Look Up, Even When You'd Rather Burn It All Down
An All Saints Day Sermon on Grief, Rage, and Colossians 3:2
It's All Saints Day. I've been dreaming about my late father recently. He's been gone for a while now, but apparently my subconscious has decided that we have some unfinished business involving ordinary errands. In one dream, we were picking out pants together. Nothing particularly profound, just shopping for pants like two perfectly ordinary people who had apparently wandered into a department store without realizing one of them had already graduated to eternity.
And then, I wake up. That's the trouble with grief. I know where my father is. He's with Jesus. I know that we're both one with Jesus, and that the separation we experience here isn't the ultimate reality. I haven't actually lost him in the sense that matters most. Death doesn't get to undo what Christ has accomplished. Knowing something and experiencing something aren't always the same thing. I miss my dad, and I don't want to lose my mother. I'd honestly rather leave this planet before she does. I know that's not how the schedule necessarily works, but I'd just prefer not to have to learn what that particular kind of grief feels like.
That's not the only thing that's been on my mind. Sometimes I'm sitting in church, listening to somebody cover Leanna Crawford's "How Can You Not See God," and the AV guy puts the lyrics on the screen without capitalizing the word "not." That's where my brain goes instead of the lyrics about the beautiful colors in the sky that God supposedly painted just for me. I'm thinking about the little children who won't live long enough to see very many sunrises at all. I'm thinking about starvation and disease, which are entirely preventable deaths. About $150 USD in peanut paste can save a starving child. I'm thinking about the suffering that has been going on for thousands of years, much of it inflicted by human beings on other human beings.
Sometimes, I don’t feel particularly inspirational. There are times I feel like an Old Testament prophet, like Tool's "Ænema" has a point, like Type O Negative's "Xero Tolerance" might be an appropriate soundtrack for the next time a well-meaning somebody tells me that everything happens for a reason.
Maranatha. Come, Lord Jesus. There are moments when the preferred solution seems to be burning the whole rotten thing down and starting over. The sunset is pretty. I like sunsets. I have experienced moments when the beauty of creation has made me feel as though God personally arranged the scenery for my benefit, but that doesn't explain a starving child, and I don't think God needs me to pretend otherwise.
There's a verse that keeps bringing me back from all of this.
Colossians 3:2: "Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things."
Paul isn't telling us that earthly things are imaginary, unimportant, or unworthy of our attention. He isn't suggesting that suffering is an illusion that disappears if we meditate hard enough. He certainly isn't telling us that we should stop caring about the people who are hurting. He's telling us where to establish our perspective. There's a difference between looking at the world and making the world our ultimate frame of reference. If I look only at the world, I see death. I see people I love growing older. I see people getting sick. I see people dying. I see children suffering for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with anything they've done.
But when I look above, I see something else. I see Jesus, and suddenly, the story changes. I remind myself that my earthly father is an eternal being, and so am I, and so is my mother. We aren't temporary biological accidents who happened to develop an emotional attachment to one another before eventually disappearing into the dirt. We are people whom Christ has joined to Himself, and that changes everything. I haven't lost my father in the ultimate sense. I haven't lost the relationship that God intends to preserve. I haven't lost anything that God cannot restore. If anything, the future He has promised makes the present look like a rough draft. I'm talking about resurrection. I'm talking about a real future in which death is defeated, creation is made right, and the people God loves are together again. I miss my dad. I don't want to lose my mom. Death is real; it just isn't permanent. God doesn’t need me to defend the present arrangement.
One thing I appreciate about the Old Testament prophets is that they weren't particularly interested in pretending everything was fine. They got angry. They lamented. They complained about injustice, exploitation, violence, religious hypocrisy, and people who profited from somebody else's misery. God put their words in Scripture. That's worth remembering. I don't have to call evil good to demonstrate that I trust God. I don't have to look at suffering and manufacture a sentimental explanation for it. I don't have to tell somebody who has lost a child that God needed another angel, and I'd like to request that we stop assigning God responsibility for things He has promised to defeat. I don't have to explain every tragedy. The Christian hope isn't that everything is already wonderful. The Christian hope is that Jesus is going to make everything right. He isn't returning to give the universe another motivational speech. He's coming to judge the world. He's coming to burn the powers that have deceived humanity, corrupted creation, and helped turn this place into something so far removed from God's intentions. Evil and death have an expiration date. Jesus does not. The same Jesus who welcomed sinners, healed the sick, raised the dead, and gave Himself for us is the Jesus who will finally put an end to everything that opposes His goodness.
God wants to save people, and I have no interest in deciding which people are beyond His reach. However, I absolutely want evil defeated, I want the suffering to stop, I want the children to live, I want the grieving to be comforted, I want the dead raised, and I want the people I love back in the room.
All Saints Day is about more than remembering the dead. It's a day to remember that, in Christ, they still are alive. The world looks at death and sees a conclusion. Christianity looks at death and sees an enemy that has already been defeated, even if the headless snake still thrashes around. Life does not make sense, and it does not have to make sense. Your closed door, like Paul’s in Acts 16, might be the answer to someone else’s prayer. We can’t see everything; God does.
My earthly father isn't merely a collection of memories. He's still a person, and Jesus has already done what was necessary. Our futures aren’t dependent on whether I have a particularly good day emotionally. That's grace, and the finished work of Christ. Death cannot separate us from Him. I can look at a sunrise and appreciate its beauty while simultaneously wondering why human beings haven't figured out how to feed everybody without surrendering my hope.
Look up. The present is not the future. I know Who holds the future, and I know that He isn't finished.
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