Sermon — November 3, 2024
The Rev. Greg Johnston
Is anyone here familiar with the work of Belinda Carlisle?
In the 1980s, she wrote some pretty interesting things that touched on what Christian theologians call “eschatology,” the study of the “last things.” Eschatology means thinking about what exactly we mean when we say, in the Nicene Creed, that we look for “the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.” And in many ways Carlisle’s work really resonates with our first two readings today, which are two of my favorite passages in the Bible, these powerful visions Isaiah and John the Divine had of a new heaven and a new earth.
You may think you have no idea who or what I’m talking about right now, but I think it’s very likely that that you have, in fact, heard Belinda Carlisle’s reflection on life in the new Jerusalem. It goes like this: “Ooh, Heaven is a place on Earth!”
That isn’t even really a joke.
“They say in Heaven, love comes first,” she sings. Well, that’s certainly true, theologically speaking. “We’ll make Heaven a place on Earth,” she goes on—which I think is supposed to be, like, a romantic thing, but it actually works really well as a statement of Christian ethics. And then she really gives us a keen theological insight in the bridge: “In this world, we’re just beginning / to understand the miracle of living.” Belinda: That’ll preach.
Now, I don’t know if Belinda Carlisle is a woman of faith. The nature of the music video implies that she might have something more earthy in mind with this metaphor; also, there are a lot of people dancing around with globes. (Never mind.)
But I have to say: If Belinda Carlisle’s “Heaven is a place on earth” is over on one side of a theological spectrum, and the most common ideas of what “heaven” means in our culture are on the other, then you have to admit that the view that you find reflected in the prophecies of Isaiah and of John is a lot closer to Ms. Carlisle’s than you might think.
Both the prophet Isaiah, in the 8th century BC or so, and the seer John the Divine, in the 1st century after Christ, envision “the world to come” not as one in which we leave this world behind and go away to be with God, but one in which God comes down to earth to be with us. Isaiah sees God coming to the people “on this mountain,” on Mount Zion in Jerusalem itself. (25:6) The Lord of hosts will host “a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines.” The good things of this world aren’t left behind, they’re embraced, enriched, and multiplied. But the hard things of this world are wiped away. The shroud cast over us is destroyed, the sheet that’s spread over us is removed; in other words, God swallows up death itself, and wipes away the tears from our eyes. (25:7-8)
In the Book of Revelation, John picks up that same thread. He sees a new heaven and a new earth, a holy city coming down to us from God. John sees God dwelling with us as God’s people, and “wiping every tear from our eyes.” For “See? The home of God is among mortals.” (Rev. 21:3)
That’s very different from the way we tend to think about things in 2024, even in the church. When we think about the life of the world to come, when we reflect on what happens after death, we tend to talk about how someone has gone away to be with God in their eternal home in what is, hopefully, “The Good Place.” But wait! Revelation seems to say. It’s not so much that our true home is out there, somewhere, with God. It’s that God’s true home is here with us. The world to come will be a better place not because we’ve left this world behind, but because this world has been transformed by the presence of a holy and living and loving God.
In other words: “Ooh! Heaven is a place on earth.” And what we think of as heaven, the place where the souls of all the departed rest in the hands of God, is exactly that, a resting place where they wait until the resurrection of the dead, when we will live again with them once more.
Which sounds, to me, even better than all the harps.
I don’t know what’s happening in your soul this All Saints’ Day.
Perhaps you’re here, mourning the loss of someone in your life who’s died, very recently or very long ago. Perhaps one or two of the names in our prayers today, silent or out loud, will make you choke up, and you won’t be able to say the response, because that pain is still there. And I have to admit, that might be the case for me, too. Or maybe hearing one of those names will fill your heart with gratitude for their life, and remind you of their love. Maybe both. And there’s a reason that we pause, together, once a year, to say these prayers.
Perhaps you’re here, rather anxious about the election process that is already simmering along, and will reach full boil on Tuesday, and will not, by the grace of God, boil over when it is decided some time in the next few weeks. Perhaps it’s one outcome or the other that keeps you up at night. Perhaps it’s concern about the safety and stability of the work of American democracy itself. Perhaps it’s the estrangement that our politics have caused in your life, from other people with whom you no longer want to speak. And there’s a reason that we pause, together, not once every four years but every year, to hear these words from long ago about a holy city coming down to us from God.
Perhaps you’re simply enjoying your life in this world; maybe things are good, and you don’t want to think about leaving them behind. Perhaps you love your family and your friends, your work, your life. Perhaps you don’t; maybe things aren’t so good. Maybe your body hurts. Maybe you’re sick, and tired. Maybe there’s or two that you wouldn’t mind having wiped away from your eyes. And—not to repeat myself too much—there’s a reason we pause every year, to remember that the life of the world to come is a life like this one, but with the goodness deepened and the sorrows wiped away.
When God raised Jesus from the dead, we believe, it wasn’t the end of the story of the Resurrection; it was the first glimpse of the life of the world to come. However incredible it is, the Christian hope is that we will one day live again in a world where “death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.” (Rev. 21:4)
And there’s good news there. But there’s also a challenge.
I’ll never forget an afternoon workshop I spent sitting in the undercroft beneath the chapel of the Society of St. John the Evangelist. For those who don’t know, SSJE is an order of Episcopal monks who have a monastery just up the river, right on Mem Drive in Cambridge. It was a workshop on “community,” in all its beauty and complexity. And I think it was Brother Curtis Almquist and Brother David Vryhof, two very dear, kind, loving men who’ve spent a long time living in close quarters with a group of other monks, who—like all human beings—sometimes have rough edges.
So during the Q&A, somebody described a conflict they were having with someone. I can’t remember what it was. But I do remember that Curtis listened to them carefully, and he replied—And this is my Curtis impression—“Mm. Mm. …Mm. God loves you. God loves you so much. God wants to spend eternity with you. And them. Together.”
If you’re missing someone who’s gone, this All Saints’ Day, the good news is that God wants to spend eternity with you, and them, together. And if you’re struggling to understand, this All Saints’ Day, how someone could be voting differently from you, how someone could support someone who’s so clearly the wrong choice for the office of the President, then that’s the challenge: God wants to spend eternity with you, and them, and that candidate for office, together. Surely we can’t really believe that the political beliefs of the people with whom we disagree are enough to separate them from the love of God. And so we’re left with the unpleasant fact that we’re going to have to find a way to live together. And we might as well start practicing now.
And that’s the invitation, here. We can begin to live, even now, as if we are in that holy city to come. We can begin to live, even now, as if our lives are governed by compassion and love. We can participate in the process by which God is making all things new, already, here and now. We can try to draw back the curtain and let the heavenly reality lying behind all things be revealed, because, as it turns out, heaven will one day be “a place on earth.”