Revelation 22:12-14, 16-17, 20-21
I have included in the spoken version of my sermon a reading of Amanda Gorman’s most recent published poem, which she shared on her social media platforms in the wake of the school shooting in Uvalde. In the interest of supporting her in her work and directing web traffic to the source, I have included here a link to Ms. Gorman’s Facebook page where I first saw this poem shared, instead of replicating it in its entirety here. It has also been published as a guest essay in the NY Times. Amanda Gorman’s website is here where you can find more information about her and find links to purchase her published works. Follow her on Instagram here.
Come, Lord Jesus! I’ve said that prayer a lot lately, and maybe you’ve prayed it too, or something like it. The promise of the second advent of Christ has carried me through things I thought I’d never survive. I lost my first friend to gun violence when I was in eighth grade. Come Lord Jesus. I was born in 1994. The infamous mass shooting at Columbine High School took place in 1999. Come Lord Jesus. I learned what to do if there was an active shooter in the building the same way I learned how to evacuate in case of a fire or how to get to a sturdy windowless wall in case of tornadoes. I have never known any different. My siblings have never known any different. Come Lord Jesus. I grew up with the understanding that schools were not safe places. Neither were churches, or grocery stores, or the street, or the YMCA that gave me my first job. Evil and violence and hatred do not concern themselves with boundaries, or sanctuaries, or the spaces we set aside as sacred. Come Lord Jesus. That has been my lament these past two weeks, and I know from hearing the cries of your hearts that you are lamenting too. We lament the loss of life, the loss of our sense of safety for ourselves and those we love, the loss of a moment’s peace. Come Lord Jesus. We have endured 3 mass shootings in less than two week’s time. This on top of our personal and communal burdens- surgeries, illnesses, ongoing pandemic realities, grief, bittersweet milestones, storms, financial pressures, big and little decisions that keep us up at night. Come Lord Jesus. The political and social and economic discourse reflects the pain and rage and fear ravaging us as a nation and a people, driving us farther apart when we most need one another. Come Lord Jesus. We are weary, and it is hard at times like these to believe that any part of this world could possibly be redeemed.
In the final chapter of the Revelation of John, the promise of redemption is reiterated by the voice of Jesus himself. “See I am coming soon.” “It is I Jesus who sent my angel to you with this testimony for the churches.” “Surely I am coming soon.” Well would you hurry it up Jesus? Soon was a long time ago. The kingdom of heaven feels awfully far away here lately.
For centuries, there have been people who put their heart and soul and mind to the work of predicting the second coming of Christ. Based on everything from world events to the positioning of the stars to alleged divine encounters, human beings have tried to hurry along the return of Jesus by sheer force of our imaginations. We have been promised that when Jesus comes back, all shall be made right. That righteousness we have been searching for will flow out. That peace from above will engulf us. That justice we attempt to imitate so poorly will be enacted in fullness and the veil will finally be removed from between us. It is a good and important promise, and as I’ve shared it has gotten me personally through some things I didn’t believe I could survive. And- not once in all of scripture are we told to sit around and wait for that day to come. We are not meant to sit on our hands in silence, or even on our knees in prayer, until the end of time. Our Savior does not model for us a life of passivity. The false prophets and the well-intentioned scholars alike have missed the mark every time they’ve prioritized pinpointing the Day of Judgment over building the Peaceable Kingdom on Earth. Jesus has given us everything we need to continue his healing work until he comes again, and now more than ever we cannot lie down on the job.
Our God is a God who keeps his promises, and we have to keep ours. To renounce wickedness and evil and corruption. To resist, and when we fall, to repent. To seek and serve Christ in all people, loving our neighbors as ourselves. To strive for justice and peace. To respect the dignity of every human being. To be the generation that lightens our children’s burdens, not adds to them. Faith takes practice. Hope takes work. Healing requires energy, and rest, and prayer, and action. We will continue to pray “Come Lord Jesus,” and we must also walk in his ways and live in his life here and now if we have any hope of recognizing him when he returns. The life of Jesus looks like returning repeatedly to the margins and centering the voices and experiences of the oppressed. The life of Jesus looks like dialogue with those we do not understand. The life of Jesus looks like flipping tables and disturbing the peace and divesting from the principalities and powers of this world. And it looks like love, the kind that tells the truth and does the work. This is what we were made for. This is what we were saved for, set apart for as a Church.
I believe, as I know many of you do, that poetry and music and art can help us find understanding and healing amidst even the darkest of times. I know this because there are vibrant windows in this church that represent the pain and the grief and the hope of this community. I know this because I’ve seen tears in your eyes when we sing certain hymns, and some of you have slipped books or poetry into my hands that have changed your life. I want to share with you a poem that has opened my grief-hardened heart to some hope this week, and I hope it might do the same for you. This poem was written by Amanda Gorman, the youngest inauguration poet in US history. She shared this poem on her social media this week, and I encourage you to find more of her work there and in her books. She has a lot to teach us.
Come, Lord Jesus. And in the meantime, may we not just ache, but act.
Mother A Writes 