Comfort My People

Isaiah 40 opens with a command from God’s heart: “Comfort, comfort my people.” Not “explain everything,” not “fix everything,” but comfort them.

You’ve stood at hospital bedsides, gravesides, kitchen tables where bills and diagnoses stack up, and you’ve whispered, “What do I even say?”

Isaiah asked the same question: “What shall I proclaim?” (40:6). Today, let’s answer that together.

1) Why judgment talk ever mattered (and why it isn’t the last word)

Isaiah’s first 39 chapters thunder with warning—judgment, idolatry, exile. Prophets are rarely popular; neither were the modern poets who sensed storm clouds.

John Fogerty sang “Bad Moon Rising,” and the world nodded because trouble does rise.

Bob Dylan said, “You’re gonna have to serve somebody,” and the world winced because it’s true.

Those lyrics echo Isaiah’s realism: sin corrodes; empires wobble; “princes are brought to nothing” (40:23).

But judgment in Scripture serves a merciful purpose: to wake us, turn us, bring us home.

It’s not God’s final word; it’s His loud knock before He opens the door and says, “Come in. I’m here.”

God’s discipline is never to crush but to restore; His love never lets us go even when He must call us back.

The thunders of Isaiah 1–39 prepare us for the music of Isaiah 40.

What we say in the face of ruin: Judgment’s purpose is repentance, and repentance’s gift is comfort.

2) The voice and the message (Isaiah 40:1–11) — “Your God is here.”

Isaiah hears a voice: “Proclaim!” He asks, “What shall I proclaim?”

Heaven answers with a picture, not a theory: “Go up on a high mountain… say to the cities of Judah, ‘Behold your God!’” (40:9).

Look at Him—mighty and tender. The same arm that rules also gathers lambs, carries them close to His heart, and gently leads nursing ewes (40:10–11).

That’s the message: God is here.

Not an explanation for every “why,” but a presence for every “where.” When Job finally meets God, explanations fade; encounter remains.

Elie Wiesel, watching a child suffer on the gallows, heard the terrible question, “Where is God?” and the dreadful answer, “Here.”

Christian faith pushes that further: on a hill called Calvary, God was truly “here,” taking suffering into Himself. We don’t always get the reason, but we always get the Redeemer.

What we say at the bedside, at the graveside, at the table: “I’m here with you. And more—the Lord is here with you.”

3) What withers, what lasts (Isaiah 40:6–8)

“All flesh is grass… the grass withers… but the word of our God stands forever.” Babylon looked invincible; in a night it fell (Daniel 5).

Diocletian tried to erase Christ’s name; the church kept singing.

Bank accounts, headlines, diagnoses—even our strength—fade like desert flowers in hot wind.

But God’s promise doesn’t wither. He has tied His name to your future, and He will not cut that cord.

Anchor to the promises—God’s word is your security when feelings fluctuate. Isaiah agrees. When everything else is temporary, God’s word endures, and those who hope in Him endure.

What we say to the anxious: “The wind may blow, but the word will stand—and so will you, upheld by it.”

4) The Creator who doesn’t tire (Isaiah 40:21–31)

“Have you not known? Have you not heard?” Isaiah stacks rhetorical questions to shake us awake.

God sits above the circle of the earth; He calls stars by name; none go missing on His watch.

And then this breathtaking turn: “He gives power to the faint.” The One who never grows tired shares His strength with people who do.

Even the young and bulletproof eventually faint. But “those who wait for the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint.”

Notice the order: fly, run, walk. Sometimes God lets you soar—breakthroughs, miracles, unexplainable lift. Sometimes you can run—momentum, progress. And sometimes the holiest miracle is simply to walk and not faint—to get through Tuesday, to forgive again, to keep praying when heaven feels brass.

The Spirit’s ministry is to comfort the afflicted and to give power for quiet, steady duty. Sometimes He pushes the paratrooper out the door—and then gives courage on the way down.

What we say to the exhausted: “You don’t have to be the eagle today. Walking counts. God will carry you as you walk.”

5) What to say when you don’t know what to say (five simple lines)

When tragedy strikes or trials linger, here’s a faithful, tender script you can carry in your pocket:

1. “I’m here, and I’m not leaving.” (Presence before answers.)

2. “God is here with you.” (Isaiah 40:9–11)

3. “You don’t have to be strong today.” (Isaiah 40:29)

4. “Let’s borrow God’s words when ours run out.” (Read a promise.)

5. “We’ll walk this together.” (Hope is a team sport.)