Agents of another reality

Mark 1:14-20 

When a company is under investigation, nobody suggests it’s a great time to invest your money. Who decides to buy an apartment in a building that’s on fire? I’m just saying, cheerfully recruiting new talent when your public spokesperson has just been arrested seems an odd strategy.  

Even though John’s been thrown in jail, Jesus still blows into town saying, I’ve got great news! God’s way is unfolding right now! Change your whole way of seeing things and sign on with me!  At the least, John’s arrest is terrible PR for the movement; at most, shouldn’t it give you pause? And yet, Jesus seems worried not at all. And yet, a bunch of them actually join up.  

The NRSV version makes it sounds like they sign up for a job change – instead of fishing for fish they’re going to fish for people. OK, maybe not entirely the same skill set, but kind of an exciting, lateral move? Risky obviously, given John’s arrest, but a possible upgrade in adventure, at least. Think it over, talk it over with the family, find out the benefits package and maybe give Jesus an answer in a day or two?  But they don’t pause to mull it over, “Immediately” they leave their nets and follow Jesus. 

Being human in the world means with all of our choices and actions we are always asking, What is a good life and how do we live it? And these guys had it answered, at least for the time being. They were fishermen; fisherpeople. They had the skills, the training, the connections and the tools. It’s who they were, it’s how life worked, it’s what they knew, and how they were known in the world, they were fishermen. There was no questioning it, it was the order of things. But with one word from Jesus, and despite the bad news about John, they walk away from everything they know to follow him.

 

When our translation says, “I will make you fish for people,” it captures the true meaning, which is that it is for everyone, humankind, not just men.  But we lose something from the original poetic contrast. Listen: As Jesus passed along the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting a net into the sea--for they were fishermen. And Jesus said to them, "Follow me and I will make you fishers of men.”  

But by changing “fishers” to “fish for” a noun was made into a verb.  

 

In that moment, Jesus isn’t just giving these people a different job, telling them to do something different. He’s not calling them to work for a new cause. He’s not changing their verb; he’s giving them a new identity.  Jesus isn’t calling us to do stuff for him. Jesus is calling us to follow him and then he points us toward other people.

 

Follow me, and I will make you a fisher of persons. He’s starting where they are, in terms they understand, but inviting them into something they can barely grasp, something that doesn’t even exist in their imagination, something only discoverable by following. 

 

Today we so often think our verb is our identity. We mix up who we are with the things we do.  We think the answer to what a good life is comes from our own efforts, or we let the voices around us tell us makes a person successful or right, and we cling vigilantly to those ideas.  We make it ok to despise those with opposing strategies for the same security and fulfillment as we’re chasing.  And we center ourselves and our well-being, because if we don’t who will?

 

These first disciples did not leave their nets to follow Jesus because he offered a better salary and benefits package, or a more exciting opportunity for advancement, or because he inspired them to fight for a cause, or guilted them to work for a change, or gave them a chance to prove how good they are, or promised a sure path to safety.  

I think they followed Jesus because Jesus came embodying a completely different reality altogether. One where the circumstances around you don’t dictate your identity and your security.  Where—even in the midst of frightening developments and unexpected losses—you still somehow trust, and even proclaim, that God’s up to something unstoppable.  Where the authority over your life is bigger than the powers of the age, and fear doesn’t determine what you’re willing to do or say, your connection to God and others does.

 

The time is fulfilled! Jesus declares. There are two words for time in the Greek, Chronos time means hours, minutes and days, and Kairos time, means the right, opportune time.  Jesus says there is no better time.  Eternity is breaking in now. Right now God’s reality is fully here.  God’s way is unfolding around and in and through and despite us, in no time like the present. 

Love that is eternal - unbreakable, unstoppable and neverending - has punctured our limited, ordinary, right now existence. Eternity is invading this chronos time where our bodies wear out, and our jobs disappear, where our capacities ebb and flow, and our friends move away or die, where we’re always facing unknown, and nothing ever stays constant, where we struggle to find our footing, and when we think we’ve figured life out, it’s not long before we have to start figuring it out all over again.  

 

But, as real as all that seems, as real is it all is, as all-encompassing as our verbing along in chronos time feels, none of that is what truly, deeply defines us. That is to say, being fisherpeople-or teachers or pastors or nurses or Democrats or Republicans or colleagues or volunteers--for however long, or however well, we do that, while those things we do are part of us, they are not who we are. 

 

When God-with-us calls us to be fishers of people, we are called to point our lives in love toward the world and its inhabitants because right now, this moment, God is here with us. Right now, we are here, alongside each other in this fleeting time-bound life. 

No matter how much or little we contribute at any given time, how ready or equipped we feel or don’t, right now we are loved, and we can love. We are seen and we can see one another.  

Amidst an ever-changing landscape of upheaval, we are part of something transcendent and called to something permanent. Within our chronos reality we are drawn into Kairos kind of living, the right-now-ness of God’s presence. So we are fishers of people while we teach, or nurse, or parent young children, and when those verbs disappear, we are still fishers of people; our lives still participate in the deeper reality of love. From the moment our hearts are awakened to this calling, to our last living breath and then beyond, with whatever we have to offer, in whatever ways that looks, we are here with and for each other, because we’re following the one who is with and for us.

 

Even though John had just been arrested, the Kingdom of God is near. Even though bad things continue to happen, even though injustice and unfairness persist in our world, suffering is real and people are frequently cruel and more often thoughtless– no amount of darkness can put out the light, nothing can stop where this is heading. 

That morning Jesus came strolling onto their beach joyfully declaring, God’s reality is available right now, right in the midst of what is. Turn in a new direction, and trust in this good news.’  

Follow me, Jesus said to them that day, And I will make you agents of this reality in the world. 

To each of us, he says the same.

 

Amen.

God completely With Us

  

Luke 2:1-20

Would it be utterly tactless to admit on Christmas Eve that I am a teensy bit sick of Christmas? For the past month the soundtrack in our house, and car, and on vacation, and during dinner, has been Christmas classics. And while Bing and Ella and Frank and Mariah and are great, there’s a point when it all turns stale. 

 

And because Christmas classics are playing all the time, we’ve naturally had many conversations picking apart the origins and meaning of everything from the culturally shifting read of “Baby, it’s cold outside,” to the weirdly morbid lyrics of “Frosty the Snowman,” to the sketchy relationship dynamics in “last Christmas I gave you my heart but the very next day you gave it away” to the debatably patronizing misunderstanding in “I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus.”  Interspersed among these empty, sugary treats are the delicious and filling songs we’re singing here tonight, telling a story of mystery and wonder, of love and joy. But it’s all mixed up together, the deep and the stupid, and it’s relentless. 

 

But I am not here to rail against the commercialization of Christmas, which I happily join in every year. Instead, I want to invite us into that story of mystery and wonder by being here in the presence of God and each other.

 

The truth is, I am not really sick of Christmas, so much as I am craving to know the truth of it, to feel the real of it, to be drawn back to the hope of it. I want to peel back the shiny paper and see Christmas for what it is, not a dreamy, cheery, fix-everything event that makes us feel all warm and cozy and ends all strife and strain. 

 

The birth of Christ is untidy and uncomfortable, and at least here, tonight, we need not pretend it’s anything else. The actual Christmas moment is just like the rest of life: it’s awkward and messy, tiring and scary, a little exciting, a little confusing.  

 

And that’s how God wanted it. God wanted to be human, so God came human -  vulnerable, needy, loveable and infuriating – to humans, into the arms of ordinary, conflicted people struggling to do the right thing and wondering even what that is.  

 

God trusted ordinary people to welcome him in and care for him like one of our own. Love came in to be loved. This is the beginning of the story of Jesus Christ, and it’s the new beginning for the whole earth and everyone in it.   

 

God chooses to be with us, as we are, in this life, as it is.  And so this Christmas, like every day, our sadness is as welcome as our happiness, our anger is a gift that points us to truth, and no matter what we do, even when we lose sight of what’s real and bury it in layers of false cheer, even when we hurt others or ourselves, even when we’re drowning in regret, desperate for forgiveness, or numb with fatigue, nothing can separate us from the love of God, who heals what’s sick and mends what’s broken and welcomes home what’s lost.  

 

This little baby Jesus will die, that guaranteed when he draws his first human breath and cries his first tiny tear. God takes all suffering and death into God’s own self. Addiction, estrangement, illness, pain, injustice, cruelty and loneliness, there is nothing God does not bear with us, nothing can be greater than divine love coming in. The cross is there, in the manger. So is the empty tomb, so that, even now as we celebrate his birth, we can say with confidence, No death, no matter how big or small, gets to define who we are, or decide where all this is going. In Christ Jesus, we are forgiven, connected and made whole. You and I, the earth and everything in it, this whole story from beginning to end, belongs to God. 

 

No wonder the angels busted the sky open with joy, and the shepherds’ fervent words caused awe and amazement in all who heard them, and Mary eternally ponders these things in her heart.  

 

God took on flesh and God crept in beside us. Suddenly the ordinary is miraculous. This human living, astonishing. Every breath we take, a gift.  Bodies that grow, and learn, and smell, and taste, and sweat, and break down and need tending, minds that solve complex problems, imaginations that conceive breathtaking art, hearts that discover little ways to make each other laugh, and uncover just what will comfort another, all of it, miraculous. All things God is utterly delighted by. All things God wanted to know from the inside. 

 

Christmas invites us to be present, then.  Not to have answers, or have it all together, or to be cheerful or even introspective. Simply to receive the presence of God, right here, in these ordinary, miraculous lives we’re given, and to receive these lives too, with all our limitations and misdirections and all our mystery and wonder, love and joy, our beloved, holy, ordinary lives as conflicted people struggling to do the right thing and wondering even what that is, called to be here in this gorgeous world God is always making new.

 

And honestly, God loves us so much, I think God probably finds it cute when we make such a big, fancy, obnoxious to-do out of stuff, inevitably mixing up together the deep and the stupid,even so much that we sometimes lose sight of the treasure underneath. No matter, because when this turbo-charged season ends we remain forever inside the story of Christmas, of God-with-us nevertheless, fully, always leading everything eternally toward life and love.  

 

Amen.

Pretending and Returning

 

Luke 13:1-9 We all engage in magical thinking from time to time.  Sometimes it’s relatively harmless – if I wear my team’s jersey on Sunday they will win the game.  Other times it’s a bit more toothy – If  I pray the right way, with the right words, I will be protected from danger.  Sometimes it’s based in measurable data – seatbelts wearers survive more accidents, vegetable-eaters have lower risk of heart attack.  So it throws us somehow when our magical thinking doesn’t pan out. How could he have a heart attack? He was such a healthy eater! How could she have died in a car accident? She was such a faithful seatbelt wearer!     We want simple. Clear cut. But life doesn’t give us that. We want guarantees and we don’t get those either.  Nobody wants to talk about this, but the truth is, mostly we want our simple, clear-cut guarantees because we are terrified of dying.  As we pray at funerals, “We forget that all life comes from you and to you all life returns.”  Boy do we.  So much so that we try whatever we can think of to not die – whether it’s the big D that is coming for all of us, or the little d’s we have nearly every day in the form of humiliations, losses and devastations. We want to transcend our mortality in whatever ways we can - look younger, go faster, do more - because we can’t accept that we get this one teeny life and that’s it.   And then we can’t even let ourselves enjoy this one teeny life we do have because either we suspect that by appreciating it we might jinx it (more magical thinking).  Or because in this one moment we are stuck in we are worried we are missing out on something else, something better.  We are so caught up in trying to earn, or prolong, or maximize, or protect our lives, that we often are not actually in our lives.  This week I was talking with someone about all the millions of great books in the world, and he mentioned that if for 50 years you read a book a week, you would read 2,500 books in your lifetime. That’s it. No more. Even a long, full life is terribly, insultingly limited.   So we pretend. We try to control what we cannot control. And if we can’t control it, maybe we can pray the right way to get God to control it in our favor. We employ our magical thinking, put on our blinders and soldier on.     So then, it is terrible news, terrible, that sometimes bad things just happen. Disasters strike, sickness comes, and appallingly unfair things happen to people all the time. Life is full of suffering. Loss and grief are just a part of the package of being human. This news shouldn’t come as a shock to us, but somehow, every time, it still does.    When people bring up to Jesus a current event, a much-discussed atrocity, this horrible, unthinkable act of murder and desecration that has happened, Jesus skips all the speculation and punches a hole right through their magical thinking. Did those who suffered like this deserve it in some way? Did they, by something they did, or neglected to do, bring this tragedy upon themselves? No! Jesus answers. And then he brings up another recent scenario with mass casualties, and asks, What about those people, did they deserve to die this way? No!    But Jesus doesn’t stop there. He goes on to say, but unless you repent you will die like they did.     Then he tells this story about a fig tree that isn’t producing any fruit. It isn’t showing any signs of life.  Maybe it should just be cut down. “Give it another year,” the gardener says. “Let me put manure around it.” The Greek word Jesus puts in the mouth of the gardener, which is so politely translated as “manure” in our bibles is actually the vulgar word for excrement. In other words, in Jesus’ story the gardener says, “Let it sit in shit for a year and see if it doesn’t start living.”   There is no magic formula for preventing tragedy from happening to us.  Death can come any moment, just like it did for those unfortunate and unsuspecting people, and unless you repent, you will die like they did.      Repentance isn’t about feeling guilty or being judged.  Repentance is being reoriented. Exchanging your way of seeing the world for God’s way. In the Greek it means turning around, changing your mind, going in a different direction.  And the Hebrew core of it actually means to go home. Repentance is returning to our home in God’s love. To repent is to be found.     Lent is a time for repenting. It’s a season for actively, consciously, exchanging our messed up ways of seeing this world, trading in our magical thinking, our existential armor, our pursuit of security and stability, our fear of death and weakness, our endless striving and pushing and fleeing and fighting. Instead we let God draw our hearts and minds and lives back toward our source, to steep us in the love that made us, receive the love that claims us, and respond to the love that pulls us to share deeply in this life with each other.  Our Lent theme is “Cease striving and trust that I am God.’  In other words, Stop doing it your way and surrender to God’s way, aka., Repent.   Just like life’s moments of triumph, contentment and happiness, life’s tragedies are no less filled with the presence of God, no less available to God’s activity, no less moments in which our belonging to God and each other is real and tangible. In fact, they are often more so.  God is not apart from death or suffering. Jesus came into our death and bears our suffering. Nothing can separate us from the love of God. Nothing, nothing, nothing. So we may see, and bear, and not turn away from the terrible injustice or suffering of others, surely not turn them into moral lessons to try to protect ourselves.    Trading our way of seeing for God’s way means that my neighbor’s joy is my joy, and my enemy’s suffering is my suffering. That we are all inseparably bound, responsible for each other, and for the land, sky, air, and water that hold us, and the creatures that inhabit this world alongside us.  And it means trusting that love, eternal and unending, permeates every moment, even the terrible ones.  So we rage at the falling bombs, and grieve at the dying children, and rejoice at the defiant people rescuing, and feeding, and sheltering one another in the midst of it all, and we recognize there the Holy One at work. Always at work. The unwavering force of love, God’s unshakeable purposes for all, cannot be derailed by evil or hindered by death. This world is held in God’s love, infused with God’s justice, moved by God’s heartbeat, drawn into God’s purposes, heading towards God’s peace. And dying is transitioning from the space constrained by time and limitation where we just glimpse this and seek to trust it, to the space beyond time and limitation, where the love and peace of God is all in all. It’s completely returning home.   I don’t want to diss us dear humans for all the magical thinking we engage in.  I think it’s because part of us, deep underneath our conscious knowing, knows that there is more than this. We know we are eternal. We know we are made for fullness of life. More life than this life we are given can contain. But that is the dilemma of being human, isn’t it? We sense this deeper thing, this possibility, and yet we cannot attain it. No matter what we do, we can’t get there on our own. Because it’s not about us and what we do or don’t do, believe or don’t believe.  All of life, every breath, is a gift. Life is an ongoing, never-stopping gift that God is continuously giving, right now, even.  This breath is a gift.. And this one… And this one...  All of life is holy, infused with the very presence of  God.  God is just giving Godself away, every moment, in us, through us, calling us back to Godself, drawing us back into love that outlasts death. Return to me. Repent. Let go of your striving and trust me.    And maybe the way we get there is just by being willing to sit in the shit.  Maybe it’s only when we accept this mess of a life and choose to inhabit it deeply - embracing our own mortality, admitting our own nothingness without God - that the fullness we were made for, life so abundant as to grow fruit in us, and feed others through us, can flourish.  Maybe we just have to be where we already are - deathbound and knee deep in dung – and accept that no magical thinking can protect us, no right beliefs can buffer us, we’re just exposed and wide open, where the sun, and the rain, the elements and experiences can permeate us.  And within the limits of our teeny fragile life, the infinite love of God, the origin and destination of our eternal being, will bring forth in us that which we can’t produce ourselves. And we will be fully alive.   Amen.

God's Forever Home - and Ours

"Heaven"

(Psalm 148)

Revelation 21:1-6

“If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.”  Paul said (1 Cor. 15:19).  As people of a resurrected Lord, we claim that death does not have the last word, that there is more than we can see, and that death is not the end that it appears to be.  But what does that mean?  What is our hope?

Standing in a long line, our feet hidden by fluffy clouds, outside of a gate made of actual pearls that reaches high beyond the scope of our vision, we approach the oldest looking man we have ever seen.

 Long white beard down to his belly, white robe tied with a golden rope, huge feather pen in his hand.  He is leaning over an enormous volume, on a podium in front of him, and as each one approaches, he fans through the tabbed pages in search of their name.  If he finds it, the gates slowly open, and the person walks into a shining light.  If he doesn’t, he points his arm, and the person is dropped out of the bottom of the clouds like a trap door, to eternal torture.

Once generously inside, we find that the very pavement beneath our feet is solid gold bricks, in a crosshatch pattern.  There are mansions everywhere, in neat rows along the street, everything is bright, in some hue of either yellow or white.  Angels flit around adorned with floating halos and holding harps, and there in front of us, is our name on the mailbox of the house of our dreams.

Is it something like that?  Of course not! we shake our heads and smile.  But, if not quite this cartoonish, I’ve heard lots of similar versions of heaven, or the end, that is too not far from this either.  And so often our messages about what comes after this life are so wildly disconnected from this life as not even to feel hopeful, and also, to be honest, not entirely appealing either.

One afternoon when I was fifteen years old, I was sitting in my living room, looking out at a beautiful rainstorm.  The grass was bright electric green, and wrapped in the sheltering steel gray sky, everything else in the neighborhood seemed put away and quiet, and I was surrounded by the consistent loud drumming of the drops on the roofs of houses.

The phone rang, and it was a friend of mine, (a moody broody friend of mine).  With some measure of desperation in her voice, she asked me if I thought there would be rain in heaven.

We reflected on all the things we had heard about heaven, and it seemed quite unlikely.  But in the middle of that particular spring rain, something didn’t seem right about that at all.

Praise the Lord from the earth,  

you sea monsters and all deeps,


fire and hail, snow and frost,


stormy wind fulfilling God’s command! 


Mountains and all hills,  

fruit trees and all cedars! 


Wild animals and all cattle,


creeping things and flying birds!      
(Psalm 148)

In this season of resurrection, we’ve sought to look for the living One among us, to see where God is at work in the world and in our very lives. To notice that which we fail so often to recognize because it is comes in love and laughter and redeeming joy and true connection and kindness and justice and other ordinary everyday miracles. 

We’ve heard people’s stories of resurrection – like Peter, who is redeemed in the welcome and the sending, the come and have breakfast, and the feed my sheep.  Like Mary, who hears her savior speak her name, and Thomas, whose doubts are put to rest in the invitation to reach out and touch, and trust.  We’ve heard stories of resurrection in Joyce’s family relationships, and in Amy’s neighborhood barbeque, and in Callie’s surprise calling to help children get ready for their forever homes.

But what is the world’s story of resurrection? 

What about the earth and her creatures and the whole harmony of life?

What does God have in store for the big picture, for this whole world that God created and loves?

There is so much wrong in the world. And it’s before our eyes every moment, so much so that to make it through a day takes a certain amount of numbness or denial, or it would crush us.

More than 800 million people on earth are hungry every day.

One in four women on the face of the earth has been raped.

48 million people in the United States are living below the poverty line.

Every year more than a million people die of AIDS in Africa alone.

We live on land that was settled by displacing its inhabitants and herding them into reservations.

We live in a country built on the exploitation of African slaves.

We live in a church that killed and coerced people into believing its truth.

We consume natural resources leaving nothing for future generations.

Parents beat their children who grow up and beat their children.

We reflect the values of the culture we are raised in, innocent children spat on Jews, innocent children repeat the hateful words of their parents, innocent children grow up to shoot others in their schools, workplaces, or homes.

We perpetuate evil, we breed it and nourish it even while we fight it and attempt to escape it.

We wound with our words.

We enter into relationships, knowing that therein lies an encounter with God, but all relationships are polluted with pain, and we hurt the ones we love.

Marriages fall apart, loved ones die of cancer, tragedy comes in seemingly infinite ways.

There is so much pain. There is so much injustice.  There is so much fear.

But there is rain.

And even in tears, there is something comforting, something that tells us we are alive.  And this is what my friend was getting at, I think.

Right now, in the world as we know it, these things are so entwined: beautiful music is composed by madness, breathtaking art is created in anguish, and in the most horrendous of circumstances, real connection is often found. 

My friend on the phone had decided that she would rather not go to “heaven,” if in its sanitized perfection it left out those things.  If there was no rain.  And I was almost inclined to agree with her.

But if we’ve seen anything in the character of God, we’ve seen again and again, in God’s deep adoration and commitment, and God’s relentless self-definition as the One who is with us and for us, that it is utterly incongruent for God to give up on this world, or any of us in it.  Ever. This is God’s Story; this whole big wonderful and broken world belongs to God.  Nobody loves all of this like God does. And God will never abandon it.  God will never abandon any of us.

The end of things is not a trade off.  It is not an escape for humans to a happy place in the sky, a departure from here, never to return.

And it isn’t God giving up on this cosmic failed project, wiping the slate clean and starting fresh.

The end of things is a new beginning for all things.  It is Resurrection writ large.  God says, “See! I am making all things new!” You me, this tired earth and its broken creatures and all creation, made new.

And like the Creator who walked the garden in the cool of the evening and the Word that became flesh and dwelt among us, God will come, and then God’s forever home will be here, where God’s heart is.  With God’s people, in God’s creation.  And when God does, “Death will be no more, mourning and crying and pain will be no more.”

The passage goes on from here to list all the things that will not be part of this new beginning – the things that will forever be destroyed as in a “lake of fire” – all that injures, damages, erodes, breaks down and harms life and relationship with God and each other will forever be purged from the earth. 

And it will be Life: as it should be.  It will be both the righting of all wrong, and deep, unparalleled intimacy between God and humanity, God and creation, each of us and all of us, belonging to each other as we are meant to, all life in harmony.

And all living creatures “ will join us in cacophonous singing.” (1) And along with Mary and Peter and you and me, “and all witnesses of the resurrection, with the earth and sea all their creatures, we will praise our Creator and join the unending hymn.” (2) 

At the end of the Narnia books (3) is another picture of the end – a little different than the mansions in the sky on golden streets motif.  It is described this way:

“The New Narnia was a deeper country: every rock and flower and blade of grass looked as if it meant more.  I can’t describe it any better than that: if you ever get there you will know what I mean.  It was the Unicorn who summed up what everyone was feeling.  He stamped his right forehoof on the ground and neighed, and then cried: “I have come home at last! This is my real country! I belong here.  This is the land I have been looking for all my life, thought I never knew it till now.  The reason why we loved the old Narnia is that it sometimes looked a little like this.  Bree-hee-hee! Come further up, come further in!”

He shook his mane and sprang forward into a great gallop – a Unicorn’s gallop, which, in our world, would have carried him out of sight in a few moments. But now a most strange thing happened. Everyone else began to run, and they found, to their astonishment, that they could keep up with him: not only the Dogs, and the humans, but even fat little Puzzle [the donkey] and short-legged Poggin the Dwarf.  The air flew in their faces as if they were driving fast in a car without a windscreen.  The country flew past as if they were seeing it from the windows of an express train. Faster and faster they raced, but no one got hot or tired or out of breath at all.”

That day when I was 15, I wish someone had been there to answer my friend and me in our teenage wonderings about heaven.  I wish someone had been there to say heaven is the new beginning, the resurrection of all, and one day all living things and all those gone before will be redeemed. I wish someone had said to us:

In heaven, there will be rain, but no flooding.

In heaven there will be sunshine, but no parched desert.

In heaven everyone will have what they need, without taking from others, or killing to eat.

In heaven the least will not be trampled on, they will be first.

In heaven the weak will be strong, and the silenced will have a voice. 

In heaven there will be no disease, no injustice, no betrayal.

The earth will be free from abuse, and people will know no pain, sorrow, or death.  In heaven, our Creator will finally come home to earth, and dance with us in the rain.

 And what we experience now as beauty, joy, release, justice, and peace, are momentary and passing views of the real life that awaits us right here, just further up and further in, which will never diminish or disappear. 

This is the hope embodied by you and me, the resurrection people of the living Lord. 

*     *     *     *     *      *

But you know this already.  You already are witnesses.  So listen now, Listen, as this community that lives this hope, tells of this resurrection promise.  (This was followed by an audio recording of people in from our community, answering the question, What is Heaven to you? They answered things like:

Fellowship of all of us after this life, togetherness, peace. 

A feeling of warmth, acceptance and unconditional love.

Family get together.  Nothing to be afraid of.  A reunion.  Welcome.

Love, peace, beauty, serenity, community.

Closeness with God, with everything and everybody, loving, sharing, helping, affirm our connection

Being in God’s loving embrace.

Peace on earth. No violence.

Everything close to God.  Experience being with God.

Paradise.  Being with those I love and have missed.  All my questions answered.

 ___________

(1) quote from Revelation scholar Barbara Rossing

(2) from the Lutheran Easter Eucharistic prayer

(3) The Last Battle, C.S. Lewis