I
have never been a big fan of the Book of Revelation. Mostly, I think,
it’s because of how badly it gets misused a lot of the time, as if it
were a collection of predictions, sort of like a biblical version of
Nostradamus. Its imagery is strange to say the least, and the high
level of symbolism has always been more off-putting than inviting to
me. I’ve never thought it was the most salutary of scriptures, and
indeed, it seems to lend itself to more than a little interpretive
mischief, especially by the most unscrupulous preachers.
The
passage for next Sunday (Rev. 7:9-17), to my surprise, speaks to me in
an important way. It exudes hope. Maybe it’s that I’m finding myself
in need of just that. It is something I share with the church for which
it was written.
Revelation
is all about context, and its context is disturbing. It was written at
a time of great difficulty for the church, including the persecution of
Nero. It was not a time when things were looking up. In fact, it is
difficult to express how bleak things must have looked for the young
church. Pretty much hopeless, I would think.
Into that mix, Revelation speaks a word of hope, more like singing it. And it is more than hope. It is confidence.
After this I looked, and there was a great multitude that no
one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and
languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, robed in
white, with palm branches in their hands. They cried out in
a loud voice, saying, “Salvation belongs to our God who is seated on the
throne, and to the Lamb!” (vv. 9-10)
In
the midst of horrible circumstances, Revelation sings out a vision of
tremendous hope. I particularly like this part of the vision—from every
nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages.
I
have just returned from Haiti. I have never been to Haiti, not one
single time, when I did not return inspired by the infectious hope of
the Haitian people. Theirs is not a situation of persecution, like the
church to which Revelation was written, but it is extreme by any
reckoning. The people face challenges I find it difficult even to
imagine.
Three
years after the devastating earthquake of January 12, 2010, the
ministries of the Episcopal Church in Haiti are functioning but in
makeshift facilities. The Cathedral operates from a temporary shelter.
So do the primary and secondary schools, the trade school, and the
music school. The same is true for the university and the seminary as
well as many of the hospitals and clinics.
Still,
this week the Haitian people gathered with their American partners for a
conference known as the Haiti Connection. A bell choir of blind
children played. A dance troupe of from St. Vincent’s School for
Handicapped Children danced. A choir of deaf children sang.
Partners,
Haitian and American, talked about their ministries. The architect for
St. Vincent’s described the rebuilding plans. One person talked about a
ministry to revive the Haitian coffee industry in a way that goes far
beyond anything imagined even by “fair trade.” We heard from the
dedicated and extraordinarily talented dean of the nursing school. A
spirit of collaboration prevailed. Small steps were being taken
everywhere. Lots of small steps add up to giant steps.
It
all left it easier for me hear the song of Revelation in a fresh
way—from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages. A
heavenly chorus of hope. Having just come home from Haiti, I’m
wondering if Revelation might not be a prediction after all. Maybe it’s
even better than a prediction, a statement of confident hope. And
certainly one I happen to need.
Peace,+Stacy
