The End of the Story

Rev. 1:9-18
Cascades Fellowship
Dec. 31, 1999

Tonight’s the night! Y2K is finally upon us and it will be only a matter of a few

hours before we find out if it really is a mountain or a mole hill. We have had two years of

hype and hysteria -- forecasts of doom on one side, promises of technological advances

beyond our imagination on the other. But in a few hours all the build up will be history and

we will finally know whether we should laugh or cry.

What really frightens me about all this Y2K stuff is some of the messages I hear

coming from the church. I have heard rumors of great calamity, unprecedented chaos, and

calls to stockpile resources, batten down the hatches and enter the survivalist zone. This

coming from people who profess faith in a sovereign God. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m

not advocating a “business as usual” approach -- prudent precautions should be observed.

But I am hearing apocalyptic murmurs from the mouths of Christians -- murmurs tinged

with apprehension and fear.

Should we be sore afraid (to use the King James vernacular) of Y2K? Should we

live out the next few hours petrified over what lies in the void beyond the other side of

midnight? Well, let me answer by describing three scenes for you -- scenes recorded in the

Scriptures. Our text this morning is Rev. 1:9-18, but I don’t want us to turn there right

away because this morning I want us begin with the season just past -- Christmas.

Our pictures, our nativity scenes, our images all depict this serene, placid moment –

a beatific minute in time when the shepherds come in from the field and kneel with all the
barn animals before the manger. Mary and Joseph appear to be at great peace – both

looking with sage confidence at the manger. They are portrayed as competent, composed

twenty-something adults ready for the full bloom of parenthood. Especially, the parenthood

for the Son of God. And the whole family emanates this golden glow about their heads –

which I suppose signifies some degree of purity rather than some genetic predisposition to

glowing spontaneously. We have a very idealistic view of that Christmas morn.

But the real story of Christmas is not our rather optimistic portrayal of the virgin

birth, rather it is that God broke into time and became one of us. At a specific time in

history, into a specific place on earth, God’s head poked out of the womb and for the first

time felt the wind he created brush against his red, wrinkled face. His little lungs drew in

air soured by the common product of every barn – the stuff we spread on our gardens to

help them grow. Then he discharged the soured air in a birth cry, announcing to the world

that God was born and that he was cold and hungry.

You see, if we were to picture the nativity properly we would have to build a little

cave-like structure, slightly damp, very dark and reeking with animal waste. Mary and

Joseph would be two teen-aged Hebrews, looking anxiously from the food trough where

Jesus lay, to one another, to heaven. They would most likely be scared out of their wits,

each wrestling with doubts over the visions they had seen proclaiming the child now before

them was God in the flesh. He didn’t look like God. But then again, what would God look

like?

Here is Jesus Christ, the Son of God, the second person of the Trinity. Born into the

family of young carpenter. A pauper on the stage of the world amidst kings, governors, and
emperors. Incarnate God in the form of a little baby unable to feed himself, clothe himself

or change his swaddling clothes when they became soiled. This is our God – a picture of

weakness, completely helpless, unable to hold his head erect. All his plans – in the words

of C.S. Lewis – rests in the decisions of two Jewish teenagers. Two very poor, very lonely

teenagers. Can we really believe they had the support of their families? That they did not

suffer under the shame of what must have appeared to be an indiscretion to the rest of the

world? Not yet married, and still Mary’s stomach betrays the fruit of marriage. What a

strange way to save the world. Could God have stacked the deck against himself any more

than he did? The stigma of out of wedlock birth, the stigma of poverty, born in a barn…

this is our God. Weak and helpless.

Doesn’t leave us with an overwhelming sense of confidence in light of the uncertainty of

Y2K, does it? How can this little Jewish baby born two millennia ago help us face such

uncertain times?

Fortunately, the story isn’t finished. Fast-forward about thirty-three years. The

scene is Golgotha -- the place of the skull. Two crosses stand at either edge of the hill, a

condemned thief hangs from each one. A crowd has gathered, but not for these two

wretches. The crowd parts, and a unit of roman soldiers presses through the opening. As

they turn toward the center of the hill, you can see something shambling along in their

midst. Behind the shambling thing is a man carrying a huge wooden beam upon his

shoulder, dragging one end of it through the sand. He groans under the weight, but the

threat of the lash being wielded by the centurion behind him keeps him moving. He doesn’t
want to end up looking like the thing -- he can’t even call it a man any longer -- ahead of

him.

The thing ahead of him bleeds profusely from every part of his body. From his head,

crimson flow gushes through the lattice work of punctures caused by the crown of thorns.

His skin -- all of it -- is nearly flayed from his back. Only a few tattered remains cling to

the exposed fatty tissue. His chest and torso bleed from the errant lash that missed his back

by wrapping around, allowing the lead and glass chunks to dig into the unbroken flesh on

his fore. His face is misshapened with bruises and contusions. It is hard to call something

this grotesque, this repulsive, human.

The beam is snatched from the man’s shoulder and hurled to the ground. It is fitted

to another, longer beam at a 90 degree angle. The bleeding, shambling thing is roughly

wrestled into a spread-armed position atop the beams, arms stretched as if he would

embrace the whole world. Then the Roman soldiers nail his arms to the cross-beam,

pinning him in his global hug. His feet are positioned one on top the other above a small

block of wood -- an inch or two of air separating the two. They, too, are nailed into

position. Using ropes and backs hardened in combat, the Roman soldiers raise the cross

with the shambling thing nailed to it and drop it unceremoniously into a hole. With a

muffled thud and an torturous scream from the shambling thing, the cross comes to rest

between the two thieves.

Again, behold Jesus Christ the Lord. Again we find him in great weakness, unable to

do anything for himself. Slowly, life ebbs away from him and the second person of the
Trinity cries out, bewildered by his abandonment. In deepest agony, he dies -- murdered on

the cross.

How can a murdered God bring us comfort -- bring us confidence -- in the face of

Y2K? Again, fortunately the story isn’t over. Now let’s skip to the end of the story -- Rev.

1:9-18 (read the passage).

Here’s John, the “beloved disciple” on the island of Patmos. He is an old man now.

He has seen those with whom he walked in following Jesus martyred, one after the other.

He has witnessed converts his testimony brought into the kingdom of God slain for the sake

of the gospel. He, miraculously, has been spared where others have perished under the

sword of Rome. Why? Was his light not bright enough? Why was he merely banished to

this nether land? Then, while John prays, he hears a voice.

“Write on a scroll what you see...”

John turns to see who it is who speaks to him in this lonely place and what meets his

eyes turns his heart fire and his knees to water. He collapses in heap of humility, as if dead.

What did he see?

One like a son of man walking among seven lamp stands. We find out later that the

seven lampstands represents the church -- and the one like the Son of Man walks in its

midst. In other words, he lives eternally in the midst of the church, tending its flame lest its

light become dim. He is the high priest -- just look at his robe. The golden sash, an

emblem of power, recalls the linen ephod worn by Aaron and his line when the high priest

of the earthly tabernacle would minister before the Lord on behalf of the people of Israel.

Like the priest which foreshadowed this last and greatest High Priest, the one like the Son
of Man is charged with keeping the Lamp of God alight in the darkness. So he diligently

sees to lampstands, coaxing light from even the barest wick. He, afterall, is the faithful

witness.

His robes are marks of royalty as well. This one who is like the Son of Man is also

Lord. He referred to himself in v. 6 as the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end.

Purity and wisdom, symbolized in the mane of white hair, adorn his head. His eyes burn

like fire with the piercing light of judgment. His feet, glowing like burnished bronze, shine

brightly with the promise of stability and strength. His tread is sure, his step is righteous --

treading out wrath where called for, coming along side to comfort where needed. He is

immovable from the true and perfect way. His voice crashes over the ears of John like an

ocean of authority. Were he to loose the fullness of his power contained in his mere spoken

word, he would severe the very earth from its foundations like a double-edged sword severs

the life from the man. Such brightness pulses from his face that the sun becomes dark by

comparison.

Behold, Jesus Christ the Lord. King of Kings and Lord of Lords. The Great Judge

and High Priest. The Word who was with God in the beginning and who is God.

Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. This figure of

immeasurable power, of unfathomable might is the helpless Babe in the manger and the

shambling thing on the cross. You see, this is the end of the story. Hear again his words:

“Do not be afraid. I am the First and the Last. I am the Living One; I was dead and behold!

I am alive for ever and ever. And I hold the keys of death and Hades.”
Folks, this is why we need not fear Y2K. Our God reigns. He is the First and the Last. In

other words, our God is Y2K sovereign. He is not disturbed by the possibility of economic

travails or societal woes. Our God knows the score and he speaks to people, “Do not be

afraid.” The same comfort these words brought to those being persecuted in the first

century church is extended to us as we face the uncertainty of what the stroke of midnight

will bring. Whether lights go out or stay on, God is still on the throne. He is still Lord. No

glitch in a computer program can change that.

An Episcopal friend of mine was playing basketball one day with his seminary buds

during a class break. As they grunted out the frustrations of Greek and Hebrew exams with

some lively play in the paint, the old janitor for the school came out and sat upon the back

stoop, pulled out his Bible and started reading. The seminarians, plump with theological

knowledge, thought they would have a little sport with the old guy.

“What you reading?” they asked.

“Revelation,” he answered without looking up.

“Whoa! You understand that stuff?” they asked condescendingly.

“Yep.”

“What does it all mean?” they challenged, eagerly waiting to pounce on any error.

The man drew a slow breath, looked at the young seminarians and smiled. With a

twinkle in his eye he said, “It’s real simple.”

“Well, what does it mean?” they asked impatiently.

“God wins.” My friend said they just shook their heads and went back to the game.

The wisdom of the janitor’s answer was too profound to argue.

 Instead of dissolving in fear, let’s start out the New Year -- the new millennium -- out

by recognizing our God’s rulership even over the unpredictable affects of Y2K. Let us give

him praise for his providence over the past year and offer up prayers of petition for the

coming year. Let’s recognize that the end of the story is that God wins.