Revelation 21:1-6a (Isaiah 25:6-9)
October 31, 2021
When Brent and I were first courting
one another, we did what other new couples do –we told each other our stories,
we shared our likes and dislikes, and we talked about the books and movies and
television that we liked. One of Brent’s favorite movies, he told me, was The
Godfather. He told me about its cinematic lushness, the sweep of the
storyline, and the powerful way that it told of a man’s descent into the
corruption and violence of his family’s “business.”
Now, The Godfather is a
culturally iconic movie. It is referenced in more movies, television shows,
probably even commercials than I can count. However, it premiered in theatres
when I was about 8, so for some reason my parents decided that I should not see
it. But because it is so iconic, I knew about some of the more infamous scenes
in the movie. And because I know about those scenes, I chose, even as an adult,
not to see it because I don’t do so well with really violent or gory movies – a
downside for someone born eight days before Halloween.
But I told Brent that I would watch
it with him as long as he warned me about the more difficult scenes so that I
could look away or cover my eyes, as in “the horse’s head is next.” He promised
he would, and he did. And he was right, The Godfather is an amazing
movie. I’ve watched it twice now, and the second time around I knew when to
look away on my own.
Yet it’s not just in movies that I
need and want to be warned about what’s coming. I do that when I’m reading a
mystery as well. If it starts getting intense, I take a quick peek at the last
pages. It’s not that I want details about what happens, I just want to know who
will be left standing. Some people think that having spoilers like this is
terrible, but not me. I don’t mind a few spoilers if it helps me get through
the tough parts of a story.
One commentator on
WorkingPreacher.org wrote that these verses from Revelation should be labeled
with “Warning: Spoiler Alert.” Because coming at almost the end of this difficult,
deeply metaphorical, and often quite confusing book, suddenly John says that at
the end of what we think of as everything, there will be a new heaven and a new
earth. The first have passed away. And there will be a new Jerusalem, coming
down out of heaven from God. And this new Jerusalem will be God’s home, and God
will be dwelling with mortals. He will be their God. They will be his people.
“And God himself will be with them;
he will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and
crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.”
This new Jerusalem, this new heaven
and this new earth, will be home to both God and humanity. And all the sorrow
and suffering that are the hallmarks of human life will be no more. There will
be no more tears because God will wipe every tear away from every eye.
As the commentator pointed out, this
is the end of our Christian story attested to in scripture. The end times,
whenever they arrive, however they arrive, and no matter how John has described
them through metaphor, are unknowable. We don’t know what will happen in the
future, no matter how closely we might try to predict it, but we do know that
at the last God will be with us and we will be with God. And because of this
there will be no more sorrow, no more suffering, no more tears.
John was writing to a community of
people who were suffering. John was writing to people who were being persecuted
for their faith and their refusal to denounce their belief. John was writing to
a community who needed words of hope and reassurance about the future even as
they sought to endure the troubles of the day. This was true for the prophets
of the Old Testament as well. They were speaking the word of God to people who
were in exile, to people who had lost everything, their homes and their
homeland, their history, their hope. These powerful and beautiful words from
the prophet Isaiah come in the midst of words about destruction and
devastation. They too were spoken to people who were suffering.
Yet
one day, Isaiah reassures them, all the peoples of God will gather on the
mountain of the Lord, a holy mountain, and they will gather at a table that
welcomes all, and at that table they will eat a feast beyond any feast so rich
and satisfying that their hungry bellies and their hungry hearts could imagine.
And at this feast and on this
mountain, the shroud of death that hovers over all of them will be destroyed.
The sheet of death that is cast upon all nations will be destroyed forever, and
God will swallow up death even as the people swallow the food that is set
before them. And just as it is promised in Revelation, God will wipe away every
tear from every face. Suffering and sorrow and death will be no more. There
will be no more tears.
These two passages from Isaiah and
from Revelation are words that I most often speak at funerals, at those times
when we gather as a community of believers, a family of the faithful, to
witness to the resurrection. These words are spoken in those times when we
gather to renew our hope even in the face of death. And that was their original
intent as well: to give hope, solace, and comfort to those who were living in
the constant shadow of death.
And
what do we long for most when the shroud of death feels as though it is closing
in on us, what do we hope for when we face the rest of our lives without
someone we love, what do we yearn for when comfort and peace seem to be nothing
more than distant dreams or memories from a life that is long gone? We long for
a time when there will be no more tears.
Both
passages promise just that: a time when there will be no more tears, when God
himself will wipe them away. How intensely comforting that must have been to
those people who were suffering, who were afraid, who were overwhelmed with
grief and sorrow? And how deeply consoling are they to us as well.
It
seems to me that reading, hearing, and speaking these ancient words of promise and
comfort is profoundly moving on this day when we remember our saints. All
Saints Day gives us the opportunity to remember the saints of the Church
Universal, those saints, prophets, priests, martyrs, teachers, and healers, who
kept the faith even when it seemed that all hope was lost. And on this day, we
remember our own saints as well, the people who in their living and in their
dying taught us what it means to be faithful, to be hopeful. We especially
remember our own saints because it is on their shoulders we stand. So, we lift
up both in our hearts and in picture and writing the names of fathers and
mothers, sisters and brothers, husbands and wives, family and friends, who made
our own faith possible.
We
remember them, looking back on the past when they were still in our lives, and
through them we also look to the future, because they have crossed into that
place where there are no more tears. Their baptisms have been made complete,
and their hope in God is fulfilled. Because of our saints we remember with love
and thanksgiving the past and we look forward to our own futures when our tears
will also be wiped away. In these days when death is all around, when the world
that we knew has been fundamentally changed, and so much of the future is
unknown, how wonderful it is to give thanks for the lives of our saints who not
only know the end of the story but are living in its fullness as well.
Our
saints point us toward this future. Many years ago, I read a story about a
young pianist who was incredibly gifted but struggling with the increasing
difficulty of the music he was playing. His teacher, understanding his
frustration and discouragement, leaned over and gave him a light kiss on the
top of his head. That, he explained to the young student, is Beethoven’s kiss. When
the teacher was a young and frustrated student, his teacher had given him the
same kiss. And that teacher’s teacher had done the same thing. And that kiss
had come from Beethoven. It was a kiss that was passed down from one generation
to the next. That kiss helped each student work through the struggles they were
having. That kiss inspired them, influenced them, pushed them forward.
Maybe
this story isn’t true. Maybe it was a legend that each successive generation
chose to believe, but true or not, I have also chosen to believe it. Not only
because I think it is a cool story, but because I believe that hope can be
passed from one generation to the next. I did not know my great-grandparents or
my great-great grandparents, but their love and faith and hope was passed down
from parent to child and so on to me and from me to my own children. And I
carry that hope from the past into the future, into a story that is both
waiting to be written and also has a glorious ending.
On
this day, on this celebration of All Saints, we give thanks for what has been
passed down to us, and we give thanks for the future which is in God’s hands.
We give thanks that for our saints sorrow and sighing and sadness are no more.
Their tears are all wiped dry, and one day ours will be too. Thanks be to God.
Let
all of God’s children say, “Alleluia!”
Amen.
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