Hope from the Margins [Easter 4C - Revelation 7:9-17]
The Rt. Rev. Jeremiah Williamson
Revelation 7:9-17
Hope from the Margins
St. James, Oneonta
Everything changed in the fourth century. Historians argue the details. Christians debate the merits. But what is undeniable is that during the
reign of Emperor Constantine the Church was thrust into the Halls of Power for
the first time in its history. When the
Emperor found Jesus, he made sure everyone else did too – whether they wanted
to or not. After centuries of exclusion,
oppression, humiliation, and persecution, the sudden experience of comfort and
influence was as dizzying as it was difficult to resist. The enemy Empire of the book of Revelation,
Rome, abruptly affixed the cross of Christ to its weapons of war and marched
out to conquer the world.
And as the years passed, and the footprint grew, the Church
and its leaders began to forget the little Church of the Book of
Revelation. That Church, scattered
throughout the cruel Roman Empire, the same Empire that killed their Christ, was
small and suffering. The little
communities committed to their Crucified Lord lived in the shadows, in the
margins. They refused to worship the
gods of the Empire and so they were punished – economically, socially, and even
physically. It was a brutal time to
follow Jesus.
These are the Christians with whom John shares his stunning
vision. Even John, from his exilic
prison, could not immediately make sense of what he saw; it all seemed too
beautiful. In his dream the pews were
full, the people were free, and the pains of the world were nowhere to be
found. It looked like Heaven – because
it was.
It was a powerful vision that gave the persecuted people
hope. This vision that we call the Book
of Revelation helped that fledgling Church survive. It was a deep well of faith for a people
holding to the end of their rope. It was
“the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen.” John’s dream was apocalyptic in the truest
sense: it was a vision of a deeper reality, something far more real than the brutal
doldrums of the day-to-day. God knew
what that little Church needed and God flashed it right before John’s eyes.
That dream was dreamed a long time ago. And in the centuries since, the Church has
spread throughout the world. The Church
is larger and more powerful than John could have ever imagined during his
ministry in the last days of the first century.
And yet, John's apocalyptic vision of a "deeper
reality," something more real than the present suffering, continues to be
a powerful source of hope. This yearning
for a reality beyond the pain and injustice of the present is still needed
because the world is still in pain.
Even though the Church has walked the Halls of Power, even
though powerful people invoke the language of the Church to get their way, even
though we no longer worship in the shadows, we are still waiting for the
Kingdom come. We know too well that this
world is still plagued with pain and suffering, with injustice and
violence. We are far, in many ways, from
the Patmos vision, and yet we are still looking and longing for the day when
God will wipe away every tear.
We are still a people in need of some holy hope. Like Christians through the centuries, we
need to be reminded that true salvation is not a function of good governance or
financial success. Salvation still
belongs to our God. That salvation story
has long been whispered, or maybe sung, from the margins, by the put down and
the oppressed, by communities that have absolutely run on Gospel hope.
For me an especially powerful expression of this deep hope,
this unwavering belief in a future where justice and peace prevail, can be
found in the tradition of African American spirituals. These songs, born from
the crucible of slavery, are not simply laments; they are profound theological
statements, powerful cries for liberation, and unwavering declarations of faith
in a God who sees and hears the cries of the oppressed, of the lonely, of the
hurting. They are, in their own way, a testament to the same kind of hope that
sustained that early church as they looked expectantly and audaciously towards
God's ultimate victory.
The late Yolanda Smith wrote, “[African-American] spirituals
embody the faith and heritage of a people who have encountered the dehumanizing
effects of slavery and racism. Enslaved for nearly three hundred years, the
collective creators of these songs sang about the suffering they endured:
“Nobody knows the trouble I see, nobody knows my sorrow; nobody knows the
trouble I see, Glory, Hallelujah!”
Despite the overwhelming despair, they never lost sight of
their faith. As preservers of this dynamic faith and heritage, the spirituals
helped sustain the enslaved community. They served not only as a means of
education and worship. They gave the community a way to express its deepest
aspirations for freedom and social change. As a form of covert communication in
the resistance struggle for liberation, the spirituals often signaled impending
escapes or secret gatherings. Although the spirituals recount the brutal
realities of slavery, they simultaneously reflect an enduring legacy of hope,
resilience, survival, and unwavering faith.”[1]
In this Easter season, we are called to be people of hope,
people of a resilient faith. We are
called to live for a world made new, a world in which tears of sadness are no
longer needed. We stand in a long line of faithful witnesses, from the early
Christians in the Roman Empire to the enslaved Africans who sang their way to
freedom, all sustained by the promise of God's unwavering love and ultimate
victory.
Like the vision of John, the spirituals remind us that even
in the darkest of times, hope can take root and flourish. They remind us that
God hears the cries of the oppressed, that God sees the tears of the suffering,
and that God's love will ultimately prevail. They are a testament to the power
of faith to transform sorrow into a song of hope.
And this hope, this stubborn hope, is not just a relic of the
past. It is a living hope, a hope that continues to sustain us today. It is the
hope that empowers us to work for justice, to stand in solidarity with the
marginalized, to sing Alleluias at the grave, and to build a world that looks
and feels more like Heaven.
We are Easter people; we carry this hope in our hearts. Instructed by the voices of the marginalized
Church, and empowered by the same Spirit that raised Christ from the dead, it
is our work to give people hope.
We have a vision to share, a vision handed down by the
pioneers of our faith: even in the midst of an unjust world, in the face of
steep challenges, in a world that break our hearts, there is a God who is close
enough to wipe the tears from our tender cheeks. God is with us. God is with us in our sorrow,
and God is with us in our joy. And that
feels like a dream but it is a dream coming true.
[1] https://reflections.yale.edu/article/between-babel-and-beatitude/bible-song-reclaiming-african-american-spirituals
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