Sermon for May 25, 2025
Acts 16:9-15; Revelation 21:10,22-22:5; John 14:23-29
I wonder whether it’s right to wish you a
“Happy Memorial Day weekend.” As
we know, it’s the unofficial start of summer, and I imagine we’d all be glad to
have a little more time and space to breathe. But, of course, this holiday honors those
who’ve given their lives in faithful and heroic service to their country. So, although it’s great to enjoy a long
weekend, marking Memorial Day is an odd mixture of gratitude and joy that
springs from suffering and grief.
Maybe that mixture happens more than we
might think. Twice recently, I’ve found
myself in joyful celebrations that sprang from suffering and grief. The first was the JVS Global Table event, an
annual fundraiser to support the work of one of our outreach partners, Jewish
Vocational Service, which resettles refugees from around the world. Recent federal funding cuts made this event
all the more important; and it met its fundraising goal, thanks be to God,
because the refugees’ stories are so compelling, paralleling Jesus’ own
experience as a refugee child in Egypt. The
suffering of these families is certainly beyond anything I’ve ever known, but
the refugees who spoke that night didn’t dwell on their grief from what they
lost and left behind. They celebrated
the new life that came through the refugee-resettlement process – new life they
themselves receive and new life they give to the communities where they live
and work.
The second celebration like this was here
at HJ’s three weeks ago – our annual Haiti Party. Now, life in Haiti has been hard for decades,
but the past few years of anarchy and gang violence have brought the lives of
everyday Haitians to a new low. For
those of us who’ve been to Haiti, and talked with the teachers at our partner
school, and watched the kids lining up each day to salute their flag and dream
of a better life – being there gives you this odd feeling of grief and joy
simultaneously. And the other night at
HJ’s, something similar was happening. You
incredibly generous people of St. Andrew’s came though again, providing more
than enough to feed over 400 kids a hot, nutritious lunch each school day. For us Haiti fans, tears of joy that night
flowed not just because these kids will have nutritious food but because, in
the world they know, nutritious food is far from a given. Our joy is Jesus’ joy – bringing the hope of
new life to God’s beloved children beaten down by the suffering that their life
is.
This odd mixture of suffering and joy just
seems to run through the Christian life. In the reading from Acts this morning, Paul
and Silas obediently follow the lead of the Holy Spirit, interrupting their own
travel itinerary based on nothing but a dream and crossing the Aegean Sea from
Turkey to northern Greece, though they don’t know who they’re coming to help. In Philippi, they hang out for a few days
until a chance meeting at worship links them up with a woman named Lydia, a
wealthy merchant dealing in luxury goods. She opens her heart to God’s love and opens
her villa to the visiting apostles. And Paul
and Silas baptize Lydia and the members of her household as followers of Jesus’
Way.
But in the section of Acts just after
today’s reading, Paul and Silas find themselves being beaten and imprisoned by
the local authorities. They had the
temerity to cast out a demon from a fortune-telling enslaved girl, liberating
her into new life but leaving her worthless to her owners. Yet even after being whipped and imprisoned,
Paul and Silas end up sharing the message of new life with their jailer,
bringing him and his household into the Jesus movement. Certainly, Paul would never have scripted things
this way. But, again, suffering and joy
seem to walk hand in hand.
A similar scene comes to light in the
Gospel reading. This is a rough moment
we’re overhearing – Jesus talking with his friends at the Last Supper. He’s about to go up against not just the
religious leaders who’ve been trying to silence him but against the Roman
governor, who’s happy to use political violence to keep the peace.
As Jesus is talking with his friends at
dinner, he knows where his path is going, but he takes the opportunity to
reassure them and strengthen them to get through what lies ahead. Remember, he says, no matter what happens, the
Father and I love you. Remember, he
says, I’ll return and make my home with you. And in the meantime, he says, the Holy Spirit
will come to walk alongside you, reminding you of God’s purposes and empowering
you along the Way.
So, Jesus says, in the midst of the fears
this world imposes on us, remember that you already have God’s peace. This is not peace on the world’s terms – the
“peace” of empire, the peace that comes when one person has his foot on someone
else’s neck. This is peace not as the
world gives but the peace that empowers us to live with our hearts untroubled
and unafraid.
But wait, there’s more – one more glimpse
of the joy that awaits us, even as we suffer now. It’s the final section of the Revelation to
John. Now, many folks write off
Revelation as fodder for crackpots and charlatans. But just because some people want to use it to
toss their own enemies into a lake of fire, that doesn’t diminish the stunning
hope that Revelation has to share.
Last Sunday, we heard the beginning of
this vision of God reuniting heaven and earth, recreating the Eden God offered in
the beginning. As God’s holy city comes
down to make the earth new, those who suffered find themselves hungering and
thirsting no more as they drink from the water of life with God wiping the
tears from their eyes.
Then, today, we heard what our renewed
earth looks and feels like. There’s no
need for sun or moon in the heavenly city because God’s love lights it up. That light draws the nations to the source of
eternal love; it leads small-time emperors to serve God instead, bringing
tribute rather than a sword. Through the
heavenly city flows the river of the water of life, God’s gift to all who
grieve and suffer now. And on either
side of that river is the tree of life, the tree that stood in the midst of
Eden, the tree from which Adam and Eve were told not to eat, the tree that lets
us live forever. It offers its fruit
year-round to sustain the people of God, and its leaves “are for the healing of
the nations” (22:2). There, even such as
us will see God face to face, basking in the light of love as we “reign [with
Christ] for ever and ever” (22:5).
I don’t know about you, but I’d say: How about tomorrow, Lord? Bring it on.
Well, as we wait, what might we take away
from God’s double-edged promise of suffering and joy? I think it’s all about deciding where to
focus. Yes, the cost of our nation’s
freedom is high. Yes, people nearby and
far away suffer in the face of sin and evil. Yes, we often find that no good deed goes
unpunished. Yes, the road to
resurrection runs through the Place of the Skull. Yes, those basking in the light of God’s love
eternally have known their darkness in the here and now. Yes, weeping spends the night – but “joy comes
in the morning” (Psalm 30:6 BCP).
And as we wait for it, as life takes its
toll on those who don’t deserve it, we have the power and the call to follow
Jesus anyway. Though God has yet to
redeem creation in the fullness it will see, that work is underway – in us. The Church is God’s anticipation of the
heavenly city to come. The Church is
God’s downpayment on the promise to make us whole again, to break the
devil’s bargain and get us all back to the garden.1
Our work may seem small now: What good could it do to say our prayers? What good could it do to stand with a few
people in need? In fact, our work to
stand with refugees or Haitian children is downright nonsense on the world’s
terms. A mindset of utilitarianism would
ask, “Are refugees or Haitians worth the effort it takes to help them?” A mindset of “survival of the fittest” would
ask, “Why can’t refugees or Haitians take care of themselves? And if they can’t, why is it my problem?”
But as the Body of Christ in the world – as
those who serve the first course of the banquet of the kingdom of heaven – we
would ask, “Are they not God’s children? Are they not beloved? Are they not our neighbors we covenant to
love? Are they not our siblings whose
dignity we covenant to respect?
So, what’s the message for us? In the sorrows that might make giving up seem
rational, choose a life of full-hearted hope. After all, we who follow God’s Way of Love –
we are more than we seem. We are
citizens of the heavenly city now. We are God’s downpayment on redemption. We are the harvesters of the tree of life. We are the first fruits of the new creation.
1.
Thanks
and apologies to Joni Mitchell in “Woodstock.”
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