The name Jeff Ingram might not mean much to you. It didn't mean much to Jeff Ingram either until a couple of days ago—he's the man who couldn't remember his name, or anything else about who he was or where he had come from. He left his home in Olympia, Washington in early September for a trip to Canada. How or why he ended up asleep on a sidewalk in Denver, he has no idea. He pleaded for help from passersby—but what would any of us do in a city with so many down-and-outers if one of them came up and said, "Will you help me? I can't remember who I am!" They wrote him off as crazy and kept their distance. The Denver police spokeswoman said that after he was re-connected with his fiancée and other relatives, he started crying, crying out of frustration and anxiety, crying because he realized he should know these people but he didn't. A rare psychiatric disorder called dissociative fugue—a form of amnesia—had robbed him of his very self.
Identity is a fragile thing. When we lose track of who we are—where we've come from, and where we're going--we are lost indeed. There are different types of forgetting. People of faith always run the risk of forgetting who we are, because life can pull us away from our primary commitments. You wouldn't think we'd forget something so important, but we do. So much of what Jesus said and so much of the New Testament letters, are reinforcing our identity as Christians, people of faith, people of love, so we don't lose our way.
The ancient Christian church had a strong belief that the Lord was going to return very soon, in their lifetimes. They looked forward to it with all their hearts. They lived for that day. But the Christians of Thessalonica had a deep concern on their hearts: what happens to our loved ones who have already died in the meantime, before the Lord's return? Will they be lost, or forgotten, or left out? Will their personhood be covered over in the sands of time, their memory erased? Does identity persist beyond this physical realm? The Thessalonians were anxious about these matters. They had a deeply moving concern for their friends and loved ones in the faith.
Paul writes to comfort them with the gospel hope. He says, "I don't want you to be in the dark about these things. I want you to be able to live with certainty and confidence about your loved ones, and about the far-reaching sufficiency of God's love. We'll all be together in the kingdom. The Lord will see to it. Those who have died before us will be there too, fully alive. Don't worry. All of us will be together with the Lord.
So even when we think we might lose our identity, it seems, God keeps it—in that great divine heart and mind. Though we might forget who we are, God never does. If we suffer from dementia, or Alzheimer's, or if we pass from this mortal life, we remain, in the heart of God. And if on Earth, we forget that we are Christ's people, as we sometimes do, God will bring us back and restore us and remind us. We were bought with a price. The Lord won't let us go.
Most crucially, he affirms the sovereign love of God over all existence. It says, "Christ died for all, so that whether we are awake or asleep, we may live together with him." There's no place we can go, where the love of God is not.
Now it's interesting: every biblical text that has to do with eternal life also has a moral component. The promise of the life to come always influences how we treat each other in this life. Apart from this moral grounding, thoughts of the next world have the potential for being irrelevant at best and dangerous at worst. In our own time we've seen how misguided ideas about the next life—or paradise, as some call it—can actually bring massive harm to people. Crusaders and suicide bombers alike pin their hopes on a heavenly reward for their ghastly exploits, as if somehow they were doing something God approves of. But to most of us, that seems deeply wrong. Future hope is always united with the call to present goodness. It shapes us: in light of what it will be like, there and then, how shall we live our lives, here and now? Given our ultimate destination, this great gift in Christ, what should we do, and what should we be like, during the journey there?
In the Thessalonians passage, we read, "Since we have this hope, let us live accordingly: let us be self-controlled, putting on faith and love as a breastplate, and hope as a helmet." And it ends with a therefore. Whenever we see that word in scripture we should take note. A "therefore" is almost always important. We should ask ourselves what it's there for. Paul writes, "Therefore, encourage one another, and build each other up." Our ministry is to encourage and build up. The hope of heaven leads inevitably to the spirit of servanthood and holiness in this life.
There's a phrase in the great hymn "For All the Saints" that goes like this: "we feebly struggle, they in glory shine." We struggle to be Christ-like, to live like God's people. Sometimes we succeed, sometimes not.
But, we live by faith in the promise. They in glory shine. Those who have gone before us are radiant in the realm of God, because they have completed the journey, and bask in the holy light. And their victory gives us courage. The One who started us on this path will bring us to the finish line. You might have seen the marathon runner from Kenya. He got right to the line, literally, and slipped on a slick logo painted on the pavement, and was knocked cold. But the important thing was, he made it. He got his first place ribbon—right after he woke up from his coma.
When we fall—we get up again. When we fail, it's not final—it's just a bump on the road to victory. Because of cross and resurrection, death is not an impassable barrier but a bridge to even greater life. Gordon Cosby, founder of Church of the Savior in Washington, D.C., suggests that spiritual growth continues in the life to come and is never done. We will continually deepen our love, strengthen our understanding, and broaden our knowledge, of God and of each other and of creation, forever. There will be no possibility of boredom.
The vision of the communion of saints is a vision of hope for loved ones and friends in faith. It is also a vision what we will be. In the first epistle of John there is this striking verse: Dear Friends, now we are children of God, and what we will be has not yet been made known. But we know that when he appears, we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is." We don't have all the details—but this much we do know: we'll be like Jesus. A common topic of conversation in homes with children and youth is, "What are you going to be when you grow up?" Of course, for young people growing up today the odds are they won't have just one vocation or career but many, since thing are changing so rapidly. Some people still ask that in their 30's, 40's, 50's or 80's. The Bible asks that same question—not meaning if we're going into sales or marketing, health care or teaching or manufacturing or entertainment. But growing up into Christ: maturing in character, love, integrity, forgiveness, worship. What are you going to be when you grow up, spiritually? And if that's what we'll be like in heaven, is there some indication of that now? Are we getting to look more and more like our God? And it's interesting: it happens when we see God clearly. Looking to Christ is the path to spiritual growth.
The Invitation
Each time we receive the Lord's Supper, we give a little demonstration of the great feast or banquet that describes the Kingdom of God. People will come from east and west and north and south. All God's folks will be there. Christ invites us. As we share this meal, let's be aware of all those who having won the victory, now live in the total presence of God. In some sense they join us in this holy meal. Above all, at this table, we turn our eyes upon Jesus—and as we see Him, we get a glimpse, a vision, of what we will be.
|
