Great Multitude [All Saints' Sunday - Revelation 7:9-17]

 The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Revelation 7:9-17

 

Great Multitude

 

It might just be that we are all standing on the edge of the apocalypse.  That perhaps apocalyptic vision belongs not only to entranced prophets and the writer of the book of Revelation; that apocalyptic talk is not strictly the domain of street-corner preachers and fervent Pentecostals; that apocalyptic experiences are not reserved for the movie screen.  But for those who are permanently stained with baptismal waters, those who sway to the songs of the dead.

 

The word “apocalypse” is widely misunderstood in our culture and even in the Church.  For most it brings to mind cataclysmic disaster, unprecedented trauma, Rapture anxieties, even the end of the world.  But the apocalypse is not the end of the world; the apocalypse is not made of earthquakes and hurricanes. But it is an act of God: it is the moment God opens our eyes so that we can see the world for what it really is. 

 

The word “apocalypse” literally means “uncovering.”  John, on the island of Patmos, in his exilic prison, as he penned his book of Revelation, was not given a vision of a distant future; he was not burdened with predictions.  He was given, by God, a glimpse of the truth, a peek behind the veil.  He saw the more than meets the eye; he saw the unseen hand of God at work in the world around him.  He saw the kingdom coming through the temporal distractions, through the fog of despair, through the tyranny of persecution.  He caught a vision of heaven.  And though hidden, it was close; though hidden, it was real.  And it gave him hope.  A hope he shared with those weighed down by the weight of their violent and chaotic world.

 

The apocalyptic truth is that in an age of disposable headlines and dire predictions, it is the salvation story that is carved in stone.  The love that holds us is stronger than the forces of evil and it always has the final word.  God’s story tells us that there is an Easter inside of every Good Friday tomb.  There is a resurrection just beyond the violence of the every cross.  There is an Alleluia that shouts louder than the sting of death. 

 

And we are sitting in its presence.  What we cannot see, today we acknowledge with the deepest faith we can muster.  Love is the destiny of our universe.  And nothing can separate us from the love of God.  Not even death.  Death comes for us but death does not diminish us.  Neither does it diminish the Church.  Because our dead are alive – changed but not ended.  Unseen but present.  Missed but forever found by God. 

 

We are, even now, surrounded by a great multitude that no one can count.  There are souls that surround us – in prayer, in companionship.  And John saw them and made a record for us.  John saw the great multitude.  He was given a glimpse behind the veil. 

 

And sometimes we are too.  Sometimes we feel them brush up against our skin.  Sometimes we hear them in our prayers.  Sometimes they visit us in our dreams.  Sometimes we are aware that the Bread of Heaven falls from their table.  Because we are people of the Apocalypse.  We do get glimpses.

 

Today eleven beloved children of God will join hands, across eternity, with that great multitude.  They will be welcomed by a vast family, seen and unseen, a family that straddles the divide of death.  These eleven will be born into an eternal mystery in the waters of baptism – permanently stained.  They will join a household of faith that only and forever swells with souls; the Body of Christ only grows. 

 

And grow it has.  This will be the final baptismal feast I will celebrate as your Rector.  And what a celebration is it!  This is the most crowded I have ever seen our font.  During our time together though, our font has been busy.  Together we have welcomed 117 people into the household of God.  The Body of Christ only grows.

 

Those we have walked to the water, God has knit into the one communion and fellowship of the mystical Body of Christ.  Into a holy tapestry that blankets history and eternity, that wraps us up together.  All of us: we are knit together at the font.  Each drop of water a thread through the heart.  Each thread a permanent claim, an eternal bond.  That which holds us together can never be severed.  Nothing is lost in God.  Always and forever: we belong to a holy family that transcends time and space, nation and name.    

 

By the grace of God, we have found our people.  They never leave us.  We never leave them.  No distance or circumstance can keep us apart; God has knit us together.  Not even death can separate us: not from God, not from the great multitude, not from the generations of those washed in the water of life, not from each other.  As our opening hymn reminded us: “All are one in thee, for all are thine.”

 

These are our people.  And we call our people saints.  Not because they are perfect or prolific.  But because they belong to God, because they are children of God: washed clean and knit together.  They are not perfect, not polished, usually not celebrated in their own time.  But they live with visions in their heads and holy fire in their hearts.  They are the poor in spirit, the merciful, the peacemakers, and the persecuted.  They are the ones who love too much.  They are the ones who hope for the impossible.  They are the ones who live in a kingdom that is coming – unseen but real.  They are the ones who hold hands with the dead and shout alleluias at the grave. 

 

And you are one of them.  And so am I.  Though not perfect, we are the saints of this age.  We know “what will be has not yet been revealed.”  But from the edge of the apocalypse, we see reasons to hope, we catch glimpses heaven, we watch the dreams of God coming true.  From the edge of the apocalypse, we see that Life goes on and Love has the final word.  And so we fill the font with ancient waters, we extend our welcome far and wide, and we celebrate, with the living and the dead, as the great multitude grows even greater.