Heaven’s light will be worth the wait that causes us to grope in this present darkness.

Revelation 21:22-22:5

December 6, 2009

Weary

I’m a little weary today.   Generally I try to be a positive, optimistic person.  And if I’m feeling otherwise I try not to bring it into Sunday morning and the pulpit.  But today I’m feeling weary.  Let me share three vignettes to tell you what wearies me.

First, this afternoon at four o’clock I have been invited to offer a devotional at the annual memorial service for the Pregnancy Loss Support Group of Catawba Valley.  It will be an outdoor service in “Baby Land” at Catawba Memorial Park.  This part of the park is dedicated to the memory of babies that have miscarried or were stillborn, or died in infancy.  The Pregnancy Loss Support Group encourages families affected by these losses to connect and encourage each other.

Second, during this past week I have spoken more than once to individuals who have lost loved ones in the recent past.  This season of the year, from Thanksgiving to Christmas, is particularly difficult for them.  All around them are “happy people” – at least on the surface – and they are supposed to feel happy as well.  Not only are they not happy, they are sad.  And they feel like if they say anything, they’re crashing the party of someone else’s holiday cheer.  So they keep it inside.

Third, the program at the monthly meeting of the Hickory Area Ministers Thursday morning was on depression and suicide – particularly among clergy.  We learned that suicide is the eleventh leading cause of death in the United States.  Four males commit suicide for every female.  The rate is higher among young people than the general population; higher among whites than blacks and Hispanics.  Risk factors include depression, financial problems, health issues (especially pain), substance abuse, and sexual identity issues.

So I’m weary today.  But maybe not for the reason you think.  I’m not tired of being a pastor – of hearing and responding to people in need and crisis.  I don’t weary of that any more than a doctor would weary of treating sick people or a teacher of instructing young people.  It’s what I’m called to do, and I find a lot of meaning doing it.

What I’m weary of is darkness. 

Darkness

I’m weary of the darkness of death.  In spite of all our attempts to understand grief and find ways to support those who are grieving, death is still the end point of every single life.  And it hurts.

I’m weary of the darkness of pain.  Not really my own pain, although I am starting to feel some of those aches that I know will get only worse as my body ages.  I am vicariously weary on behalf of those who have to live with debilitating pain and discomfort every day of their lives, with no real hope for improvement.

I’m weary of the darkness of conflict.  I’ve dealt with that multiple times this week as well – interpersonal conflict at home, in the church, on the job.  Again, it’s not that I am tired of helping to mediate conflict – it’s what I’m called to do and people tell me I do a good job.  I’m just tired of the fact that conflict never really goes away.  From interpersonal disagreement to international war, I’m tired of strife and hatred.

I’m weary of the darkness of insecurity.  Friday’s newspaper reported a series of break-ins at homes in northeast Hickory, where I live.  Again, there’s a larger scale as well.  I am increasingly convinced that it’s only a matter of time before a rogue nation or terrorist group gets their hands on a nuclear device and uses it.  Will we never feel completely secure in our homes or our nation?  Probably not. 

I’m weary of the darkness of need.  Why can’t we solve hunger and poverty?  No matter how much we do or give, there is more need.  Jesus even said it this way – “the poor you will always have with you” (John 12:8).  He was so right.

I’m weary of the darkness of sin.  I see its effects up close and personal – impurity of all kinds, deceit that is more frequently accepted as part of life but often more recognized in others than in oneself, and shame that results when we persistently act in self-destructive ways.

I’m weary of the darkness of ignorance.  I don’t mean the kind of ignorance that can be corrected by education – although I’m weary of that as well.  Nor do I mean willful ignorance.  What I’m weary of are the unanswerable questions.  Why does God seem distant?  Why is there pain and suffering in the world?  Why does life have to hurt?  I’m weary of my own finite knowledge.

I’m weary of the darkness of despair.  Although I’m weary of all these things, they really don’t consume my time and energy.  As I said at the beginning, I’m a fairly optimistic, happy person.  But I am weary on behalf of those whose darkness closes in to such a degree that life no longer seems worth living.  They pull back from God, from community, from family, and sometimes, tragically, from life.  They pull the trigger, too often literally, on loved ones, on strangers, and on self because they don’t know how else to escape from their despair. 

I’m weary of the darkness of denial.  Many of you are already weary of my litany of weariness.  “I come to church for good news,” you’re thinking, “and this sermon is already so depressing I’m wondering if anyone will notice if I slip out to go to the bathroom and don’t come back.”  But we live in a culture that increasingly tries to cope with its darkness by denying that it exists or that we feel bad about it.  That’s a Hindu or Buddhist way of dealing with what’s wrong.  The Bible, Old Testament and New, encourages us to face the darkness – to name it and refuse to be undone by it.

The Bible encourages us to look for the light that penetrates darkness.

Heaven

Advent and Christmas are about bringing light into darkness.  Thursday evening and Friday morning Linda and I spent our time preparing our home for Christmas.  A good part of our preparation had to do with lights.  Lights on the Christmas tree, lights in the windows, lights on the porch decorations.  Our decorations are relatively modest, I suppose, but I’m sure we have at least 25 lights or strings of lights plugged into our outlets that were not plugged in Thursday morning.

Why?  Because light is the best and most common symbol of Advent and Christmas. 

Speaking of symbols, the author of Revelation is a symbol-guru.  He writes with so many symbols that many Bible readers who otherwise enjoy reading Scripture simply avoid this part of the Bible.  Visions of horses and bowls and dragons and beasts seem to fall somewhere between unintelligible and ridiculous.

Today’s sermon is not about Revelation as a whole, however.  Since our Advent theme is light, it is appropriate for us to go to the end of the book and see John’s vision of “the city of light,” our eternal home.  We usually call it “heaven,” though John uses the word sparingly.

Pastor Paul remarked to me the other day that Christians seem to assume pastors know the answers to their questions about heaven.  What will our bodies look like?  What will we be doing with all our time for billions of years?  Will we know each other?  And so on.  The Bible certainly gives us some hints about heaven, but it lacks specifics on the afterlife, even for believers.

I’ve come to the conclusion that the reason the Bible doesn’t tell us much about heaven is the same reason that I didn’t take a lot of time to describe the Grand Canyon to that spider that I killed in my house on Friday.  Not only is there a communication barrier, but even if I could speak “spider” there are no categories in a North Carolina spider’s knowledge or experience that would be comparable to the Grand Canyon.

So if you read it carefully, the Bible describes heaven in the following ways –

·         Negatives.  Jesus says there will be no marriage in heaven (Mark 12:25).  He doesn’t say what relationships will be like – only that what we know of as marriage will not exist.

·         Metaphors.  Jesus also said there are many “mansions” (or “rooms”) in heaven (John 14:3).  I don’t think we are to imagine that heaven is like the Biltmore Estate.  This is a metaphor which indicates there is room for everyone who belongs there. 

·         Valuables.  Pearly gates and golden streets (Revelation 21:21) are not designed, in my view, to be taken literally.  The Bible is simply telling us that whatever you consider most precious and valuable here on earth – in heaven it won’t matter because nothing is in short supply.

·         Familiar scenes.  When the Bible describes “the wedding supper of the Lamb” (Revelation 19:19) every reader of the Bible imagines his or her own ideal party.  But the point is simply union and celebration – and whatever that looks like in heaven will far exceed our imagination and expectation.

·         Ideals.  The city is described in Revelation 21 as a cube measuring 12,000 miles in each direction.  The Jewish temple’s Holy of Holies was a cube, so this multiplies that cube with unimaginable proportions.  The result is that we respond, “I can’t imagine a place that perfect.”  Precisely.  You can’t.  You just need to know it’s perfect to the nth degree.

Light overcoming darkness

With that in mind, let’s look at the part of John’s vision of heaven that we read a few moments ago.

What is missing in heaven?  There is no temple (21:22).  There is no sun or moon (v. 23).  The gates are never shut (21:25).  There is no night (21:25; 22:5).  There is nothing impure and there is no one who is shameful or deceitful (21:27). There is no curse (22:3).  There is no artificial light of any kind (22:5).

What are the metaphors, comparing the eternal and unseen to our daily experience?  Jesus is described here, as throughout Revelation, as a “Lamb” (21:23, 27; 22:1, 3).  The Lamb is the lamp of the city (21:23).  He has a book with names written in it (21:27).  There is a river flowing through the middle of it (22:1-2) with trees that bear fruit continually (22:2).  There is a throne for God and the Lamb in the city (22:3).

What is the point of these descriptions?  To give us light at the end of our tunnel. 

In heaven there is no more death or pain.  If you’re weary of losses in this life, you can know that they will end in the presence of God.

There is no more conflict or insecurity.  People no longer hurt each other.  The gates to the city never close.  Why?  Because in the ancient world gates closed, especially at night, to keep out enemies.  There won’t be any.

There is no more need or sin.  People don’t run from God.  They don’t behave in self-serving and self-destructive ways.

There is no more ignorance or despair.  Paul says we will stop seeing as through a translucent glass.  We will know as we are known (1 Corinthians 13:12).  We will understand because we will be able to see the larger picture.

I cannot answer all your questions about heaven.  I can only speak as the Bible does.  I can say what will not be there.  I can offer metaphors.

So, to follow our seasonal theme, there will not be darkness, but neither will there be sun or moon or lamp.  That is to say, there will be no need for any finite fuel source.  Even the sun’s energy, which we call “renewable,” is not indefinitely so.  It will eventually burn up as the Hubble telescope shows us happens to other stars.  So if we depended on the sun for light and heat in heaven, we would eventually lose both.

The light that will be there has its source in the eternal one – the Lord God Almighty and his son, Jesus Christ.  His light will overcome all darkness.

Better than sex

This brings me back to where I started this sermon.  I should tell you that I’m not really feeling “blue” right now.  I am not weary or tired in the sense that I need a hug or a nap or a pick-me-up note of encouragement. 

The weariness to which I refer is the general weariness which we all share.  Sometimes it does burden us more than other times.  But that’s as it should be.  We were not made for this world.  We keep trying to convince ourselves that we were.  We keep trying to make this world just a little better so we’ll be happier here.  But we were not created to put down roots and find contentment here.  As long as we live on this planet, we will experience the weariness of death, pain, conflict, insecurity, need, sin, ignorance, and despair.

What we don’t need to give in to is denial.  It’s there – all that darkness – and we can’t fix it.  We can focus our eyes on the light at the end of the tunnel and cling to the hope that when this life is over, there awaits for all those in the Lamb’s book of life the brightness of an eternal light that cannot be extinguished or overcome.  That’s not denial – it’s hope. 

I want my name in that Lamb’s book of life.  He is the way, the truth, and the life.  By trusting in his life, death, and resurrection, my hope is secure.  He is the light.

But will heaven really be worth the wait, worth the faith and hope that causes us to grope through this present darkness?  How do we know what is waiting for us is better than just throwing caution to the wind and living for the now?

Perhaps my favorite quote about heaven is from C. S. Lewis, who said (I’m paraphrasing) that describing the joys of heaven to humans is like trying to describe sex to a pre-pubescent boy.  The boy might ask, “Can I eat chocolate at the same time?”  It’s impossible to explain to him that there are pleasures that make you forget you want chocolate.

We tend to think of heaven like that.  Well, can I play games with my family?  Will I be able to play golf?  Will there be beautiful flowers to enjoy?  Can I still get pleasure from watching a sunset? 

God’s answer – John’s answer – is something like this:  “My child, when you get to my place, it will be so much better that you’ll forget you ever loved sunsets or golf or even sex.  Amen.