Margie Quinn
I think I have told this story before, but hopefully you forget what Thomas and I say at some point so that you hear it with new ears when we repeat ourselves. It's a story that I think bears repeating, especially as I think about this text in the book of Revelation.
When my sister-in-law, Tallu, was in her last few months of life and her community felt helpless in the midst of her gradual fading—of which we could do nothing to stop—a friend of hers had this idea to initiate a kind of community practice. Every evening at 7:30 p.m., everyone who was thinking of Tallu and thinking of her family would light a candle to honor her and to hold her in light.
What began as this nightly ritual in a southern city branched out to places all over the world. In the first few days, it was just those of us in Nashville who took part. Then, it expanded to places everywhere—friends of friends, distant cousins, and even strangers who saw this on social media or heard by word of mouth joined in this communal practice of lament and presence, lighting their candles too.
I received pictures from balconies in California, porches in Georgia and cathedrals in Rome. After a particularly hard visit in what would be her last month alive, I drove home in tears and stepped out of my car to see a candle on my doorstep. The flame was small but bright. Whoever had put it there had shown up—not to fix the suffering or erase the pain or excuse it away—but to be with me in it.
The next night, the same thing happened, with a different candle. The night after that, another candle. This went on for weeks—over 20 days of someone showing up at my doorstep with a candle from Target or Thistle Farms or Paddywax or the Dollar Tree. Some candles had a note, and some didn’t. Some of the candles smelled amazing, some…not so much. Regardless of the scent, the gesture stays with me.
I came to find out that a friend had put together a document and asked people in my life to bring me light. Despite the endless tears during that season of grief, I felt the presence of God with me through the light of my friends. I felt a witness to the gospel that I've started to think of as a withness from God's people.
In the book of Revelation, John—who has been exiled to the island of Patmos—shares a vision of this withness, too. He begins this vision by describing a new heaven and a new earth. For those of you who've read the Left Behind series, you may recall this passage as one of destruction and desolation, in which the Lord hoists up people who are morally pious enough to make it to this unreachable and distant kingdom of heaven.
“I saw a new heaven and a new earth,” John writes, “for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away.” This may feel like scary stuff. But, the verb John uses here when he says “the old heaven and earth had ‘passed away’”—doesn't mean “destruction.” It doesn't mean “death.” It’s the verb for departure, for going away. Aperchomai. Heaven and earth haven’t gone up in flames. The old heaven and earth have simply departed to leave room for something new.
John reveals this vision of what’s to come: a holy city. Isn’t that a wonderful image? A holy city that’s not out there, but comes down to meet us, right here.
“And a loud voice”—I love that it doesn’t just say a voice, it says a loud voice, like we really need to hear this part; “a loud voice that says: ‘The home of God is with mortals. God will dwell with them. God will be with them.’”
The word “with” is repeated three times to really make us hear the point.
Pastor Sara Miles says that the most important word in the Bible is not faith or love or hope or even grace. She says the most important word in the Bible is with. She writes, “God sticks with us, plays with us, suffers with us, and abides with us. And consequently, our work in the world must be with God, who came down to us in the form of Jesus.”
Remember what Jesus was called? Emmanuel. God with us. The person of Jesus was not above, not holier than us, but with the poor and forgotten, with the sick and lonely, with the young and old, with the prideful and ashamed. With baby Elliston as he is dedicated today and with our high school graduate, Dair, as she embarks on a new chapter soon. With Thomas and Nancy as they begin their new chapter, too. And with Vine Street as we look toward something new.
Emmanuel. Not somewhere out there—somewhere right here. Present and among us.
Jesus says this at the end of the Gospel of Matthew—do you remember? “I will be with you always, to the end of the age.” The end of the age. That’s a long time.
So, I keep thinking about this—that my witness needs to be a with-ness. Because that’s what God offers us in this passage as God ushers in a new heaven and a new earth.
The poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning writes, “Earth is crammed with heaven.” I love this so much. Earth is crammed with heaven. Which is something kind of hard to believe right now in the midst of what feels like these apocalyptic times—that God could be doing a new thing and cramming our broken world with wholeness.
I witnessed this cramming earlier this week as I stood with other faith leaders—rabbis and Presbyterians, Catholics and Methodists and conservative Christians—to oppose the imminent execution of Oscar Smith, who is sentenced to die this Thursday, one of five executions scheduled this year.
I was able to speak on behalf of our denomination, which has opposed the death penalty since 1957, something that makes me very proud to be a Disciple of Christ.
A man who was one of my congregants at Westminster got up. His name is Rudy. He used to be a sports director, and now he’s retired. I haven’t ever been retired, but apparently many people ask, “What do you want to do when you’re retired?” Rudy decided to answer that question by spending his retirement driving out to Riverbend Maximum Security Prison every week.
Not one day a week. Not two. Not three. Not four. Every weekday, Rudy visits the men inside—men who will be there for life, and men on death row.
His words were powerful as he urged our Governor to choose mercy. Regardless of what happens, Rudy’s withness to me is an example of someone who wants to participate in ushering in this new heaven and earth.
Anyway, our passage continues, saying, “The one on the throne says, I’m making all things new.” A hearkening back to the prophet Isaiah—not destruction, not desolation, but redemption and reconciliation.
In the next chapter, Revelation 22, the angel reveals to John this really beautiful image of what’s going on in this new city that comes to dwell with us. There’s a river—the water of life—flowing in the midst of the streets of this city. And on either side, trees. The Tree of Life, which bears great fruit and abundance for everyone to eat. And it says this: “The leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations.”
The leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations—which we so desperately pray for, don’t we? Which we seek to be a part of in what feels like a very apocalyptic moment.
But, “apocalypse” doesn’t mean “the end of the world.” The Greek word literally means unveiling. Unveiling what is–a long history of suffering and pushing people to the margins, revealing to those of us who haven’t had eyes to see what has been happening for a long, long time.
Something about this passage, in the midst of everything, gives me hope. Not a hope that’s far away, that I have to be really good to reach, but a hope that meets us right here, exactly where we are—and urges us to be a part of this new heaven on earth.
Professor Anna Bowen writes, “This fifth Sunday of Easter, John reminds us”—and I love this, too—“John reminds us that we are not heaven-bound. Heaven is bound for us.” Heaven is bound for you and me. It chases after us and encourages us to be part of doing a new thing for a God who dwells among, and with, and next to, and for.
God has come to dwell among God’s people, even in our moments of pain and suffering.
So yes, it might be tempting to think of it as destructive. But that’s not the work that God calls us to do. We don’t have to burn it all down or escape to some new world.
God meets us right here on earth, is not waiting for us to join God in heaven, but is waiting for us to join God in the good work right here on earth.
You picking up what I’m putting down?
So it’s really simple. The question for me and you today:
Are you willing to join God in the good work right here on earth?
Are you willing to light a candle for someone in the midst of their grief?
To join God in wiping away every tear?
Are you willing to be a part of the healing of this world?
To cram earth with heaven?
To visit a prisoner?
To feed the hungry?
To clothe the naked?
And most importantly, to be a people of witness by practicing a gospel of withness?
Now more than ever, we are called to be “crammers.”
Now more than ever, we work alongside a God whose home is among us—and, as Jesus promises, who will be with us always, until the end of the age.
And if that is not good news, church, I don’t know what is.
So, thanks be to God. Amen.