"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
(Emma Lazarus, "The New Colossus")
I imagine that the gates to the new Jerusalem resemble Ellis Island. Ellis Island during the height of immigration, with one exception. All the nations of the world would be represented. No preference for northern Europe immigration. Huddled masses from every corner of the world. Wretched refuse. Homeless, tempest-tost. The tired. The poor.
In short, all those people for whom Christ showed a deep compassion. Which in the end is all those people, period. You and me, included.
"Its gates will never be shut by day-- and there will be no night there."
Somehow we missed this as we've imagined the pearly gates, with St. Peter holding the "keys", and checking to see whose been naughty or nice. No locks. No bars on the doors. No moat to cross. No defensive bulwarks needed. Just an open door. And an invitation to come.
Too often have we imagined heaven in terms of who will not be allowed in. Perhaps, instead, we should think only of who has been redeemed.
One of the most controversial sermons I ever preached, at least in the eyes of a few of my parishioners, was one in which I stated my belief that God created no one with the intent of then condemning them. I find the Orthodox teaching compelling in this regard. For they believe that all, "All" with a capital "A", will be in the presence of God in the after life, precisely because there is no place where God is not. The glory of God will be heavenly for the redeemed, and will be experienced as judgment for those who are not. I'd take it one step farther and say that God's glory, that uncreated light that shines from his presence, is the redemptive love and grace of God that will in the end leave no one condemned. All will be born anew.
The parishioner most upset by my sermon where I hinted at this, refused to receive communion from me from Pentecost til Christmas. And then, when in my Christmas sermon I spoke of my own need for a savior, he had a change of heart and subsequently came forward for communion. One sentence following the service said it all. "Pastor, there is room for both of us at the foot of the cross." And indeed there is.
A youth director I served with use to be preoccupied in her youth messages with this matter of heaven and hell. As with so many, this one issue was what Christianity is all about for her. One day she asked the kids, "What do you have to do to get to heaven?" "Die." was the response of one young lad. "Die." Out of the mouths of babes. . .
"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
What if those were in fact the words of Jesus, of God, as he beckons us to enter the city.
Imagine that City of God, being somewhat like New York during the height of immigration, a cosmopolitan melting pot of every nation and culture of the world. And in the midst of all of that diversity there is one thing that unites us.
The love of God.
Not such a bad thought, is it?
No comments:
Post a Comment