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There’s a saying among preachers about the relentless return of the Sunday. Now, you could hear this as a hopeful phrase—although I don’t think I ever heard it that way. Hopeful in that "relentless return" might suggest a holy interruption that breaks through our noise and busyness to remind us who and whose we are.
That’s what a chatty AI app suggested when I asked it what the saying might mean. It's an app with the disposition of a puppy—always sunny, always eager to please. But what my colleagues had in mind, I think, was more along the lines of, "Oh no, Sunday’s just around the corner, and I have no idea what I’m going to say."
I’ve had that dream a few times over the years—standing right here, looking out at you, you looking back at me—and I’ve got nothing to say. It’s a horrible dream. Thankfully, I didn’t have it many times, but a few, yes. Still, I’ve never had a week where the days pass and I cast the preacher’s net again and again, only to pull it in empty.
Well, I’ve never had that week until these past few days. What on earth am I supposed to say on my last Sunday?
I could always step out in faith with a prayer: Dear God, here I am. Ready or not, here I go. If it doesn’t fly, if the lines don’t land, I’ll make it up next time. But this Sunday—as far as any of us know—doesn’t come with a next time.
So the pressure is on. Final remarks. Parting thoughts. Closing words.
I was sitting with all that pressure when I realized—wait a minute—this moment isn’t about me. It’s not about me at all. This moment has all of me in it, like it usually does: memories, faith, a lot of gratitude, some certainty, a lot of uncertainty, hunger for truth that’s never left me, joy, sadness, hope. But it’s not about me. This moment has all of us in it. And it’s entirely about—how did the chatty AI put it?—the holy interruption that breaks through our noise and busyness to remind us who and whose we are.
Many years ago—probably the year before my final exams—I went to visit my friend Rhina. He had been ordained a year ahead of me and was already serving as a pastor. We were sitting at the kitchen table with a bottle of red wine, talking all night. There was plenty to talk about. The contrast between student life in the city and rural parish life was as stark as it gets.
At some point, Rhina pointed to a print taped to the wall by the fridge. I got up to take a closer look. It was a woodcut, square and rough, with words attributed to Augustine of Hippo. I learned several years later that they were from a sermon he preached when he was ordained bishop—words he used to describe the obligations of his ministry:
The restless must be corrected.
The faint-hearted encouraged.
The weak supported.
Opponents refuted.
Schemers guarded against.
The ignorant taught.
The lazy roused.
The argumentative restrained.
The proud humbled.
The quarrelsome reconciled.
The poor helped.
The oppressed freed.
The good approved.
The wicked endured.
And all loved.
Standing in the kitchen that night, I chuckled when I got to the end—"and all loved"—because in German, those words are rendered with a sigh: und alle geliebt.
These words have stayed with me. They’ve challenged and comforted me. And today, I thank you for all the ways we have been in ministry together. I thank you for allowing and encouraging me to live into my calling. And for those times—and I hope they were few—when I did not love you well, I ask your forgiveness.
You have played no small part in my formation—as a disciple of Jesus, a leader in the church, and a man. I am grateful to you and to those who have moved on, those who’ve joined the saints in heaven over the years. I am grateful.
I have loved this work, and I love it still. It could have been otherwise. I could say a lot more, but it wouldn’t be enough. I trust that you will continue to shape faithful ministers in and for these uncertain times—and I don’t just mean ordained ones. I’m confident that Margie and Wesley will find much joy and fulfillment in their ministry with you.
So now, let me try this again.
We have a text to consider. This moment has all of us in it. And it really is entirely about the holy interruption that breaks through our noise and busyness to remind us who and whose we are—lest we forget.
John was a Christian leader banned by order of Rome to the island of Patmos. Jerusalem was gone. The Romans, tired of protests and revolts in the volatile province of Judea, had destroyed the city and demolished the temple. A pile of rubble was all that was left. They had finally succeeded in bringing peace to the region—their variety of peace, that is: the heavy, oppressive lid of the Pax Romana.
To those peacemakers, followers of Jesus were suspect because of their reluctance—or outright refusal—to honor the gods of the empire. Violent persecution wasn’t the norm, but Christian leaders were being executed or imprisoned. John was exiled. He found himself far from home, a prisoner on a small island in the Aegean Sea.
The world around him was falling apart. In the cities of Asia Minor, arrests and executions continued. His friends were losing hope. Rome’s imperial cult demanded that they acclaim the emperor as Lord and Son of God. But how could they, when they had come to know Jesus as Lord? How could they call the emperor “savior of the world,” when that honor belonged to God alone?
So John wrote a letter to encourage the faint-hearted. And he told them what he saw—amid the violent tensions, oppression, and fear. Much like the prophets before him, whose imagery shaped his apocalyptic poetry, John looked far beyond the horizon defined by Rome’s imperial reach. And at the end, what he saw was a city. A city coming down out of heaven from God.
Now, I hope you know by now—I don’t believe we’re to read apocalyptic poetry like it’s a cosmic train schedule. When John speaks of a holy city descending from heaven, we don’t expect GPS coordinates or driving directions. We take in the vision, the kaleidoscope of metaphors swirling around each other—all of them pointing to a world where God is at home. A world where terror and fear are no more. Where oppression and injustice are gone. Where the glory of God shines in all things, and the nations walk by its light.
God knows we need that light now. Our institutions are shaking. Some are crumbling. Cities are being bombed. Children are starving. And too many of us are overwhelmed and exhausted. Our elected leaders—whether gripped by fear or greed—can think of nothing better to do than dream up a thousand-page scheme to take the poor man’s lamb and give it to the wealthy who already own most of the herds.
That’s where we are.
John wanted the churches across the sea to know that Rome’s power could not stand against the purposes of God. He wants the church in any city, in any age, to see that no project of domination—imperial or otherwise—can prevent the advent of God’s reign.
We need to see that light.
The city of John’s vision has no temple in it. So next time you have the conversation about the building, remember that. The city is holy as a whole. In the city John wants us to see, God is present throughout all the neighborhoods, in the midst of the everyday. God’s name no longer resides in a walled-off sanctuary—it is written on people’s foreheads.
Now that’s weird, I know. But I think it’s a blunt way of saying that, finally, everyone is recognizable and known as made in the image of God. Finally, everyone is known and respected as God’s own. We’ll be wearing it on our foreheads.
But John is careful not to present the heavenly city as the end of our earthly story, but rather the continuation—and the climax—of the old story that began in Eden. God doesn’t junk the cosmos and start over. God renews the old and brings it to fulfillment.
So in John’s vision, salvation isn’t a return to some undefiled garden. What happens is that the Sabbath peace of the seventh day permeates the city. The tree of life grows in it. The river of life flows through it. And the kings of the earth bring the glory of the nations to it.
In the city John wants us to see, the goodness of creation and the best of human culture from all corners of the earth come together in God’s final act of redemption and homecoming.
Talk about a holy interruption that breaks through our noise and busyness to remind us who and whose we are.
Eugene Boring writes, “If this is where the world under the sovereign grace of God is finally going, then every thought, move, and deed in some other direction is simply out of step with reality—and is finally wasted.”
So let’s be careful to keep that light in front of our eyes.
John didn’t share his vision so we could speculate about the pitch and timing of the seventh trumpet blast. He offered it with love and urgency—as an orientation for our life here and now.
Especially in this moment—when ignorance and cowardice go hand in hand, and hope is hard to come by.
The great rabbi Abraham Heschel said that human faith is never final, never an arrival, but rather an endless pilgrimage—a being on the way. We know about being on the way. We know who it is we follow.
And so we continue on the way—with audacious longing, burning songs, and daring thoughts—seeking to serve the One who rings our hearts like a bell.
We continue on the way to the city where, as the psalm says so beautifully:
Steadfast love and faithfulness will meet;
Righteousness and peace will kiss each other.
May it be so for all of us.
Amen.