NEW Thursday, February 06, 2014 She’s shriveling up into herself it seems, even in the very short time I’ve known her. She was posed in a fetal manner in her well-worn recliner when I walked in. Her world is now reduced to a very simple bed, a couple of chairs and a scant few pieces of furniture from what once was her life. She’s so very old, even older than she looks. I pulled out my small Bible, turned to Revelation 21 and read words to the woman who can no longer see them for herself. I read them because I so desperately want her to think of what God is doing despite of what it may feel or look like right now. Through his own elderly eyes, John says he saw a new city where God would make God’s home, like Jesus did, among the people of God’s new creation. In that new heaven and earth God “will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. He who was seated on the throne said, ‘I am making everything new!’” I sometimes wonder what John was smoking when he wrote Revelation. I’ve given up trying to figure out exactly what his mystical words mean and have started trying to listen to the symphony of hope in them. Besides, if we fully understood them it would destroy the mystery that delivers us the hope his strange mutterings still provide. John saw something coming, though. As if the future tense is the present tense. God is doing a new thing, he said. I read those words to the shriveling woman. When I finished, I stayed quiet thinking she’d dosed off. Instead, she broke the eerie silence in her room by asking, “Is that all there is?” “All of that text,” I said, thinking to myself that what appears to be coming to an end is actually heaven giving birth to new life, even in her shriveling body. Last Sunday, after finishing my new ushering duties, I plopped down, distracted, into the last back pew. I’ve never played usher before in church. Thought I’d give it a try. The only downside is missing the first part of worship, the music and scripture and prayer. I got into the sanctuary just in time for the Supper. Dropping in that late, I was a little distracted, unfocused. I felt like I was out in left field, which I kind of was. That’s when Garrett, serving the Supper, hit a line drive right at me. It burned hot in my glove and stung the skin under the leather. He was quoting Jesus at the Last Supper. “‘This cup is the new covenant in my blood.’” New life being born in death’s blood, he meant. That’s the word that stung me into full focus. “New,” Jesus said. What was will be no more. So, we can let go of it. There won’t even be enough of the old in the new to bring a tear to our eyes. No more regret. No more wishing-we-had. No more lethal secrets. No more fear of what might happen. No more guilt over bungled opportunities. No more meanness among God’s people. No more slaughter in war. No more hunger, crying or pain that even morphine can’t kill. When Jesus died on the cross after promising something new, John picked up one of Jesus’ last words and ran with it all the way to the end of the Bible and beyond. God is doing something new! This muck in which we walk today is not all there is or will be. The promise of newness being born in the shriveling is the very foundation of all that we hope. It’s hard to believe, looking through the dark, brown branches of winter’s landscape, that there is still life in those shriveled limbs, that what looks like death is actually God getting ready to do something new. Garrett said “new” Sunday morning and that’s why I read “new” to the shriveling lady. I wanted her to know that what looks like someone dying is actually God getting ready to do something new.
Posted on: Thu, 06 Feb 2014 12:42:01 +0000
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