You are welcome to use parts of this sermon, but if you do, please attribute them properly!
You
do not have to be able to quote the Bible chapter and verse to know that
Revelation is the book that is overflowing with nightmarish images – but,
reputable Biblical scholars would say, images that we more often than not
interpret from a childish faith perspective.
These images span the spectrum from inevitable and terrifying natural
disasters to Armageddon itself, and all of them are wrapped up tightly in
predictions about the end of the world.
However, it is high
time that we set aside such childishness and grow up in our approach to the
Bible as a whole, but certainly this morning, to the Book of Revelation. It is high time for some theological
maturing, for learning to take the Bible “seriously but not literally” as
progressive Christian writer Marcus Borg has suggested. It is high time to understand that our
doomsday approach to the book of Revelation is inaccurate and way off
base.
As well-respected
Biblical scholar, Bart Ehrman, wrote in his introduction to the New Testament,
“In every generation since the book [of Revelation] was written, Christians
have argued that its vivid description of catastrophic events would happen in
their own day. So far, none of them have been right.”
Such a narrow
perspective on this magnificently written and marvelously hopeful book does it
scant justice. You
see, this Biblical book, this Revelation of John, who is said to have been an
old man exiled to the Island of Patmos off the coast of Greece, was, like all
the stories and letters in our New Testament, written at a particular time to a
particular group of people. The author
was most likely a Jewish Christian who had perhaps fled the Jewish-Roman War
that, in about 70 CE, had destroyed Jerusalem and left the temple as a pile of
rubble.
The author’s
audience, a group of seven specific churches, was at the end of its rope. These congregations were probably only a
generation old, and, as all organizations eventually do, they were perhaps
going off course a bit from their original vision, and facing, as Borg writes,
"persecution, false teaching, and accommodation to the larger
culture."
These congregations
were the victims of Roman ill-treatment and torture. The people were a stone’s throw from the
gladiator’s arena for confessing their Christian faith rather than their
primary allegiance to a Roman Emperor whose titles included Lord of All, Prince
of Peace, and Son of God.
Community martyrs
were a dime a dozen, false but tempting teachings abounded, and, as always, the
economic reality was desperate with the outlook equally dismal. It
was to this disastrous situation that the author of Revelation responded. He writes using highly symbolic images about
the world in which his audience lived – seven-headed beasts, plagues,
earthquakes, and burning cities. He
writes using equally symbolic language about the promises of God, reminding his
readers who will triumph – the wedding feast, the Lamb of God, the defeat of
Satan. He concludes by writing about the
world that, like a phoenix, will arise from its own ashes. He writes about a new heaven and new earth.
Contrary to all the
doomsday predictions we associate with this Biblical book, there will be no
rapture. There will be no whisking away
of selected folks to some distant heaven, men and women who will leave the
earth behind like a distant speck, like a guttering flame that will eventually
extinguish itself.
No - for all who
trust in the love and goodness of God, the author of Revelation tells us that
there is something else to cling to, and it is this message of great high
hope: “God has moved into the
neighborhood, making his home with men and women!
They’re his people,
he’s their God. He’ll wipe every tear from their eyes…Look! (God proclaims) I’m
making everything new. Write it all down—each word dependable and
accurate…”It’s happened. I’m A to Z. I’m the Beginning, I’m the Conclusion.”
And listen to this: The blue and crystal
clear waters of life – those will be given freely to everyone – everyone – who
thirsts.”
If
God has God’s way, the earth will not be removed. It will be redeemed and transformed. This “magnificent concluding vision” (Borg)
will be like a dream where all people – everyone – will have their deepest
longing fulfilled. They will be secure
and have a place of their own. They will
be at home with God – and all who are thirsty will be invited to share in these
waters of life. In the end, we will all
be one.
The
author’s picture of great high hope is the sketch of a dream, to be sure, but
it is not like any old dream that you cannot remember the half of when you
awaken. It is really a vision, a lasting
vision that still haunts our churches today:
“All are invited to share in the waters of life.” As Borg writes, it is
the "dream of God…for this earth, and not for another world. For John (the
author of Revelation), it is the only dream worth dreaming."
Ralph Waldo Emerson
once said, "People only see what they are prepared to see." If that
is true, then surely, if nothing else, the church is called to help people see
this life-giving, thirst-quenching dream, to draw them into participating in
it, to nurture this ultimate promise of God, and to live as if the promise that
we are all indeed one has already come true.
Most assuredly,
this is not an easy task in our world today that is so fraught with war and
weapons and the plight of refugees, where our politicians are promising to
build us walls and fences to isolate ourselves from those we consider alien,
and our more conservative Christian brothers and sisters are admonishing us to
insulate ourselves from anyone who thinks or prays or lives differently than we
do, where we are told over and over again that we hold the water rights
to the river of life – no matter who may thirst. It is a daunting task that the Christian church
is called to take upon herself in what many would say is a dark and dismal
world.
And yet, once long
ago, a small group of dedicated followers of a two-bit rabbi from a backwater
part of the world faced much the same dire situation: It is the dark night of
Jesus’ arrest and trial.
As Lutheran pastor,
Jonathan Davis writes, the disciples “haven’t a clue of what to do…Their
Messiah, the one they’ve waited for to change the world, is leaving and yet
nothing seems to have changed at all…Everything is unraveling. It is
getting messy. Judas has run out on the group, and now Jesus is saying he
will soon be leaving them too…
…But it is at this
point, when everything is falling apart, that Jesus does his farewell
speech. For four chapters, Jesus gives the disciples everything they need
to hold themselves together. And the summary of what he said comes right
at the beginning.
‘I give you a new
commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you
also should love on another. By this everyone will know that you are my
disciples, if you have love for one another.’
This commandment is
Jesus’ departing instruction. He does not offer the disciples – and he does not
offer the church - the top five tips for preaching a good sermon, ten effective
ways to make your congregation grow, or a foolproof system for balancing the
ecclesiastical budget. He tells the
disciples – and us – simply how to keep the magnificent dream alive. Love one another, he says, for in the end,
we are all one.
Walter Russell
Bowie wrote a hymn entitled “O Holy City, Seen of John.” Some of the words go like this:
“Give us, O God,
the strength to build
the city that
hath stood too long a dream,
whose laws are
love, whose crown is servanthood,
and where the
sun that shineth is
God’s grace for
human good.”
“Already in the mind of God that city riseth fair:
Lo, how its splendor challenges
the souls that greatly dare;
Yea, bids us seize the whole of life
and build its glory there.”
Though written as a
prayer, these words really outline a project for our lives. However, it is a project that must embrace
not only the magnificent dream but also the reality of our post-modern world. It must be more authentic
than all of us gathering round, holding hands, and singing “kum ba yah” in
pleasant harmony.
It must begin with first
a recognition and then an affirmation that all – all – are invited to quench
their thirst at the river of life – Christian, Jew, Muslim, gay, straight,
transgendered, rich, poor, middle-class, black, white, Latino. And if we are all going to be at that river
of life together sharing the water, we need to let go of our childish
misconceptions about one another and become a wee bit more theologically mature
in our understanding of each other. For,
in the end, we are all one.
We may not be ready
to embrace these other folks that seem so different from us, but surely we can
seek to understand them. What is it like
to be a Muslim living in the United States right now? What is the Muslim faith anyway? What is it like to grow up in an urban ghetto
where gunfire is a commonplace sound? Why do ordinary people keep guns anyway? What is it like to look into the eyes of your
children and know they are leaving the table hungry? What have we to do with
the tangled roots of poverty that affect those we do not even know?
Until we better
understand one another and the differing worlds in which we live, I am not sure
how we can love one another. After all,
there is something so enduring about the differences between us and the
violence and tragedy that result from those differences. As I said, it is a daunting task that the Christian
church is called to take upon herself in what many would say is a dark and
dismal world.
Richard Lischer, in
his book, Stations of the Heart:
Parting with a Son, offers a heart-rending account of the illness
and death from cancer of his young adult son, Adam. Lischer tells of the homily he preached at his
son’s wedding, saying that his sermon was adequate except for a comment he made
near the end: "Someday, Adam and Jenny, someday you will be old. Still
cute, but old. And at your sixtieth wedding anniversary you will hold hands and
ask, 'How did we get so lucky?' But what you will really mean is, 'How Gracious
God has been to us.'"
Lisher then critiques
his wedding homily: "I think preachers should speak only what they have
been given to say and not one word more. They should not pretend to have a
privileged view of the future. They should hold something back against the
night"
And
so, I am not here to tell you that one day hunger and violence and racism will
cease. I am not here to get all of you
to hold hands and sing “Kum Ba Yah” in pleasant harmony so that – presto! –
world peace will happen in our lifetimes.
I am only here to
tell you that the Risen Christ is among us through the Holy Spirit. I am only here to tell you that God’s promise
is true, that, as Methodist pastor Alyce MacKenzie has written, “The
resurrecting power of God enables us to love one another, even our enemies, and
to affirm that love is stronger than death.”
I am only here to tell you that seeking to understand is the first step
toward loving. I am only here to tell
you that the magnificent dream that the waters of life are for everyone –
everyone who thirsts - is our light in the darkness. I am only here to tell you to take up the cup
of freedom - freedom to love - for, in the end, we are all one.
by Rev. Nancy Foran, Raymond Village Community Church U.C.C., Raymond, Maine
No comments:
Post a Comment