Something New

Isaiah 43:18–19

“Remember ye not the former things, neither consider the things of old. Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth; shall ye not know it? I will even make a way in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert” (Isaiah 43:18–19).

The soul, which is eternity’s deposit, is often clouded by memory. Memories that encourage and give new strength are helpful. Memories that shackle are not. How do we know which “former things” we are to forget in this text? We say, “The bad things, of course.”

Of course.

But what if, in the context of these verses, it means something more?

We are tempted to enthrone golden hours, where former mercies become a kind of ceiling for our hearts. We make a standard of yesterday, and unconsciously deny that God will do new things. One of the most sobering truths about human consciousness is that our memory is as subject to the fall as our flesh (Genesis 3).

Memory in Eden would have been perfect. Transparent, a pure sight of God’s works. Sight without distortion. After the Fall, it became translucent, no longer able to understand clearly the Fall for what it was in the sight of God. The mind that remembers is the same mind that presently sins. Memory is fallen, capable of deceit, self-justification, and selective sight. We tend to forget and change our past to serve the self we wish to project. At least, I do. The Fall reaches backward as well as forward, tincturing memory with pride, or resentment, or excuse, or judgment, or nostalgia.

“Remember ye not,” in this passage means, do not bind God to your last biography of Him, or of yourself. Even holy memories can be corrupted. We can turn memories of grace into proof of our present faithfulness, and not a present Christ. Oh, the subtlety of self-deception! We can nurse wrongs until they feel right. We can mourn a memory more than we hope in the coming kingdom (Romans 8:18–25). Does this mean we are to forget everything? No, just not trust in them. We are commanded to remember the Sabbath day (Exodus 20:8), to remember His works of old (Psalm 77:11), to remember Jesus Christ raised from the dead (2 Timothy 2:8). But those are written on the pages of His infallible Word. Stable memories.

When God says, “their sins and their iniquities will I remember no more” (Hebrews 8:12), He meant it. He exercises sovereign non-recognition, or divine forgetfulness. We, on the other hand, are subject to time, to its trade winds, to its fog and storms. And because of that, memory itself becomes weathered. The same event appears different in youth than in middle years, and in old age, because we have changed, as has our perspective (Ecclesiastes 3:1–8). Time alters perception like water over time, alters stone. Joys once pure become tinged with longing. Griefs once sharp grow strangely soft. This instability makes memory a poor foundation for future hope. If we build our confidence upon the past, our spiritual life will rise and fall with moods and season. The Spirit in this text, calls us away from shifting, to His unchanging Word, where Truth stands absolute (John 17:17).

When God says, “Behold, I will do a new thing,” does the old become needless? Hardly. When I portage one pool of the river to the next, I pay no lasting mind to the trips, the falls, the brambles, and hardly remember beautiful passing moments of bumblebees and damselflies. Yet every step along the way was preparatory to the new pool. So the new thing fulfills up whatever came before. But to see that, we must not stare backward too long. If you drive using your rear-view mirror alone, you will crash. So too with the soul. Fixation on memory blinds us to what God is doing now, something new. Blessings in the present are tomorrow’s memories.

Israel’s danger in Isaiah 43 was the pride of past deliverance. They remembered the Red Sea as if redemption was a pattern, not a Person. They were looking for another miracle, another parted sea, another plague, while God was preparing something infinitely greater, the incarnation of His own Son. “Remember ye not” was a mercy. God was clearing the path of old expectations to plant a new covenant.

This also touches personal life.

Some are haunted by what they did.

Others, by what they once were.

Still others, by what they once had.

This is madness. It can not be altered.

The man who lives in the past will be tempted to relive his guilt more than his forgiveness. The widow who knew joy is tempted to think joy ended with her loss. The church that once knew revival often despairs when the wind stops. In each case, memory becomes a mausoleum, beautifully kept but empty of breath. The Lord’s command is tender but absolute: “Behold, I will do a new thing.” It will “spring forth.” It is the language of life, of suddenness, of uncontainable growth. And His new thing is never disconnected from His old. The same Hand that parted the sea now digs rivers in deserts. The same Voice that spoke to Moses speaks still. The same covenant mercy that redeemed Israel is manifest in Christ, redeeming His bride.

When God says, “I will make a way in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert,” He speaks of impossible landscapes, transformed. Wildernesses do not offer ‘ways.’ Deserts do not yield ‘rivers.’ So it is with the natural heart. There is no natural path in us. But God’s mercy defies nature. He makes a way where there is none. He opens springs where the soul is dry.

Healing, then, is memory’s sanctification, stepping forward, rehearsing hope, marveling at providence. So when God tells us not to “consider the things of old,” He is liberating us from its misunderstanding, from building tents around what was. The believer may look back in gratitude, but not live there.

Because God’s Name is not “I Was”; He is “I Am.”

And so, this call is to faith. Faith is not having sight in the right direction. Christward.

“Shall ye not know it?” He asks. The answer belongs to those who have learned to behold Christ (John 1:29). And perhaps that is the deepest healing of all, to see that grace not only forgives the past but governs how we should recall it. To live from that truth is to discover rivers running through deserts long thought dead, and to walk roads no memory could have made.