There is a particular kind of silence that only lives in
hospital rooms. It has weight. Speaking in that space is a
heavy privilege. You choose your words with extra care.
A few summers ago, I was sitting on one of those vinyl
chairs, pulled right up next to the bedside. The doctor
had just walked out of the room, but her words still hung
in the air. “I’ll give you some time with your pastor. I
know this is hard news.” The man in the bed looked at
his hands, and then he reached for mine. The strength of
his grip caught me off guard. He didn’t ask me about the
prognosis; he didn’t even look up from his hands as he
said, “Chris, I’ve made some big messes with my life. It’s
been a long time since I felt God. Do you think He is still
there? What comes next?”
We’ve spent six weeks in Revelation. We’ve wrestled the
dragons. We’ve stared down beasts. We’ve worshipped
a slaughtered lamb on a throne. We’ve tried our best to
make sense of it all. But when you get right down into
the marrow, into the heart, every vision John shares—
every scroll he digests, every trumpet he hears, every
heavenly chorus he joins—is an attempt to answer that
man’s question.
What comes next?
John, an old man on a rocky island in the middle of the
Aegean Sea, was writing to a people who felt they were
being erased. Rome did not just demand their taxes, it
wanted their worship. The emperor had all the weapons
and all the words. To those tiny house churches, the
monsters John described were not mere metaphor. They
walked the streets. Hope was beginning to feel like a
luxury they could no longer afford.
John knew that what you refuse to name out loud will
rule you. So John named it. He painted the Empire in
the language of apocalypse—all bright colors, bold
lines, beasts with too many heads, a lake filled with fire.
And then here at the end of the book, at the close of the
story, he did something far more dangerous. He leaned
in, and he whispered a secret about how the story ends.
Psst. This is what comes next.
I caught a glimpse of that secret a few years ago,
thirty thousand feet in the air. I was on a plane to
Austin, Texas, with our son, Samuel, who was three
years old. I remember how he looked, buried in those
oversized headphones, staring at the seatback screen.
He was watching Finding Dory. I was reading when
Sam let out a sharp gasp. “Oh no, Daddy! Dory got
captured!” And so, I did what you do. I reached for his
headphones, and I was ready to give him that well-
prepared speech, the one about “it’s all pretend.” It’s
just a story, just a movie. But Sam didn’t let me take
the headphones, and he didn’t even look at me. He
kept watching, and in a voice that was way too loud
for the tight quarters of an airplane, he announced to
all our fellow passengers, “It’s okay, Daddy. At the end
she comes back. I already know that.”
Now Samuel had not seen that movie, but he knew
how the story had to end.
The poet Ullie Kaye captures that confidence in
these words:
You see, I already know the ending.
Good wins. Peace prevails. The dragon is slain and the
sword is raised.
But first we must go through the part where the plot has
not yet twisted.
The battle is not yet won. The storm is raging.
The tower is locked. The apple is poisoned.
The wolf is ready and waiting in bed, wearing
grandmother’s clothing.
But I already know the ending. I already know the ending.
The defiance of a poet and a three year old. When you
know the ending, the middle loses its power to terrify
you. This is Revelation’s secret. It is not a map of fear; it
is an anchor of hope in a raging storm.
When John turns the final page, all the beasts fall silent.
And from the throne comes a different voice—not
shouting war cries, but vowing restoration.
See—I am making all things new.
I think we’re meant to pay attention to the grammar. I
think the revelation is in the syntax. God does not say,
“I am making all new things.” God says, “I am making
all things new.” The first is replacement; the other is
redemption. Replacement is the work of Empire, but
God is in the redemption business.
If, in the end, God simply makes all new things, the
nihilists are right. Nothing matters. Not the tenderness
of love or the striving for justice. Not the walk of faith or
compassion for each other. All of it is simply a footnote
in a story to be scrapped, left on the cutting room floor.
But that is not our God. Our God is a scavenger who
searches the wreckage for what still has value. Our God
is a potter who refuses to throw away the clay. Our God
gathers the scattered. Our God takes the jagged, the
corrupted, the forgotten, and our God says, “I am not
finished with this—with you—yet.”
In the story God writes, there is no such thing as
collateral damage. There is no such thing as a soul that
is lost. No neighborhood or nation is forgotten, and no
life is disposable.
Knowing the last page does not let us off the hook. No,
it pins us to the present moment with a powerful clarity.
When you’ve seen the world that God is building out of
the broken pieces, you cannot stay on the sidelines. You
have to join the work.
Just imagine if you knew deep in your soul that every
tyrant is already a ghost and every ounce of mercy a
monument to God’s kingdom. Would you still be afraid?
That’s the promise John gives. That’s the promise
of faith. That knowing the end should not make us
comfortable. It should make us dangerous. It should
make us the kind of people who cannot be bought or
coopted, the kind of people who won’t be quiet, the kind
of people who refuse to mock what God names sacred.
Revelation is a radical counter-catechism. It re-forms
these imaginations dulled by the calculated cruelties of
the age. It retrains minds sedated by liturgies built on lies.
We need a different story, because the one we’re being
fed is crushing our souls, weaponizing humiliation
as a tool of power. For shame. Let me be clear. To
deny the image of God in another person is an act of
desecration. Followers of Christ must respond with the
witness of our lives.
Do you know who understood this at a deep level, a
soul level? Fred Rogers. You remember the cardigan,
but behind the sweater and the puppets, there was a
Presbyterian minister. Rev. Rogers. Mr. Rogers spent his
life leading a liturgy of dignity. Every day, he preached
the practice of reverence.
The same question, the same promise: Won’t you be my
neighbor? I like you just the way you are.
Now, do not mis-hear these statements as
sentimentality. They are counter-formation. They are a
man living as if John’s vision could come true, living as
if God has already made a home among us, as if the
neighbor is not a threat but an image of God’s own face.
And perhaps you know this, but tonight, in the middle
of the Super Bowl—the biggest spectacle in American
culture, in the swagger and the noise—that song is going
to make a return in Lady Gaga’s voice. Just imagine that.
Imagine if Mr. Rogers only knew that this Presbyterian
minister who died twenty-three years ago would break
through the cacophony to ask a hundred and twenty
million people: Can’t we be neighbors? Can’t we live by a
different story? Can’t we go another way?
The question is not rhetorical. Too much depends on
our answer.
I know how easy it is to lose our way. I know the siren
song of cynicism sounds appealing when you are afraid.
I know it’s tempting to wage war on our enemies and
retreat into our bunkers. I know we can develop the
capacity to justify what we ought to condemn, to ignore
what we must name, to nod along when we should raise
our voice.
If that is you, if you carry the weight of a compromise
that is corroding your heart, hear me now: The credits
haven’t yet rolled. The door stands open. Our story is
rooted in the reality of redemption, and it is okay to
change your heart.
John is clear: there is a reckoning. One day, the
powerful who crushed the weak, the ones who
dehumanize and divide, who twist the truth and ignore
the vulnerable—they will answer for the work of their
hearts and their hands.
This is the judgment scripture promises, that we will
stand before the throne of God, where the Lamb of God
will not ask for our credentials.
You remember the question.
When I was suffering, where were you?
When my image was mocked, what was your answer?
When you saw me in pain, how did you respond?
When I was hungry.
When I was thirsty.
When I lacked the basic necessities.
When I was a stranger in your midst.
When I was afraid at your doorstep.
When I was a child in need.
When you saw me, how did you respond?
Did you turn away? Or did you draw close?
I believe the tears of the forgotten are remembered. I
believe that all that was done in secret will be named,
and that all that was excused will be seen for what it
was. A choice.
The monsters want you to believe they are permanent,
but Revelation knows better. Revelation knows the clock
is running out on the reign of terror. Revelation knows
that truth is not a concept. Truth has a name. Jesus.
Merciful savior. Jesus. Righteous judge.
We know how this ends because we know the one who
writes the story.
John heard a voice: “Write this down. These words are
trustworthy and true.”
In a world drowning in lies, here is something you can
stake your life on.
John saw God moving in. A city descending. Gates that
never close because there’s nothing to fear. No walls
or weapons. Only a river, bright as crystal, and a tree
whose leaves are for the healing of the nations.
And then, something so tender it feels out of place in
a book of dragons. At the end of it all, God Almighty
reaches out to wipe a tear from a human eye. If you
remember nothing else from the book of Revelation,
remember that image. That’s the end of the story.
Not overwhelming force, but a gentle hand on a tear-
streaked face. Not the conquering army of a vengeful
king, but the Sovereign God stooping low to comfort a
weeping child.
At the end of it all, everything else falls away. Every
beast. Every dragon. Every empire. And all that remains
is a God who knows your name and shares your pain.
That’s the end of the story. Not all new things, but all
things new.
Yes, the tower is locked. The apple is poisoned. The wolf
is waiting. But you already know the ending.
People of God, do not be afraid.
Pray with me: God of new beginnings, give us courage
to walk in your way. Amen.