Imagine a Church in this society comprised mostly of good folks, well-intentioned people: but without a clear sense of purpose or mission. While they are to be commended for their “patient endurance” and for acts of charity, they have abandoned their commitment to love boldly in the name of Jesus. Honestly, they are having a hard time loving even each other, not to mention their neighbors and their enemies. They have become complacent, asleep, and lukewarm; unsure about what if anything they can do to make a difference even locally. They feel powerless and trapped.
While there are some exceptions, most Christians in this context are not being persecuted for their faith. In fact the problem is that their conformity to the world around them is so complete that there is very little to distinguish them from their neighbors and therefore little to vilify and persecute. On those occasions when someone does take a stand for what they believe that’s counter to the conventional wisdom, they are more apt to be harassed or ridiculed for failing to conform to social norms and expectations than they are to be persecuted.
The society I’m describing, of course, as you’ve all figured out by now, is the Roman Empire at the turn of the first century. (Any other resemblances to any other time in history are purely coincidental. 😉) It was globally a time of tremendous social upheaval and dramatic changes were unfolding. Under Emperor Domitian, the Roman Empire was a mere shadow of the glory days of the Republic; the old days of the Senate, and the engineering genius of all those acquiducts. Thinkers like Cicero and Virgil were but distant memories of a long ago past.
The Church I’m describing is located in one of the provinces of the empire, Asia Minor (what we would call Turkey today.) We know something of their struggles by reading one of the most difficult books in all the Bible to interpret: the Greek name of which is the Apocalypse or “Revelation.” Specifically, the congregations in Ephesus and Smyrna and Pergamum and Thyatira and Sardis and Philadelphia and Laodicea are described collectively as I’ve mentioned: well-intentioned and patiently enduring tough times but lacking a clear sense of purpose and passion. Their vocation is supposed to be to make disciples but they aren’t doing that.
This Revelation of John is a wake-up call that paints a picture of what genuine fidelity might look like in the context of a dying empire.
Partly because of the political context, and partly because of the genre of literature it is, the Book of Revelation is heavily laden with metaphorical language and symbols, a kind of “code language.” Cracking the code, though, isn’t like translating from Morse code as some have supposed. The challenge isn’t about finding what the number “666” means, or the word “Babylon” means as if those had one-to-one correlations in a distant future. Seeing and hearing this message has more to do with where we stand. I talked last week about improving our vision. John’s Revelation is about getting ourselves into the right place so that we can see what John saw.
In fact, there is much talk in this book about “seeing” and “hearing” and at least in this way it very much echoes the ministry of Jesus. Those who wish to understand it need “eyes to see” and “ears to hear.” What is really required is discernment. I think of that unforgettable scene in “The Dead Poet’s Society” when the teacher played by Robin Williams has his students standing on desks, challenging their perspective and inviting and cajoling them to take notice of the world from another angle.
None other than the great Dietrich Bonhoeffer exhorted the Church in his day to “be communities able to hear the Apocalypse.” He suggested that the way to do that is to stand with those who suffer violence and injustice. The problem is that in spite of Jesus’ ministry to the poor and outcast, the Church throughout its history has been prone to forget that part of the gospel. I’m not talking about acts of charity; but rather of trying to see the world from the downside up.
Visionaries almost always stand on the edges, at the peripheries. Particularly when we risk standing with those who suffer violence and injustice, we begin to see and hear things we would otherwise not be able to see or hear from our normal places of privilege and comfort. I think about Alexander Solzhenitsyn in the gulags of the former Soviet Union. I think about Rosa Parks sitting in the back of all those buses for all those years until finally one day she said “enough is enough.”
The seer who writes the Apocalypse stands in such a place, at the periphery of society on a tiny little island in the Aegean Sea called Patmos, off the coast of Asia Minor. He writes as a Christian who dreams of a Church where Easter faith is practiced on a daily basis, a Church where people dream again, and hope again, and work for justice and peace again. He imagines a Church that knows what it means to take up their crosses and follow Jesus.
He speaks with strange images, images made even stranger in the intervening 2000 years since they were first written down.But what he sees and then describes for his readers in the seventh chapter of this Apocalypse remains fresh even to this day, and I believe it still has power to heal and to transform and to invigorate the Church for mission. If we dare to look, and to listen, we too might be prodded and jarred from complacency.
When John looks he sees a great multitude, which no one could count. That in itself is a word of hope to beleagured congregations in every age, congregations which may feel burned out and worn out and perhaps isolated. Where are the young families? In that “great multitude” of disciples, that no one could count!—there is much to ponder, for it is a reminder that we are not alone, that we are a part of something here and now that is much bigger than we realize.
Moreover they don’t all look the same: they come from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and speak many languages. It is the Lamb at the center that defines who they are, not their nation-states or their flags, not their creeds or denominations, not socio-economic class or skin-color. It is this Lamb who unites this multicultural community into One Body, singing one song: “Salvation belongs to our God and to the Lamb!” It is He who matters—above all else—the One whom these saints worship day and night.
The promise remembered is the promise foretold. And it still has the power to enliven the Church for mission. Juxtaposed with this image where there is no more hunger, no more thirst, no more scorching heat and no more tears are the images of our world: of starving children, of unsafe drinking water, of famine and war. The juxtaposition of these images calls the Church to work toward that latter day not only with acts of charity, but with a commitment to do justice. With our eyes on “this Lamb” (who is also “the good shepherd”) we see One who promises to guide us to springs of the water of life, who “wipes away every tear from our eyes.” We listen for His voice, and we follow where He leads as we are each called by name.
This fourth Sunday of Easter is sometimes called “Good Shepherd Sunday.” That’s the theme for the day:
- this 23rd Psalm which is almost certainly the most widely known of all the psalms even among those who know little else from the Bible—describing a shepherd whom we can rely on;
- this gospel reading from the fourth gospel that reiterates how the sheep hear their shepherd’s voice, calling them by name.
But it’s this strange text from this even stranger Apocalypse that draws me into the meaning of this day more than all the rest and captures my imagination. Maybe it’s preaching in this space with this window of another image from John’s Apocalypse, the Archangel Michael doing battle against Satan, the one who seeks to destroy the creatures of God. It stands as a bold reminder to the Church in every age that no matter how tired or weak or confused we may feel in a world that seems as if it’s gone stark raving mad some days, we must never lose hope.
That hope is always directed to us as persons, to each by name. But it must not be personalized as if it’s all about us. We are part of a much larger whole, part of Christ’s Body through the Sacrament of Holy Baptism. We are the Episcopal branch of the Jesus’ Movement. By keeping our eyes open, and focused on the Good Shepherd—by listening for his voice—by changing our point-of-view—by standing with the most vulnerable on the fringes of society, we have a chance to be the kind of community that is able “to hear the Apocalypse.”
As we see and hear this good news may we become doers of the Word, agents of reconciliation and instruments of peace who share even now in the work of feeding the hungry and wiping away the tears of all who mourn.
Alleluia. Alleluia.
No comments:
Post a Comment