"The Mini-Apocalypse of Isaiah"

 Rev. Debra McKnight's Sermon 

April 19, 2020

God is in the kitchen, puttering around a little flour in her hair and setting the table for the whole world. And it’s not just any table; it is the finest wine and the richest food, no worries about carbs or cholesterol  at God’s table. This Divine feast begins with God swallowing up death and drying tears; it is a revelation, a culmination of all things - and it is beautiful. This little morsel of meaning is brought to you by what scholars call, “The Mini-apocalypse of Isaiah” and you might rightfully be thinking, well…I don’t often put the word mini with the word apocalypse. Fair enough, when we think apocalypse, we think of a big budget movie with dramatic sound effects and huge explosions.  We don’t tend to think of it as the short film that precedes the movie. The truth is when we think of apocalyptic literature, we think mostly of the Book of Revelation.

If this is a new book for you, it’s at the end of the Christian scriptures and it is, well…wild. Step tenderly if and when you enter its pages. Revelation, like other literature in the Biblical narrative, proposes a culmination of all things and it is layered with mystery, symbols and history. It is attributed to a man called John of Patmos, while in exile, and composed to a people under the boot of one of the most violent and oppressive empires in the history of the world - Rome. It is hard for us to read as modern folks, not only because its violence may shock us, but because we are so far removed from this original audience and author. This kind of writing happens often when people face oppression and can only imagine a future where the change is so drastic it must be God-size intervention. We modern readers could look at it with the same understanding spirituals carried during the violence of slavery.  It was a language of coded meaning, to communicate without being caught, to be understood by the right folks and evade the oppressor’s violence. 

Unfortunately when I was growing up, all of the folks who had studied biblical languages and the historic context of the New Testament, who should have shared this kind of wisdom about the images in Revelation (or at the very least warned that we have more in-common with the beasts of Rome and Babylon than we do with John of Patmos) didn’t. Most of the 20th Century has done damage to and with these texts. The folks best equipped to invite exploration haven’t, they know enough to know they don’t know enough and that this conversation is hard…particularly when you are organizing the trustees meeting or trying to keep the peace in your church council. This meant that in my hometown, like hundreds of others, the only folks who wanted to talk about Revelation, were a local police officer and the high school cross country coach (who certainly studied, but likely only knew enough to be dangerous). Of course they were confident at the same time and, like most fundamentalist explanations, the space for mystery and ambiguity is absent. 

One evening in 1990something, I learned about the apocalypse and, to this day, I think if folks have to have letters to participate in sex education, they sure as hell should have letters for this kind of lesson plan, too. I stayed after the meal at FCA.  I usually had dance class and so mostly I ate with folks and was there for a few songs or the opening prayer, but not tonight. This particular night we watched a video, part of a series where the mysterious images of ancient literature were placed in the context I knew. Planes were crashing because pilots were raptured and cars were careening away as drivers disappeared. It was violent and emotional and terrifying and not just some ancient text that seemed unapproachable, but set in all the stuff of modern life - fast food and high school and some preppy cute guys like Kirk Cameron. The good people were taken up and the rest were left on this violent hellscape. So the point of all this, it turns out, was a hard sell on being one of the good people by giving your life to Christ and saving others by asking them to, as well.

But this isn’t the whole story of these narratives. There are tensions in the Bible. It’s true sometimes God comes to town like Wyatt Earp, with a crew of horsemen and beasts, and the bad folks get what they have coming. But that isn’t the only narrative or choice. Sometimes God is a little more like Julia Child, puttering around the kitchen and rather than wreaking havoc and participating in a violent end to the culmination of all things, She sets a fine table, includes everyone, and then swallows up death. Even as this kind of literature is so difficult to explore, I think we need it. And we don’t have to think of it as God’s strategic plan, just like we don’t have to think of the creation stories as a text book. We need it, but not like we need a newspaper's truth.  We need it like we need the truth of poetry and art and song. Because we need to cling on to the hope of an abundant table and a day when tears are dried. We need it just like the folks needed it when it was first composed. They are in a place where it is easy to give up hope, where despair lingers around the corner, and eyes are swollen with grief. 

Isaiah names this struggle, as he looks to a people in despair.  He doesn’t just name a beautiful ending without the struggle; the earth is broken and the systems seem unfixable. He writes:

The earth dries up and withers,

   the world languishes and withers;

   the heavens languish together with the earth. 

The earth lies polluted

   under its inhabitants;

for they have transgressed laws,

   violated the statutes,

   broken the everlasting covenant. 

He names heavy loss, the wine for festivals and the table dries up and it can not even be produced in the future. 

The wine dries up,

   the vine languishes,

   all the merry-hearted sigh. 

The mirth of the timbrels is stilled,

   the noise of the jubilant has ceased,

   the mirth of the lyre is stilled. 

No longer do they drink wine with singing;

   strong drink is bitter to those who drink it. 

The wine is gone, the music is gone, the joy and resilience of the people are gone. And the drink that once was for festival and celebration becomes the consumption for numbing pain and loss. But that is not the end of the story, the Kings and forces of injustice are rounded up, taking from the seats of power and God does something new.

Therefore strong peoples will glorify you;

   cities of ruthless nations will fear you. 

For you have been a refuge to the poor,

   a refuge to the needy in their distress,

   a shelter from the rainstorm and a shade from the heat.

When the blast of the ruthless was like a winter rainstorm, 

   the noise of aliens like heat in a dry place,

you subdued the heat with the shade of clouds;

   the song of the ruthless was stilled. 

God does something new, They set a table in the sacred place, the holy mountain where covenants happen. 

On this mountain the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples

   a feast of rich food, a feast of well-matured wines,

   of rich food filled with marrow, of well-matured wines strained clear. 

And unlike other stories, everyone is invited. It is rich and abundant, no leftovers or fillers. It is fit for a king but everyone is invited, right and poor, insider and outsider, friend and enemy, good guy and bad guy. Everyone gets a seat and you don’t have to be the biggest donor. God sets the table for all and just as the feast is about to start, the moment gets more dramatic and generous. She eats something else, the shroud of death. God swallows up death and grief and loss forever. The heaviness that we all bear, grief of losing ones we love and our fear of mortality, gone in a single moment... gone. Then she dries up all the tears. 

And he will destroy on this mountain

   the shroud that is cast over all peoples,

   the sheet that is spread over all nations; 

he will swallow up death for ever.

Then the Lord God will wipe away the tears from all faces,

   and the disgrace of his people he will take away from all the earth,

   for the Lord has spoken. 

We have a choice: what stories do we live into, what poetry do we cling to when we, weary with grief, are prone to despair. I imagine Jesus clinging to this image of God, maybe it's a part of why he fed people every chance he got and taught us to do the same. Maybe that’s why he ate with folks on the margins and outside the boundaries and spent time in the homes of his friends lingering at the table in love and fellowship and connection. 

We need these stories. They form us into people who set the table and shape our lives into the image of love that nourishes all people and dries all the tears. 

May we have the courage. Amen.