Going Through the Motions? Isaiah Has Thoughts
Isaiah 66 opens with a kind of challenge. "Heaven is my throne, and the earth is my footstool," says the text in verse 1. It's a big-picture statement, zooming all the way out to remind us of scale—and perhaps to put human activities into perspective. Right after that, the focus shifts to questions of worship. If God (or the divine, or whatever larger force the prophet is describing) already owns everything, what meaning is there in rituals and offerings?
Sincerity > Sacrifice?
The text makes a strong claim: "I will bless those who have humble and contrite hearts, who tremble at my word. But those who choose their own ways—delighting in their detestable sins—will not have their offerings accepted" (Isaiah 66:2-3, NLT). There's an implication here that certain kinds of religious activity might not just be meaningless but actively offensive. That raises some questions: What makes a ritual empty? What makes it genuine? And who gets to decide?
This part of Isaiah seems to argue that it's not the act itself, but the attitude behind it that matters. The text says that people who kill an ox for sacrifice are no better than those who murder; those who present grain offerings might as well offer pig's blood. That's strong language. It points to a disconnect between appearance and intent, between action and integrity.
Checking Boxes or Checking In?
It's not hard to see modern parallels. In all sorts of contexts—religious, political, social—there's pressure to perform the right gestures. Say the right words, show up at the right events, signal the right values. But how do we know when those gestures are coming from a sincere place? And can we always tell?
There's a kind of unease in the passage. It warns of the possibility that a person could be doing everything "right" on the outside and still be missing the point entirely. That idea feels uncomfortable, but also familiar. Most people, at some point, probably wonder whether they're just going through the motions—in relationships, in work, in whatever routines they follow.
When Humility Is the Whole Point
What I find compelling is that this text, ancient as it is, doesn’t focus on the outward forms. It centers instead on something internal. "These are the ones I look on with favor: those who are humble and contrite in spirit," it says. There's no mention of how grand the temple is or how perfect the offering might be. Just a posture of humility.
If the visible signs of devotion aren't what matter most, what does that mean for how we evaluate others—or ourselves?
Can we see Isaiah as an invitation to self-examination? Not the polished kind, but the uncomfortable, honest kind that happens when no one is watching. Whether or not one believes in the same framework, that kind of reflection feels relevant.