Last Sunday on this program we spent some time with Isaiah. Let's go back there again today - but not to the same Isaiah as last week because, as you know, there were at least three writers (and probably more than that) who over a long stretch of years all wrote using the pen name of Isaiah. The book itself is actually more-or-less three books that are related to one another. Last week we read a passage written to Hebrew people living in exile in Babylon. It came from the 40th chapter of the book, part of what scholars call "Deutero Isaiah" (or, the second section of the trilogy). This morning we read from the 61st chapter, which is located in "Trito Isaiah" (the third section of the trilogy). Today's passage, unlike last week's, is not written to people living in captivity, but rather to people who had been liberated from that and had returned home - which had been their fervent dream and hope and prayer for generations. However, once they finally made it back to Israel, it was not exactly the sort of Disney World landscape they had imagined. The people who were back home had never really seen home before. They had just heard tales of it passed down from their grandparents and great-grandparents who had once lived there. And the memories those ancestors had shared with their grandchildren had been, let' say, exaggerated. We often have a tendency to make the memories of our childhoods larger and grander than they were. Every summer I make a pilgrimage to my hometown. I haven't lived there in over 40 years. My boyhood memories are warm and wonderful, memories of a house more than adequate for the family that lived there, located on a spacious piece of land, nestled to a beautiful forest out back. In truth, that's still how I envision my boyhood home ... until I drive past it every summer. But then I see something a bit different from what I remember. I see a modest-sized house on a modest-sized lot that backs up not to a forest, but to a small run of woods that feeds into a housing development less than a block from our backyard. Reality and my remembrance of it are not the same.