he keeps saying over his people, again and again.
For fresh sorrows, he offers fresh comfort. A never-ending, constant comfort.
His Comfort Will Come
The rest of Isaiah 40 masterfully unfolds what this comfort is, and how the Lord will actually bring it about. It beautifully reveals the grandeur of the God who holds the stars and brings them out one by one, the frailty of human life like flowers of the field, and glory like grass. It foretells of the coming Christ, and how in him all our warfare will be ended, our iniquity pardoned, and how he will cover all our sins. It soars with the wings of the ones who wait on the Lord, and renew their strength. These are the beautiful promises that lie ahead in the castle of Isaiah 40. We will explore all of these, room by room.
But for now, maybe it’s enough just to know that God promises you his comfort. Maybe it’s enough just to hear his voice when he says, “Comfort, comfort my people, says your God” (Isaiah 40:1).
There is much to be discovered here, and more to be explored. But when you’ve been tossed violently in the cold ocean, it’s enough simply to be pulled back into the boat, and caught in his strong arms. Like Zion, who had been plundered and looted, stripped and bared, led away and held captive—it was enough just to hear his simple message, “Comfort.”
“O storm-tossed and not comforted” your God comes. Suddenly, and all at once. Your God comes himself to comfort you. Again and again. He has not forgotten, nor has he forsaken. He has come to be your ever-present and everlasting comfort.
So, step out of the bitter winds, and into the fires of his love. Come, feel the glow. Come collapse in his strong, everlasting arms. For a bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick, he will never snuff out.
