“Almost Home”

Revelation 21:1-6a

October 30 and November 2, 2003

St. Paul United Methodist Church

Rev. John A. Fleming

I like the story that I ran across in one of Max Lucado’s books. By now you know that Max is one of my favorite authors. He is in demand, and gets numerous offers every year to preach, speak, and teach in places far from home. Every January he sits down with the invitations and decides which ones he will accept. Here is the way that he does it. He accepts twenty-five of them. Five times a year he leaves home and in five days he visits five different cities. He spreads those twenty-five throughout the twelve months and so when he is gone, he is gone for a week at a time. The story that I ran across is about his trip on the way home from one of those trips. Max starts it off by saying these words, “I’m almost home.” After five days and four hotel beds and eleven restaurants and twenty-two cups of coffee, he says, “I’m almost home.” After eight airplane seats, five airports, two long delays, a canceled flight, a book read mostly through turbulence, eighteen hundred packages of peanuts and a few coca-colas served in small cups from small cans, Max says, “I’m almost home.” His plane shakes under him. A baby, sitting with her young mother in the row of seats beside him is crying. There are a couple of businessmen in the midst of what seems to be a huge negotiation are in the row of seats behind him. Air flows out of a small port, next to the flight attendants call button, just above him. But none of that really matters. This preacher tells that what really matters is what is ahead of him, his home. Max tells that home was the first thing that he thought of when he woke up on this particular morning. It was the first thing that crossed his mind when he stepped down from his last podium and the first thing that he thought of when his last host dropped him off at the airport. Max said this, “There is nothing like the door that opens to your house. Coffee tastes better when you drink it from your favorite cup. There is no meal like the one that you eat, sitting at your place and your family’s table. And there are no hugs that are better than the ones you get from your own family.” Home

Those of you who have been away for some time, like this preacher, and are on your way home on an airplane, know that the hardest part and the slowest part of the trip is the last part. After the plane has landed and is creeping towards the terminal, this preacher is the one that the flight attendants have to remind to stay in his seat with his seat belt fastened. The preacher tells that one of his hands is on his seat belt and his other hand is on his briefcase. Max has learned something. Maybe you have learned it, too. There is a critical split second, that, if you are quick enough, you can dart out of your seat, through the dignitaries in first class, and through the tunnel to the terminal. If you miss the split second, then you will have to be polite and wait in a line for a while. By the way, I have never been able to make maneuver that split second! The preacher says that he does not usually act this way, but he does when his flight leads him home. Whether he is first or last, he steps on the bridge that leads him to the gate. And every time, without fail, he suddenly becomes nervous. He is not afraid of the tunnel collapsing. He is nervous for another reason. His stomach tightens. His heart jumps. His palms sweat as he walks up the ramp. Usually, that is when he hears the shrieks, the ones of his two little girls who are screaming, “Daddy! Daddy! We’re over here!” They won’t always do this, I suspect. I love it when I come home, even if it’s after I’ve seen Annie Grace a little while before. She calls out, “Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home!” I suspect that she will not do that forever! Well, back to the story. Max tells that his two girls are standing on the seats that they were once sitting in. They are clean, scrubbed down. When they see their daddy, they jump up and down, scream, and applaud. Max is not sure where they learned to do that, but he is not about to stop them now. Then there is a third face, the face of his wife. This preacher says, Ah, the faces of home”

Our scripture lesson for this morning has a different kind of homecoming in mind. These words are from the twenty-first chapter of the Book of Revelation. To be honest with you, I have not often preached from this book. In fact, I think that this is only the second time that I have. The first time was six or seven years ago, and the text from the book that I used was this lesson.

There is something about this last book in the Bible. Usually there are two reactions to it. People are either scared to death of it and avoid it at all costs, or they love it and cannot get enough of it. I tend to be in that first camp. What is it about this book that scares us? Well, there are seals and symbols and scrolls and angels and winds and stars that fall from the heavens. There are locusts and dragons and fiery pits and lakes of fire and smoldering coals. Good comes up against evil, in this book, and God battles the devil. But before it ends, in fact, a chapter before it ends, there is a different picture. It is our passage for this morning.

We think that the writer of this book is John, the same John who asked for a special position a couple of Sundays ago. It is the same John who once went up to the mountain top and saw Jesus suddenly turn white, dazzling white, Matthew tells us that he was transfigured before three disciples. This is the same John, or is it? Now John is old and tired. His journey has taken it’s toll. It’s this same John. All of his friends and fellow disciples are gone now. I wonder when he hears this voice thundering from the mountain again if he remembered that first time that he heard it? I don’t know. What I do know is that this voice from the throne called out to him and said, “See, the home of God is among mortals.” Here is what I think. I think that it is as if God pulls back a curtain, calls John over and says, “Take a peek. What do you think? This is what your homeland looks like.” God does that, I suppose, so that John can write about it. “Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. Now that is important. Back in Genesis, when God created things and called them good, there was the water and the seas. But then sin came into the world and by the time John wrote these words, the sea was a scary place. It was the world of the unknown, where danger lurked, where evil lived, and now God says there will be no more sea. This is quite a promise. “And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven of God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband.” Do not miss this. When John wrote about what he saw, he compared it with the most beautiful thing that he knew of, a bride dressed for her wedding day. One of the benefits of being a minister is that I am one of the first ones to see our brides as they start down our sanctuary’s middle aisle. The bride’s maids come down, and then the double doors shut for a moment. Bryan plays something fitting for her to come, the doors are open and I see her before anyone else. I have been doing weddings for ten years now. I do not think that I have ever seen an ugly bride. I have seen a groom or two that could use a little sprucing up, but I have never seen an ugly bride. There is just something about her that is hard to describe. In her eyes are expectations. We all sigh and smile as she makes her way up the aisle. A bride. A commitment robed in excellence. A, I’ll be with you forever. For John, a bride is the most beautiful thing that he knows. So when he sees the new city, he compares it to her.

Can I ask you if that is the world that you woke up to this morning? Could you compare today to a bride on her wedding day? I woke up this morning with the news that California wildfires are still out of control. I woke up this morning with the news that a twenty-six year old man, in a stolen pick-up truck, ran over five motorcyclists because of an argument. I woke up this morning with a church full of real people with real problems. Friends, hear this, this is a passage that says to us that there is hope and this is what it looks like.

So, if you could use a little hope. If you want it for your lives, then allow me to point out three things about this lesson. Are you ready? First, the old saint tells us that in this new world, God himself will wipe away our tears. I do not mind telling you that when I was a kid, I did my fair share of crying. I guess that we all did. I cried for a lot of reasons. I cried when I did not get what I wanted. I cried when my feelings were hurt. I cried when my sister pushed me down and for a lot of other reasons, too. All around me were people who could comfort me. My mother was good at it, but my dad, well, he was the best. He was not always home when I was in the middle of a full-blown cry, but sometimes he was. When he was, he would wipe away my tears. Dad could take away the tears, but often he took away the fear, too. John says that God will do that for us.

Then there is this. John says that death will be no more. If one of the joys of being a minister is standing front of the church waiting for the bride, then one of my sorrows is standing in a pulpit or at a grave side and saying words over ones that I have pastored and loved. This year I have stood by seventeen of your loved ones, asked God to receive them and to bless you. Once I was in your shoes, less than a couple of months ago, in Conway when my favorite aunt died. I remember when the funeral home called and told us that her body was ready to be viewed. I drove to Conway, went to the room where her body was, looked at my mother and said, “I just want her to get up one more time.” When we were in her church, singing the song that we sang this morning as we began our worship, I did not think that my tears would stop. In just a minute, we will call the names of seventeen persons. We will light a candle and chime a bell in their honor. But still I wish that death would just go away forever. I wish that cemeteries would quit selling plots, that hearses would stop carrying our loved ones. It will happen, says, John, in these last days...

And then this. I hope that you did not miss it. One of the best words in this passage says, “See, I am making all things new!” I like that. I think that it is hard to see things grow old, don’t you? The last time I was in Tennessee, I stopped in my hometown of Jackson. I drove by some of the important places. I drove through my neighborhood and imagined my friends who were there who have moved away now. I drove by Old Hickory Mall. I remembered being at the theater in that mall, up in the balcony. I will have to stop the details of the story at this point. Now the theater is a Blockbuster Video Store. I drove by Lion’s Field, our Little League park and imagined the home run I hit there when I was twelve. I wish that I could make all things new again, but I cannot. I ran across a picture of my mother the other day. It was one of a young Mary Fleming. Forever is in her eyes. In this picture, I am not even a glimmer in her eyes. Her hair is dark. Her skin is soft. Do not tell her that I told you this, but my mother looks a little different these days. Now her hair is gray. Her skin is still soft, but it is also wrinkled. I want to wipe away the years and the wrinkles. I want to climb back up in her lap and be lulled to sleep in a rocking chair. I want to make all things new again, but I cannot. But I know someone who can. He says that He will in this passage.

Let me say one more thing before we go. Three times in the third verse, God promises to dwell with us. Dwelling with us means pitching a tent and living with us. I do not know about you, but I like that promise. It helps me live in the harder times. Eugene Peterson has a modern paraphrase of the Bible. I like the way that he puts this verse. Listen to is. “I heard a voice thunder from the throne. Look! Look! God has moved into the neighborhood. While we wait, let’s hold on to that promise. Let us pray.

(Special thanks to Max Lucado for the opening story of this sermon and for some of the ideas in it. I dedicate this sermon to the loving memory of the aunt who loved me so much, Julia Lee Moore, 1918-2003).