A New Heaven
Easter 5, 9th May, 2004
The Rev'd Dr Craig D'Alton
Assistant Priest, St Peter's, Eastern Hill
I can't conceive of listening to today's second reading without reference to that astonishing anthem by Edward Bainton: "And I saw a new heaven, and a new earth".
Do you know it?
The emotion of that piece (which, by the way, I want in the place of the offertory at my own funeral, should anyone here be around for it) is extraordinary. The thing which most grabs me about it is the sense of anticipation built up in the first section. That great, long passage: "And I saw a new heaven, and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and there was no more sea." And then the building from the calm of the stilled waters, as John's revelation is announced: the heavenly city, the new Jerusalem, coming down from God, out of heaven; the announcement of which brings the organ to crescendo. . . .
It's all there in that final book of the Bible, and it's so true. The first heaven and the first earth HAVE passed away. Christ has died and has risen. There IS no more sea. The heavenly city, the New Jerusalem, rises from the waves, or perhaps more accurately, descends from the sky, like a mile-wide UFO. The glittering prize for those who have hoped, and who have dared to dream dreams. Sorrow is no more, pain is no more, the former things (the bad things) have passed away. The new city is bedecked in jewels. John the Divine goes on to describe it in intimate detail: the jewelled gates, the golden walls. Prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. Indeed, but more really. The arms of the heavenly city are wide open. She welcomes us all. At the very end, when the only people left outside the walls, we are old, are the dogs, the sorcerers and the fornicators, the Spirit and the Bride stand at the gates, and say "Come. Let anyone who wishes take the water of life as a gift." Death – which is not the end; which is the end of pain, not the beginning of pain, which is the fulfilment, not the end, of life, welcomes us not in the sadistic way of the grim reaper, but in the manner of an archangel opening the gates of heaven, and beckoning us into paradise. And it welcomes us ALL.
The message of Revelation, the message of the Gospel of Christ, is one of ultimate inclusion. "Love one another as I have loved you." In the immortal words of someone, "Just love one another. God is love, so get on with it." "Love one another as I have loved you". Break the rules, let everyone in: the outcaste, the unclean, the traitor who betrayed me for thirty pieces of silver, the fool who denied me three times. Just let them in. Here, sit down with me at table. Love one another. Have some bread. Love one another. Drink some wine. Love one another. You at my right, you're about to sell me out, but here, have some bread. Love one another. You opposite me, you're about to deny that you ever knew me: have a drink. Love one another. The Spirit and the Bride say come. The first heaven and the first earth have passed away.
There is a whole new set of rules.
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And yet.
The poetry, which may uplift us, is rarely a sufficient consolation when push comes to shove. When we lose a loved one, or when we ourselves approach death, the bejewelled gates seem far, far off. The sorrow, and the pain, are all too real. They are far from banished. They are present, and they are concrete, and they stir us to our depths.
"God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." We hear it, and at an intellectual level we acknowledge it to be true. Yet as we have read so often in the past few weeks, even those who were witnesses to the resurrection of Christ found belief difficult in the extreme. Sorrow and pain are not so easily erased, especially when we are left alone and wondering not merely about the "what next" for our loved one, but also about the "what next" for ourselves.
Jesus said, "A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another, even as I have loved you." The new rules are in place, but so often we live by the old ones, and it is so, so very hard to give them up. God's love, which knows no end, carries us into scary new places, where we are asked to give up the security of insecurity, the safety of the known (which is painful knowledge), for the unknown (which is the new Jerusalem). And yet, week by week, day by day, we move forward in our understanding.
It's just as well, as Mother Sherlock once wrote, that all this is in the context of the meal. "The meal set out at the table is meant for just such slow learners as these" – as Peter, as Judas, as us. "The meal is meant for those who betray and deny, for those who need washing all over, and loving all over." It is meant for those of us, all of us, who find it so hard to trust that pain and sorrow will be no more, and that in the commandment to love we will have all that we need; for love will abide, and the former things – betrayal, pain, and even death, will pass away.
It all sounds so simple – Love one another – and yet it is so hard. For to trust each other is as hard as it is to trust God. And yet the witness of Scripture, the witness of Jesus, calls us to do just that.
The Lord be with you.
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Views is a
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St Peter's Eastern Hill, Melbourne Australia.
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