Rv 21:1-8
16 May 2004
6th Sunday of Easter
“See the New City”
Last week, if you recall, I said that I had barely scratched the surface of chapter 13, while preaching about the beast and 666 and all that. If it’s true of that chapter, it’s certainly true of the whole book of Revelation. But even though I’m forced to go jumping through the book, there’s definitely one theme that runs through all of it. Whatever else Revelation may be about, it is a book of worship, from start to finish—especially visions of angelic worship. Revelation lives and breathes the praise of God in Christ through the Spirit. Because that is so much John’s focus, whatever detracts from that looks all the more monstrous.
And speaking of monstrous, please recall that one of the trademarks of apocalyptic language is the use of bizarre creatures, as well as other things. As I’ve said, if we ignore what these things mean for John’s audience, we can’t understand what they mean for us. In apocalyptic literature the message ultimately is that, despite severe persecution, God’s people will survive.
Today’s text, at the beginning of chapter 21, speaks of the ultimate survival: that of the cosmos itself. The “new heaven” and the “new earth” replace “the first heaven and the first earth,” the world which we now know. When God’s perfect kingdom is fully revealed, the imperfect kingdoms of humanity fade away. We live in a fallen world, one in which sin has power, but it won’t always be so.
In verse 2, John sees “the holy city, the new Jerusalem” descending from on high, and he hears the pronouncement that God’s home will be among us humans. That’s the holy city, not the holy forest or the holy mountain. A lot of people hate city life, but God’s approach to urban planning is a little bit different! Hold on to that thought; I’ll revisit it very soon.
When God dwells with us, every tear is wiped from the eyes. “Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more.” The “first things,” as verse 4 puts it, pass away. The first things are the old order under which we live and die.
At the beginning of the war with Iraq (the first one, the Persian Gulf War), George Herbert Walker Bush announced the arrival of a new world order. Of course, he wasn’t the first to make a statement like that. Throughout history, humans have struggled to create a new world order. World War I was to be the war to end all wars. I believe that we, the human race, are making slow progress, but is there anyone who really doubts that we remain in an old world order?
We pay so much attention to ourselves and so little to others. We try to hide from God, and our world is testimony to that. There remains rampant abuse of human rights, trashing of the land, sea, and air, and intolerance of others that spreads like wildfire. We mourn and cry and are in pain. And we’re afraid.
By ourselves, we can’t bring about a world order that really is new. None of our revolutions are really revolutionary! Only the one who declares, “I am the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end,” can make it happen. Only the one who makes all things new, as verse 5 teaches us, can deliver us from this old, obsolete world order. That is the recurring theme of resurrection during this Easter season: we are dead, and must be brought to life.
Only Jesus Christ, who through the Holy Spirit even now is God dwelling among us, can transform the chaos that exists among us sinners into a communion of the saints. This is an act of grace, a unilateral decision made for our benefit. Still, we have to cooperate with that grace, or we remain like that bunch described in verse 8.
That list—the cowardly, the faithless, the polluted, the murderers, the fornicators, the sorcerers, the idolaters—it’s summed up by the phrase, “and all liars.” You know, we all have that stuff in us! And any one of those alone is enough to hamper or destroy communion among us.
Now, about the comment I made about God’s version of urban planning. Let me ask you this—what images do you have of paradise? It may be something you saw in a movie or on TV; maybe something you read; maybe something you dreamed (that would be even better!) Could it be…a vista in the mountains, a place of such breathtaking beauty that it causes your heart to ache with joy? Or what about…a vast hall, filled with light and peace of an other-worldly nature? What about it?
How about a city? That’s the vision John has! As I said, he sees “the holy city, the new Jerusalem…prepared as a bride adorned for her husband” (v. 2). This is the “new” city, the city of God’s new creation. This is the city of light, the city of the communion of saints.
But before we get too teary-eyed, remember that John has a vision of another city. Unfortunately, we have plenty of experience with this other city, what I’m calling the “old” city. Besides his visionary image of Jerusalem, there is also Rome, the seat of power for the beast. And in chapter 17, Rome is the so-called whore of Babylon, portrayed as a woman sitting on seven hills. This city is “drunk with the blood of the saints” and “rules over the kings of the earth” (vv. 6, 18). This is the city of great violence; this is the city of great wealth.
In the “old” city, fear and poverty haunt the streets, right in the midst of arrogance and affluence. It sounds a bit too much like many American cities.
We’re getting wake-up calls on an almost daily basis. Part of what I’m talking about is what’s been grabbing the headlines, that is, the cruel treatment of Iraqi prisoners. But that’s a very small part of it. Fundamentally, it’s not even about politics, but it’s more about our culture and our spiritual health—or lack thereof.
Here’s a little example: one day this past week, I was watching the Channel 7 News. The newscaster, while lamenting high gasoline prices, began talking about gas stations with the lowest prices. Then they immediately cut outside to one of the reporters standing next to Channel 7’s rather large SUV. (It wasn’t a Hummer, but it was pretty big!) He said that he was going to drive all over the Buffalo area, checking out gas prices, and then report back at 11.
Right after that, there was a story on the surging popularity of NASCAR. My apologies to race car fans, but this is a sport whose very existence requires the burning of lots of petroleum. As I sat there watching the newscast, I remember wondering, “Am I the only one who sees something wrong with this picture?”
I say all this, knowing that I’m simplifying the issue, and I do apologize! But can we please be honest? If Iraq didn’t have vast oilfields, we wouldn’t have cared about Saddam oppressing his people any more than we do about Robert Mugabe oppressing the people of Zimbabwe. But then, Robert Mugabe hasn’t threatened our economic interests. Understand, I’m glad that Saddam Hussein is no longer in power, but we shouldn’t pretend that we don’t have ulterior motives.
I like this rather poetic description of where we, the church, are right now: “We are mixture of [the old] city with its misunderstanding, desperate needs, fears, foolishness, and sin, and of the [new city] where all sin, separation, crying, and pain are no more. In this mixed community there is always the [invincible] love of Christ, already at work in us, and the small rays of God’s light piercing the gloom and warming away the chill.”[1]
It’s been noted that the book of “Revelation saw in the other city, Rome, what many today see in the west. As we engage Revelation we may find ourselves much more aligned with the woman sitting on the seven hills than with the painful striving after hope which meets us in its pages. But if we allow ourselves to drop our alliances with the powers of wealth and engage with our hearts and minds the injustices which drive people to the craziness which generates dreams of renewal at one end and terrorism at the other, we might find a way for ourselves in their poetry and have some chance of meeting them where they are.”[2]
Persecution and suffering can cause people to hold onto hope, when nothing else remains. Or it can drive them to desperation, to horrendous deeds. The challenge of this book is to let what’s sometimes called the underside of history, the perspective of the downtrodden, be our lens. To try to see events through their eyes, and let it change our Christianity.
If that happens, Revelation will cease to be a mere curiosity—or a manifesto for those proclaiming that “soon and very soon…all hell is gonna break loose!” (Don’t give me that look! You know there are some people who practically drool while they think about the lovely disasters described in Revelation!) If we can learn to see the new city, and see past our love-hate relationship with the old city, then Revelation can really mean something to us. The spirit of this incredible book will inhabit our worship.
We here at Westminster can have our visions, as well!