Easter 6c.07                                                     May 13, 2007

Sociologists say we are entering the post-Christian era.
Secular materialism is becoming the prevailing world view,
        so fewer people are religious at all;
        and those who believe obliquely in God
                do not practice any religion or belong to a faith community.
For those who are still spiritually inclined,
        pluralism invites them to select their religion
                from a buffet table of spiritual options,
        and are apt to sample one religion this year
                and another next year.

For most people, this is bad news.
Most people will be left with world views
       too shallow, too sentimental, too simplistic and naive
               to make sense of real life,
               to sustain spiritual growth,
               or to inspire compassionate connection with reality.

The post-Christian era is not to be celebrated.
But “it’s an ill wind that blows no one some good.”
And the winner in the post-Christian era is, ironically, Christianity.

Whenever and wherever Christianity is the dominant religion,
       it gets enmeshed with the whole culture
               and loses its fire.
Not intellectually, but spiritually, it dumbs down
      and becomes nothing more than ho-hum respectability.
When this cultural Christianity crumbles,
      the true faith has a better chance to show itself.

Most people assume the object of Christianity is nothing more than
      to escape punishment and go to heaven,
      a place where we will be reunited with our families
      at a sort of Chateau Elan spa in the sky.

In marked contrast to that minimalist aspiration,
       today’s lesson from Revelation is one of the most profound,
       the most evocative, the most mind-blowing
       images of human destiny ever written.
Drawing on deep archetypal and mythological images,
       it paints a picture of peace, life, freedom, and redemption
               that makes the heart soar and soul sing.

The feel of this kind of wild mystical Christianity
        is a world away from bland cultural conformity.
You can see the difference in the best spiritual short story
        I’ve read not counting Flannery O’Connor and J. D. Salinger.
Mormon Levis, by Phyllis Barber is about Mattie and Shelley,
        two Mormon teenagers growing up in Las Vegas in the 1960's.
One Friday night, Mattie tells her mother they are going to Western movie,
        but instead they are off to meet a pair of wild beer-drinking boys.

As Mattie is leaving the house,
       she looks at the familiar picture of Jesus on the wall.
You know it – celestial light shining on his forehead,
       then radiating out around his head.
“Jesus is always looking over somebody’s shoulder,”
       she thought as she went out the door.

On the way to their rendevous,
      she went into a drug store where she saw
               a show girl on her way to or from work.
Mattie was dazzled by the show girl’s costume;
      then their eyes met.

“Her eyes briefly graze my face as she passes,
      leaving me with feelings I don’t understand . . . .
I think her eyes remind me of the of the picture
      of the sad Jesus nailed to the wall of my Sunday school class.
      Maybe that’s blasphemy, Jesus in drag,
      but he seems to be everywhere, staring out of the strangest places.”

Mattie and Shelley eventually meet the boys,
      and are riding together in the back seat of the car
      as one of the boys drives them out into the desert,
      driving fast with the radio booming.
“Where are we going? I ask . . .
The lake (he) answers.
What would really be new, I say, is to drive to the stars. . . .
(He) accelerates. I close my eyes and imagine
      we could leave the ground any minute and take an aerial highway
      and blast through the stringy night clouds highlighted by the moon.
I feel the power of speed, . . . tires spinning faster than light . . . .
I like the idea of leaving the ground,
      leaving my father’s Dale Carnegie and Norman Vincent Peale speeches.
Maybe tonight we’ll bust free to a new religion of time and space.
We’re going fast enough. . . .”

Then they come to a monster rise in the road.
The driver floors it. They are really going to fly off the top.
“I look at Shelley. She looks at me. . . .
We accept our fate. . . .
Maybe we’ll keep on flying.
If that’s the case, maybe Jesus will be waiting for us with open arms.
I squeeze Shelley’s hand. I love you Shelley I whisper. . . .
I slam my eyes shut again.

Jesus, we just might be coming to you.
Hold those arms open.
We’re leaving the desert and maybe
        we’ll get to look into your eyes
        and see if they really are sad,
        and if they are, we can ask you why.”
That’s the end of the story.

I’m not telling you about Mattie’s wild night
        to recommend reckless driving as a spiritual practice.
But this is what real faith feels like.
It’s a heart in the throat, pedal to the metal,
        leap over a hill into the darkness.

We leap in hope of something wonderful

        – not something nice and comfortable

        – but something ecstatic and beyond words or imagining.
We leap in hope of something like
       the wild mystical visionary, St. John the Divine,
       describes in Revelation

       – a city whose gates will never be shut.

In this world, we keep our doors locked
       and the gates of our hearts shut most of the time.
But John sees a city with our gates open all the time.

And there is no temple in the city.
There is no need of religion anymore,
       because we are perpetually in the presence of God.
“And there will be no night there.”
There is no more gloom or ignorance, John means,
       because “the glory of God is (our) light
                and (our) lamp is the Lamb.”

And a river of life flows from the throne of God

       – not just ordinary water, but spiritual vitality
                to make glad the grieving heart.
On either side of the river is the tree of life.
The tree of life is an ancient symbol in religions
       from Native American to Norse Mythology to Judaism.
It’s roots sink deep into the earth and it’s branches
       reach up into the heavens beyond sight.
It is more solid, more substantial than any tree on earth.

This tree is a sign of our source and our destiny.
It nourishes us forever.
John says the tree of life bears fruit in every month.

These are not literal descriptions of heaven.
They are images and metaphors pointing toward a mysterious joy
     we cannot imagine but we can hope for with every fiber of our beings.
And the way there is seeing Jesus in the show girl’s eyes.
It’s squeezing our friend’s hand and saying, “I love you.”
And it’s living today not in hope of tomorrow
      but in hope of eternity.

                                                  Amen.