Sermon preached by Rev. Brittany Paschall on Sunday, July 6, 2025
Beloved, it is an honor to be with you here at Divine Street Christian Church, a place that has long been a Jordan stream of justice and love and mercy. I take a moment of personal privilege to acknowledge the invitation extended by your beloved Reverend Margie, who has been a longtime friend and has long been on the battlefield for justice and peace—a co-laborer in the world that we long to see come.
I greet you first in the spirit of the God who animates our very breath and being through the liberating love of our savior Jesus the Christ, carried by the Spirit. I acknowledge my ancestors as I step into this sermonic moment—many who are now across the Jordan witnessing to me. I speak the names of my grandparents: The Reverend Dr. Julia A. Pascal, Elder Samuel Aken Tolbert, Sarah Elizabeth Jamaima Red Tolbert, Doris Jean Pascal. I offer gratitude for the beloveds who have joined me here today—most especially my mama and my daddy.
And now we move to the preaching moment. Think with me about the topic: Witnessing at the End of the World.
Let us pray.
Holy One, I am your woman and this is your word. I, like the first woman to carry your gospel, meet you in awe and terror. And while I want to cling, you send me forward to preach your word. Help me. This I pray.
And now, may the meditations of my heart and the words of my mouth be pleasing and acceptable in your sight. God, you are my strength and my redeemer. Amen.
I must admit, beloved, that I am moved by each of the lectionary texts this week. I began this sermon in the aftermath of a week filled with news of war, and I finished it nestled in the woods of unceded Cherokee, Shawnee, and Choctaw land, where I had the privilege to steward sacred space and retreat over the last several days.
In many ways, the last few days and years of my own life have been devoted to receiving and calling in my own healing and that of others—reorienting myself to a God that indeed nurses me, bearing and sharing the burdens of beloved community, and attempting to witness to a world when the world, and sometimes my world, falls before my eyes.
And while each of the texts—from the histogram of the healing of Naaman in 2 Kings to the imagery of God as a nursing mother, all the way to the call of Galatians to bear each other’s burdens—each call us into wholeness. Each reminds us of it. Even our Gospel text this morning calls us to witness.
And this call to witness, it stirs questions in me. Honest questions. Deep questions.
Is it that our miraculous healings, even in the midst of our own resistance, call us to witness? Must we now, like Naaman, testify to what God did for us in the water? Is it that a mothering God nurses and nourishes us in part for the purpose of becoming those who nourish and nurture a broken world with the holy substance and sustenance of liberation, peace, and justice?
Are our personal experiences of a God who has a womb not enough to give us the insight to make our own muscles strong enough to birth and sustain movements? Is my neighbor’s and my sisters’ and siblings’ bearing of my burdens as much a comfort as it is a call?
Beloved, I do believe so. Beloved, I concur that it is time that we witness at the end of the world.
Our text today not only commissions but models what witnessing at the end of the world will require of us. We arrive here at today's text by way of Jesus’s commissioning of some seventy—or seventy-two, according to some ancient manuscripts—disciples. Jesus gives them clear instructions, advising them to travel light, offer peace, stay where offered sanctuary, and heal the sick. He also advises them to move on from places where they are not welcome, shaking the dust off—which is for another sermon.
They are told that they are not simply impersonating Jesus, but that whoever listens to them hears him.
At face value, the text this morning appears to be a beautiful commissioning, counseling, and comforting of those who follow after Jesus—which it is. But just as we contextualize the what and the how of the text, the where and under what circumstances it takes place begs to be glanced at.
It is important to note that when I speak of worlds ending, it is as much rooted in my ability and necessity to imagine a new world as it is to name that many of the worlds we are subjected to and subjugated in are not sustainable. Jesus sends those commissioned into worlds that need to end. He sends them into a world that is trembling under empire—a world of occupied lands, spiritual unrest, and social division.
It is a place where power is violent, hospitality is uncertain, and truth is often met with rejection. The harvest is plentiful, yes—but the wolves are real also, and the work is dangerous. A world not unlike our world today in many ways.
This is to say that the disciples are sent out into a world that is at least on fire, if not ending and beginning again, dependent upon their witness.
Witnessing at the end of the world requires embodied joy, vision for the unseen spiritual battle, courageous engagement with the serpents of evil, and rootedness in the eternal kingdom, where our names are written and we are held.
When we look to embody joy, we look to Luke the 10th chapter and the 17th verse: “The seventy returned with joy, saying, ‘Lord, in your name even the demons submit to us.’” The seventy-two returned with joy after mission and risk.
In January of 2019, I was sitting in The Well coffeehouse with a friend. I was writing communications for a campaign we were running for the final push for the clemency of Cyntoia Brown Long. We had joined a years-long fight—one that spanned faith communities and crossed party lines. A fight carried by organizers and survivors and lawyers and elders and artists and a few clergy that wanted to be on the right side—but, more importantly, by everyday people.
We were deep in this final push, unsure of what the outcome would be, but grounded in our commitment to justice. In the middle of drafting this press release, this update, I got a text from a comrade—now a state legislator—that simply read, “Congratulations.” I was confused at first. “Congratulations for what? We had not won.” It still looked bleak. I was unsure what she meant.
She had received the word before we had. Clemency had been granted.
I opened my browser, searched for confirmation. I needed to see it on three reliable news sources. And when I saw it with my own eyes, I stood up from that table and took a lap around the coffee shop.
That was embodied joy.
Embodied joy is not just the lap I took. It is the stillness in the in-between. It is the quiet warmth of a hot tea in your hand when you don't know if the thing that you are fighting for will ever come to pass. It is the weariness of my body and the fire that still lives underneath.
Embodied joy, beloved, is what happens when the mission takes root in you.
And so I understand in my own small way what it must have felt like when the seventy returned to Jesus. They were not just reporting their success. They were testifying to the joy that lived in them because they had gone, because they had trusted, because they had shown up to witness.
Anyway, joy in this text is not a reward. It is not a sign of comfort or ease. It is a sign that the witness is alive. Joy is what the body does when it has risked itself for something holy.
The first thing witnessing at the end of the world requires is not power, beloved. It is not strategy, and most certainly is not certainty—but joy. Joy that breathes, joy that testifies, joy that takes up space in your own body.
And now what else does witnessing at the end of the world require?
Witnessing at the end of the world requires vision for the fall. The text says in Luke 10:18, “I watched Satan fall from heaven like a flash of lightning.” Jesus reminds the seventy that there is spiritual battle unfolding beyond what most can see.
The fall of Satan is a cosmic event. The fall of empire is a cosmic event—a sign that the powers of evil are already defeated even as they rage in the world.
You see, this unseen battle is happening alongside the visible struggles—the wars, the injustice, the division, and the oppression that we understand in our natural being. In my own life, I have required this vision of the fall. It is a vision that has helped me hold hope amid chaos. During times of global unrest and personal crisis, I remind myself that what we see—the broken systems, the pain—is not the final word.
As I wait for my roommates to come home from occupations and protest, as I wait to know if my classmates’ loved ones made it through the night in a war-torn country, there is a spiritual reality at work—one that invites us into participation in the healing and renewal. And if we have this vision, it gives us the courage to walk into the world, to witness in the world’s chaos without despair, knowing that God’s justice is breaking through even when the news is overwhelming.
Beloved, will you open your eyes to the unseen battle? Will you trust that God is at work beyond what you can see? Will you carry the vision for the fall of empire so that your feet remain steady and your hearts hopeful?
Beloved, you must not only carry this vision, but you must take on the serpents. Luke 10:19 says, “Indeed, I have given you the authority to tread on snakes and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy, and nothing will hurt you.”
You see, beloved, this is not a gentle invitation. Jesus tells the seventy—and us—that there are real dangers out there and in here. Snakes and scorpions, symbols of evil and threat, particularly in Western theology, will cross our path. We are not called to avoid them or to pretend that they do not exist. We are called to walk through their territory with authority.
But the serpents—the serpents that Jesus names—are not only outside of us. They live inside of us, too. In our shadows, in our shame, and in our fears, the serpents, the scorpions live. In the parts of ourselves that systems have taught us to silence or shrink. The voice inside that says, “You are too much. You don’t belong.”
In my recent work teaching about nonviolent movements and spirituality, I have been moved by leaders like Pauli Murray, James Lawson, Grace Lee Boggs, and the Reverend Dr. Prathia Hall, who had a dream before King did—and how they have exemplified this very truth. They tread on serpents of empire, racism, and violence while wrestling with their own internal battles.
This was not easy. It is not easy. It required courage—spiritual courage—and steadfast faith. James Lawson, one of the great architects of nonviolent resistance, reminds us that the ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands—where they stand, where she stands—in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he, she, they stand at the times of challenge and controversy.
To witness at the end of the world is to stand exactly in those times of challenge—when the serpents hiss close and when the shadows tempt to silence us.
Jesus gives us authority not to dominate but to survive, resist, and thrive with courage grounded in truth and love. Our witness demands that we do this—firm enough to confront injustice and inner shadows, gentle enough to heal ourselves and others in the process.
Beloved, what serpents are in your path? What shadows whisper that you’re not enough? Jesus calls us to walk through with authority, with courage, and with Spirit as our guide. This is the witness we are called to embody.
After all the joy, however, all the battle with serpents, and all the visions of spiritual shifts, Jesus grounds the seventy—and us—in a profound truth. Luke 10:20 says, “Nevertheless, do not rejoice that the spirits submit to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven.”
Our ultimate joy and deepest security do not come from power, success, or even the victory over the serpents. It comes from being known and held by God, from our names being written in heaven.
This, beloved, is the foundation for a courageous witnessing at the end of the world. It is rootedness in a kingdom that transcends empires and even the storms that rage in our bodies and souls. It is a grounding in divine love that holds us steady when all else shakes.
For me, it is this rootedness that keeps me going—especially when the world feels and is overwhelming, and my own body weary. It is the quiet certainty that I am held, named, and beloved beyond all circumstances.
Maybe for you it is a prayer practice that centers you. Maybe it is the memory of ancestors who carried this witness before you. “I’ll be a witness for my Jesus,” they said. Maybe it’s the vision of healing and justice that reminds you of what kingdom looks like—or the eight-year-old that slept on my shoulder as I wrote parts of this sermon.
Beloved, we witness at the end of the world—the world as we have known it—trembling and breaking. We witness in the shadow of wars—the war in Ukraine, the endless conflicts in the Middle East, the struggle for survival in Syria, where bombs fall and families flee.
We witness in the floods and fires—Texas waters rising, LA being on fire, just like Octavia told us it would be. Homes swallowed by hurricanes, forests burning across continents, climate crises unrelenting.
We witness in the fight for rights—the fierce battles over bodily autonomy, the ongoing struggle for Black and Indigenous and queer liberation, the protest against systemic racism and state violence.
We witness as the old empires fall and the old money resists. We witness—sometimes suddenly, sometimes in slow motion—and a new world struggles to be born.
In this trembling, and in this breaking, in this fear, and in this hope—we are called to witness.
We witness at the end of the world because of our embodied joy.
We witness at the end of the world because our vision is clear.
We witness at the end of the world because we can take on serpents.
And we witness at the end of the world because of the Kingdom—
The Kingdom that will come when this, and as, and while this world ends.
The world is ending, beloved.
The world is ending, beloved.
The world is ending, beloved.
And the Kingdom is coming.
The Kingdom of God is coming.
The Kingdom of God is near.
The Kingdom of God is here.
Will you be a witness?
Will you be a witness?
Will you be a witness?
Will you stand, and sit, and tread over the serpents?
We will live into the hope that naming our names in heaven promises.
The answer is yes.
Because the Spirit goes before us.
Because we have been given authority.
Because joy is ours to embody.
Because love never lets us go.
And because, beloved, mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.
May it be so.
Amen.