“Except the LORD of hosts had left unto us a very small remnant, we should have been as Sodom, and we should have been like unto Gomorrah.” — Isaiah 1:9

Isaiah does not speak as one observing a slight disorder, but as a prophet standing before a people whose whole condition has been laid bare by God. The whole head is sick, the whole heart faints, and from the sole of the foot even to the head there is no soundness, only wounds, bruises, and putrefying sores. This is not merely ancient Israel; it is the world as it now stands before God. There is no nation that can rise up and distinguish itself as righteous. The disease is universal, the wound is deep, and the whole order of things lies under the shadow of judgment. Yet judgment has not fallen in its fullness. Why? Because the LORD of hosts has left unto Himself a very small remnant. Not a movement, not a great institution, not a religious machine with silver and gold in its coffers, but a remnant. They are small in the eyes of men, but precious in the sight of God. They are the hidden salt, the lamp that has not gone out, the last living witness in the midst of a corrupt and collapsing age. Were it not for them, we should have been as Sodom, and we should have been like unto Gomorrah.

Christendom, as a system, has become a forsaken house. Its glory has departed, though its buildings still stand and its treasuries may still be full. It has learned to worship the works of its own hands, to function without the presence of God, and to clothe spiritual poverty in religious success. To such a people Isaiah still cries, “Enter into the rock, and hide in the dust from the terror of the LORD and the glory of His majesty.” The proud shall not endure that day. The lofty looks of man shall be humbled, and all that has been built in the strength of flesh shall tremble before His appearing. But the very small remnant shall not flee from the glory of His majesty; they shall flee into it. What is terror to the proud is refuge to the broken. What is judgment to the self-sufficient is life to those who have no confidence in the flesh. His glory is their high tower. His majesty is their life blood. His presence is not an ornament to their religion; it is their breath, their bread, their very existence. And in a world without soundness, that remnant is the mercy of God still standing in the earth.

He has stretched out the heavens like a curtain, and the stars light up at His command. His ministers are a flaming fire. The clouds are His chariots, and He walks upon the wings of the wind. He looks upon the earth, and it trembles beneath His gaze. He hides His face, and the whole world is troubled. His glory shall endure forever, though the kingdoms of men rise and fall like dust before the storm.

And yet His hand, for this brief and trembling moment, is still stretched out to an undeserving people. Mercy still calls. The door still stands open. The voice of God still cries out to the proud, the religious, the self-satisfied, and the blind. Shall the haughty humble themselves? Shall they cast down the idols of their own hands? Shall they forsake the dead traditions of centuries, those polished pathways of men that have led them farther and farther from the fountain of all life?

For there is no life outside of Him. None. All else is shadow, dust, and death dressed in religious garments. When He arises to shake the earth, and surely He will arise, what then shall become of the proud? What then shall become of those who loved their systems more than His presence, their traditions more than His truth, their own works more than His living glory?

Will He be a terror to you in that day? Will you flee from the glory of His majesty when the mountains tremble and the works of men collapse before Him? Fall down now and live. Bow low now and find mercy. Kiss the Son while His hand is still extended. Or else enter into the rock, hide yourself in the dust, and see whether the caves of the earth can shelter you from the terror of the Lord when He comes in the fullness of His glory.