Isaiah 1:1, 10–20
In my faith context, blood pressures tend to spike when Sodom and Gomorrah are mentioned, since the story of these cities has been misconstrued and used as an excuse to violently oppress queer people. We are given clues throughout the Hebrew Bible as to what the sin of Sodom actually was, namely, “refusing to strengthen the hand of the poor and needy” (Ezekiel 16). One of the prophets’ rhetorical tools is to compare their contemporary situation to a well-known historical archetype so, here in this pericope, the rulers and people of Judah and Jerusalem become the rulers of Sodom and the people of Gomorrah (vs. 10). This comparison is emotionally super-charged and is meant to shock and offend. After all, everyone knows what happened to Sodom and Gomorrah. Isaiah’s direct comparison explodes Judah and Jerusalem’s ability to say “we’re not like those guys over there” and really drives the prophet’s critique home.
What follows this incendiary introduction is a long meditation on what happens when a group of people practices right ritual without right relationship. The way things are going, there is at least a pretext of doing the right things. They’re burning incense, keeping all the festivals, making all the sacrifices. Even though it looks good and technically crosses all the tees, at its core it’s missing the point and, according to Isaiah, God is FED UP. The language used here is pretty evocative – “incense is an abomination to me…your appointed festivals my soul hates; they have become a burden to me” (vs. 13), “even though you pray many prayers, I will not listen; your hands are full of blood” (vs. 15).
This text prompts us to pay attention to what doesn’t pass the (incense) sniff test, if you will, or those acts of the state that look good on the surface but break down under scrutiny. Reformist reforms (contrasted with abolitionist reforms) may look great on paper but so often they are a guise to pipe more money into the prison industrial complex. More often than not, the bright, shiny new programs the public was promised never come to fruition and the money gets re-routed to increase the surveillance and oppression of incarcerated people. Abolitionist ideals urge us to follow the money and ask critical questions about whether a reform is moving us closer to or further from liberation.
In its most cynical form, reformist reforms are a pressure release valve which help goodhearted but non-system impacted people feel like they’re doing the right thing. Though they seem like reasonable interventions, at best, reformist reforms are rearranging the deck chairs. At worst, they cause further harm. Sounds kind of like a solemn assembly with iniquity, doesn’t it? Relationships with people who are incarcerated expose the empty, ritualized promises for what they are – hollow. They don’t get anyone any more free. So, if reformism won’t save us, what will?
After the illusion of reform breaks down, we are left with Isaiah’s ultimatum: “cease to do evil, learn to do good; seek justice, rescue the oppressed.” I love that we are told to “learn” to do good. It’s hopeful. As in abolition, there is room to try, fail, grow, and change. This work is a great experiment – or a million of them – and we are learning. The important thing is that we invest in trying, using abolitionism as our guide. My prayer for us as a collective is that we have the courage to cease our empty ritualizing and seek true justice which is liberation and flourishing for all.
Mallory Everhart is a pastor, poet, and abolitionist spiritual director based in Colorado Springs, CO.