Sermon — May 15, 2022
The Rev. Greg Johnston
It’s become commonplace to observe that life is like a journey, and religion is no exception to this trend. A quick Google Books search for “spiritual journey” shows that the phrase was virtually unused until 1950 or so, then began a gradual rise before exploding exponentially through the ’80s and ’90s. It soon became the defining way for 21st-century people to talk about the attempt to find the meaning in one’s life. The idea has ancient roots, even in Christianity: the Acts of the Apostles reports that the Christian movement was, at first, called “the Way,” with a capital W. (Acts 9:2) And so our own Presiding Bishop Michael Curry, in his effort to recover and revive the spirit of “the Jesus Movement,” speaks often of “the Way of Jesus” and “the Way of Love.” It’s an important insight. Our lives as Christians are not about a static body of doctrine that we hold, or a one-time commitment to Christ. They’re about the journey we take together, led by Jesus, who almost always invited people into the search for God not by saying “Learn from me” or “Obey me” but with the words, “Follow me.” To call something a “spiritual journey” is to recognize that it is a process of slow and sometimes-meandering change over time, as we wander day by day toward our final destination.
We sometimes forget, though, how chaotic these journeys can be. I was reminded of this on Monday evening, as I sat outside my apartment, waiting for AAA. You see, on Sunday, Alice, Murray, and I had spent several hours playing and building up Murray’s seashell collection at the “Airplane Beach” in East Boston. And Murray was so eager to return that we planned a trip for Monday evening, after Alice had returned from work. Murray and I waited in excitement all afternoon, and halfway through dinner Murray couldn’t wait any longer and ran out to the car. When I went to unlock the door so Murray could climb into the car seat, I found the remote unlock button wasn’t working. And when I walked around and unlocked the driver’s side door with the key, I soon discovered that the car wouldn’t start. Apparently in the excitement of the night before, I’d forgotten to turn out one of the lights, and the battery was completely dead—so dead, in fact, that it could not even be jumped, and I had to wait for the AAA truck to come with a new battery, by which point Murray’s excitement had been on its own journey through denial, anger, and bargaining, to its final destination: sleep.
It never feels good to disappoint someone you love. But it’s really not so different from what Jesus does to the disciples.
“Follow me,” he says to Peter and to Andrew while they’re fishing on the shore, “and I will make you fishers of men.” (Mark 1:1719) “Follow me” he says to Philip, as he leads him from John the Baptist’s camp by the Jordan back to Galilee. (John 1:43) “Follow me,” he says to Matthew sitting at his tax booth. (Matt. 9:9) And the disciples say yes. They leave behind everything they have and follow Jesus on this remarkable journey, pledging to go with him wherever he leads.
And then he pulls the rug out from under them: “You will look for me,” he tells the disciples at the Last Supper, “but as I said to the Jews I say now to you, ‘Where I am going, you cannot come.’” (John 13:33) What a disappointment. They’ve answered his call. They’ve followed him where he has led. They’ve gone with him even to Jerusalem, the city of his destiny. But now, the same Jesus who said to them, “Follow me. Follow me. Follow me,” follows up with, “Where I am going, you cannot come.”
It’s a frustrating end to their journey. And it’s typical of this late part of the Easter season. On Easter Sunday, we celebrated the Resurrection, and in the weeks that follow we heard stories of Jesus’ resurrection appearances. But he soon stops appearing, at least in bodily form—and on this Sunday and the next, we look forward to Jesus’ Ascension, his departure from earth to return to heaven, the place he is going where we cannot come. He’s going away, and he’s leaving us behind. He has made it to the Airplane Beach, and we are stuck here, in desperate need of a jump start, completely unable to reach our destination. We seek him, but we cannot go where he has gone.
And so he comes to us instead. And for me, this is the most startling part of Revelation’s stunning vision of “a new heaven and a new earth.” (Rev. 21:1) This passage is the culminating moment in John’s vision. It’s the second-to-last chapter of the whole Bible, and it’s a message so comforting and powerful it’s (ironically) hard not to cry:
See, the home of God is among mortals.
He will dwell with them as their God;
they will be his peoples,
and God himself will be with them;
he will wipe every tear from their eyes.
Death will be no more;
mourning and crying and pain will be no more,
for the first things have passed away. (Rev. 21:3-4)
The destination of our life’s journey is a place where God will wipe away every tear from our eyes, where death and mourning and crying are no more, where the pain and the toil of this world are no more, “for the first things have passed away.” We have so many blessings and so many things to be thankful for in life, and we have so many burdens to lay down, so many tears to be wiped away. And It can be a great relief to hear these comforting words.
But the emotional power of these verses makes it easy to miss something. This is not a message about our final destination, when our lives’ journeys come to an end and we arrive in heaven to dwell with God. It’s a message about God’s final destination, when God returns to and renews the earth to dwell with us. It’s not a vision of each one of us individually journeying toward heaven, our eternal home. It’s a vision of God coming down out of heaven to dwell with us, and all who have gone before us, for “see, the home of God is among mortals.” (21:3) God will come here once again, as God came here once before, and walk among us again, and care for us with tenderness and love. It’s as though the AAA truck never came, and my battery was never replaced, but we woke up in the morning to find that the beach had come to us.
Our spiritual journeys can be long and winding. Sometimes they’re interrupted or cut short. Even the most blessed and saintly souls often struggle with periods of doubt, or despair, or dead spiritual batteries. And while we pray to drink deeply from the sweet, fresh “spring[s] of the water of life,” our lives are filled as well with brinier waters too, with tears, and sweat, and blood. Our journeys take us far afield, and sometimes we don’t know where they’re leading us. But God knows, and God is coming home to dwell with us as our God; to be with us, and to wipe away every tear from our eyes. God is making all things new. And this promise of renewal is already being fulfilled.
This is important. This passage from Revelation is traditionally read as if it’s about the end state of things, about what’s sometimes called the “Parousia,” Jesus’ final return at the end of time or in some eternal sense, and that’s true. It is. right now, we get a taste of that eternal life. The season of Easter, after all, doesn’t end with the Ascension, with God’s disappearance from earth to go away into heaven, never to return until Judgment Day. Jesus ascends into heaven, yes, but Easter goes on until the day of Pentecost, when he sends the Holy Spirit to be our comforter and guide. And in this long ordinary time, between the first Pentecost and the final Parousia—between one day two thousand years ago, and the Last Day in some eternal and unknowable time—the Holy Spirit is already here, dwelling with us.
Our comfort is not yet complete. God’s new creation is not yet complete. We still live in the world of death and mourning and crying and pain. But there’s a reason it’s called a spiritual journey. We are not alone on our voyage toward God. God the Holy Spirit is already here with us, comforting us, dwelling with us, recreating us into new people every day, as God will one day create a new heavens and a new earth. For “behold,” says the one who is seated on the throne, “I am making all things new.” (Rev. 21:5) Not “I made it once and it was good enough,” not “I will one day fix it all,” but “I am making all things new.”
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.