The End Of The Story

The End of the Story Rev. 1:9-18 Cascades Fellowship Dec. 31, 1999 Tonight’s the night! Y2K is finally upon us and it will be only a matter of a few hours before we find out if it really is a mountain or a mole hill. We have had two years of hype and hysteria -- forecasts of doom on one side, promises of technological advances beyond our imagination on the other. But in a few hours all the build up will be history and we will finally know whether we should laugh or cry. What really frightens me about all this Y2K stuff is some of the messages I hear coming from the church. I have heard rumors of great calamity, unprecedented chaos, and calls to stockpile resources, batten down the hatches and enter the survivalist zone. This coming from people who profess faith in a sovereign God. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not advocating a “business as usual” approach -- prudent precautions should be observed. But I am hearing apocalyptic murmurs from the mouths of Christians -- murmurs tinged with apprehension and fear. Should we be sore afraid (to use the King James vernacular) of Y2K? Should we live out the next few hours petrified over what lies in the void beyond the other side of midnight? Well, let me answer by describing three scenes for you -- scenes recorded in the Scriptures. Our text this morning is Rev. 1:9-18, but I don’t want us to turn there right away because this morning I want us begin with the season just past -- Christmas. Our pictures, our nativity scenes, our images all depict this serene, placid moment – a beatific minute in time when the shepherds come in from the field and kneel with all the

barn animals before the manger. Mary and Joseph appear to be at great peace – both looking with sage confidence at the manger. They are portrayed as competent, composed twenty-something adults ready for the full bloom of parenthood. Especially, the parenthood for the Son of God. And the whole family emanates this golden glow about their heads – which I suppose signifies some degree of purity rather than some genetic predisposition to glowing spontaneously. We have a very idealistic view of that Christmas morn. But the real story of Christmas is not our rather optimistic portrayal of the virgin birth, rather it is that God broke into time and became one of us. At a specific time in history, into a specific place on earth, God’s head poked out of the womb and for the first time felt the wind he created brush against his red, wrinkled face. His little lungs drew in air soured by the common product of every barn – the stuff we spread on our gardens to help them grow. Then he discharged the soured air in a birth cry, announcing to the world that God was born and that he was cold and hungry. You see, if we were to picture the nativity properly we would have to build a little cave-like structure, slightly damp, very dark and reeking with animal waste. Mary and Joseph would be two teen-aged Hebrews, looking anxiously from the food trough where Jesus lay, to one another, to heaven. They would most likely be scared out of their wits, each wrestling with doubts over the visions they had seen proclaiming the child now before them was God in the flesh. He didn’t look like God. But then again, what would God look like? Here is Jesus Christ, the Son of God, the second person of the Trinity. Born into the family of young carpenter. A pauper on the stage of the world amidst kings, governors, and

emperors. Incarnate God in the form of a little baby unable to feed himself, clothe himself or change his swaddling clothes when they became soiled. This is our God – a picture of weakness, completely helpless, unable to hold his head erect. All his plans – in the words of C.S. Lewis – rests in the decisions of two Jewish teenagers. Two very poor, very lonely teenagers. Can we really believe they had the support of their families? That they did not suffer under the shame of what must have appeared to be an indiscretion to the rest of the world? Not yet married, and still Mary’s stomach betrays the fruit of marriage. What a strange way to save the world. Could God have stacked the deck against himself any more than he did? The stigma of out of wedlock birth, the stigma of poverty, born in a barn… this is our God. Weak and helpless. Doesn’t leave us with an overwhelming sense of confidence in light of the uncertainty of Y2K, does it? How can this little Jewish baby born two millennia ago help us face such uncertain times? Fortunately, the story isn’t finished. Fast-forward about thirty-three years. The scene is Golgotha -- the place of the skull. Two crosses stand at either edge of the hill, a condemned thief hangs from each one. A crowd has gathered, but not for these two wretches. The crowd parts, and a unit of roman soldiers presses through the opening. As they turn toward the center of the hill, you can see something shambling along in their midst. Behind the shambling thing is a man carrying a huge wooden beam upon his shoulder, dragging one end of it through the sand. He groans under the weight, but the threat of the lash being wielded by the centurion behind him keeps him moving. He doesn’t

want to end up looking like the thing -- he can’t even call it a man any longer -- ahead of him. The thing ahead of him bleeds profusely from every part of his body. From his head, crimson flow gushes through the lattice work of punctures caused by the crown of thorns. His skin -- all of it -- is nearly flayed from his back. Only a few tattered remains cling to the exposed fatty tissue. His chest and torso bleed from the errant lash that missed his back by wrapping around, allowing the lead and glass chunks to dig into the unbroken flesh on his fore. His face is misshapened with bruises and contusions. It is hard to call something this grotesque, this repulsive, human. The beam is snatched from the man’s shoulder and hurled to the ground. It is fitted to another, longer beam at a 90 degree angle. The bleeding, shambling thing is roughly wrestled into a spread-armed position atop the beams, arms stretched as if he would embrace the whole world. Then the Roman soldiers nail his arms to the cross-beam, pinning him in his global hug. His feet are positioned one on top the other above a small block of wood -- an inch or two of air separating the two. They, too, are nailed into position. Using ropes and backs hardened in combat, the Roman soldiers raise the cross with the shambling thing nailed to it and drop it unceremoniously into a hole. With a muffled thud and an torturous scream from the shambling thing, the cross comes to rest between the two thieves. Again, behold Jesus Christ the Lord. Again we find him in great weakness, unable to do anything for himself. Slowly, life ebbs away from him and the second person of the

Trinity cries out, bewildered by his abandonment. In deepest agony, he dies -- murdered on the cross. How can a murdered God bring us comfort -- bring us confidence -- in the face of Y2K? Again, fortunately the story isn’t over. Now let’s skip to the end of the story -- Rev. 1:9-18 (read the passage). Here’s John, the “beloved disciple” on the island of Patmos. He is an old man now. He has seen those with whom he walked in following Jesus martyred, one after the other. He has witnessed converts his testimony brought into the kingdom of God slain for the sake of the gospel. He, miraculously, has been spared where others have perished under the sword of Rome. Why? Was his light not bright enough? Why was he merely banished to this nether land? Then, while John prays, he hears a voice. “Write on a scroll what you see...” John turns to see who it is who speaks to him in this lonely place and what meets his eyes turns his heart fire and his knees to water. He collapses in heap of humility, as if dead. What did he see? One like a son of man walking among seven lamp stands. We find out later that the seven lampstands represents the church -- and the one like the Son of Man walks in its midst. In other words, he lives eternally in the midst of the church, tending its flame lest its light become dim. He is the high priest -- just look at his robe. The golden sash, an emblem of power, recalls the linen ephod worn by Aaron and his line when the high priest of the earthly tabernacle would minister before the Lord on behalf of the people of Israel. Like the priest which foreshadowed this last and greatest High Priest, the one like the Son

of Man is charged with keeping the Lamp of God alight in the darkness. So he diligently sees to lampstands, coaxing light from even the barest wick. He, afterall, is the faithful witness. His robes are marks of royalty as well. This one who is like the Son of Man is also Lord. He referred to himself in v. 6 as the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. Purity and wisdom, symbolized in the mane of white hair, adorn his head. His eyes burn like fire with the piercing light of judgment. His feet, glowing like burnished bronze, shine brightly with the promise of stability and strength. His tread is sure, his step is righteous -treading out wrath where called for, coming along side to comfort where needed. He is immovable from the true and perfect way. His voice crashes over the ears of John like an ocean of authority. Were he to loose the fullness of his power contained in his mere spoken word, he would severe the very earth from its foundations like a double-edged sword severs the life from the man. Such brightness pulses from his face that the sun becomes dark by comparison. Behold, Jesus Christ the Lord. King of Kings and Lord of Lords. The Great Judge and High Priest.

The Word who was with God in the beginning and who is God.

Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. This figure of immeasurable power, of unfathomable might is the helpless Babe in the manger and the shambling thing on the cross. You see, this is the end of the story. Hear again his words: “Do not be afraid. I am the First and the Last. I am the Living One; I was dead and behold! I am alive for ever and ever. And I hold the keys of death and Hades.”

Folks, this is why we need not fear Y2K. Our God reigns. He is the First and the Last. In other words, our God is Y2K sovereign. He is not disturbed by the possibility of economic travails or societal woes. Our God knows the score and he speaks to people, “Do not be afraid.” The same comfort these words brought to those being persecuted in the first century church is extended to us as we face the uncertainty of what the stroke of midnight will bring. Whether lights go out or stay on, God is still on the throne. He is still Lord. No glitch in a computer program can change that. An Episcopal friend of mine was playing basketball one day with his seminary buds during a class break. As they grunted out the frustrations of Greek and Hebrew exams with some lively play in the paint, the old janitor for the school came out and sat upon the back stoop, pulled out his Bible and started reading. The seminarians, plump with theological knowledge, thought they would have a little sport with the old guy. “What you reading?” they asked. “Revelation,” he answered without looking up. “Whoa! You understand that stuff?” they asked condescendingly. “Yep.” “What does it all mean?” they challenged, eagerly waiting to pounce on any error. The man drew a slow breath, looked at the young seminarians and smiled. With a twinkle in his eye he said, “It’s real simple.” “Well, what does it mean?” they asked impatiently. “God wins.” My friend said they just shook their heads and went back to the game. The wisdom of the janitor’s answer was too profound to argue.

Instead of dissolving in fear, let’s start out the New Year -- the new millennium -- out by recognizing our God’s rulership even over the unpredictable affects of Y2K. Let us give him praise for his providence over the past year and offer up prayers of petition for the coming year. Let’s recognize that the end of the story is that God wins.