The sun hadn't even yet
risen. The dazzling blue of the Aegean Sea remained yet cloaked in
black. But a man in his early eighties, his gnarled fingers gripping
his staff, cautiously but with familiarity felt his way through the
darkness up the mountainside path. A younger man walked with him,
supporting him on his way to ensure he didn't fall. The elder was
thankful. The pair made their way to a small cave in the rock, where
two or three others awaited him. The elder struggled to adjust. He
was used to overseeing whole districts, gathering with dozens and
hundreds, not this tiny band of those he'd reached in just the few
months he'd been stuck here. He felt sidelined, reduced, frustrated,
idle. He was itching for freedom. But – he sighed to himself –
he must have work to do here, else here he'd not be. He just hoped
that he'd get some visitors from the outside world again soon. Being
relegated to this isle of the sea – a penalty meted out for his
'stubborn' refusal to never lie about what he knew, his insistence on
speaking divine words of truth and testifying to the One with whom
he'd been privileged to walk – well, the relegation felt, at times,
a bit like being hamstrung.
But no matter. It was
the eighth day of the week – the day of new creation, the day that
burst all bounds of all they'd ever known. Candlelight lit the cave,
flickering, toying with shadows and glimpses across the faces of the
little cell. They were there to worship a God whom governors and
emperors knew not, a God for whose sake the elder had been punished
by civil authorities like Bradua the proconsul – or was it Paetus?
They all blurred together after a while, at his age. No matter. The
elder welcomed his followers, announced the good news. They sang,
hummed, bursting the silence of their dark cave with music. Having
no texts to read, it fell to the elder to recite the holy words. He
chose, for that day, to recall what the prophet Daniel had seen. A
series of four beasts, rising from the sea as heavenly winds stirred
them up – the grand empires of the earth, with the last being
monstrosity of monstrosities. But then, the Ancient of Days – the
Holy One, the Eternal – sat on a throne, with clothing white as
snow, hair like pure wool, and beneath him flames for his seat, and a
stream of fire before him as attendants hailed him. Court was in
session, to judge the beasts that ruled the earth. Then approached a
man, rising on clouds into the Ancient of Days' court. And the
verdict was, this Son of Man would rule – the glory of humanity,
not the ghastliness of beasts, would lead the earth, forever and
ever, amen.
The thoughts stuck in the
elder's mind as he turned to the cave wall, leading his little band
in a chant to the Lord Jesus Christ, their God. The elder called;
the disciples responded. The elder called; the disciples sang. But
the elder's mind stayed on that beautiful prophecy. His heart
swelled within him as he chanted, the words taking up every nook and
cranny of body and soul; a sensation like lightning rushing down lit
the synapses in his brain. His mind wandered, and it took a moment
to realize that the responses of his disciples sounded muffled,
distant. The elder paused, straining to hear them – and regretted
it when they were silenced by a crashing crescendo of sound, a flurry
of words, a voice that split eardrums and threatened to split earth.
Whipping around as fast
as his aching knees would allow, the cave was gone, candles gone,
faces gone, but he found himself – where had he found himself? It
seemed like a vast field of mist, pulsating, roiling, stretching out
beyond where the rock walls should be. Beneath his feet... he
couldn't tell on what he was standing; blocked from view, it felt
like crystalline clouds. He peered through the mist, or tried, but
found it impenetrable, thick as the veil of old in the holy place, a
denser blanket of fog than ever he'd stumbled into. Throbbing,
gleaming, living, as if each molecule were an angel of light, dancing
in chorus as they swirled round his shins and hid his very hands from
his face.
Then a cutting wind
started to blow, lashing his cheeks with a cold breeze. And in the
stiff blowing of wind, the turbulent mist began to thin. First
silhouettes, then light began to emerge. The stunned elder began to
see... menorahs. Lampstands, tall, tall almost as he, with their
seven branches each. How many menorahs? He knew ten had stood in
Solomon's Temple, flanking the sanctuary five by five. But here, at
least within reach, he could count... one, two, three, four, five...
six... seven of them. Solid gold but bigger than he recalled, with
branches with buds and blossoms, topped with seven lamps. And the
wicks were ablaze – flames flickered, wavered, lit up the mist that
seemed to give way for them, swirling around their lights. The elder
was mesmerized. He'd not dreamt he'd see such lampstands again. But
here they were, in the ethereal mist.
And then, the elder
froze. There was motion in the mist. Behind and between the
menorahs, he saw a figure looming, lurking. A human figure, striding
with purpose. The elder at first could see no more than the shape,
the form. But those clothes... As the mist cleared, the elder could
catch glimpses of an ankle-length robe bound by a golden sash and an
ephod and the glimmering breastplate of twelve gems. It made sense.
Among the menorahs of the temple, there had to be a priest to tend
them. But what high priest could this be?
Then the mist split open,
cracked like the sky on Judgment Day, recoiled in awe and terror from
the luminosity of the priest, and the elder's jaw dropped, his eyes
bulged, his heart raced. Here was the man – dare he think of him
as 'a man'? – but the man from whose voice that thunder of words
crashed, like the collapse and resurgence of a billion oceans. The
elder struggled to look that man in the face. His hair was white,
like snow on the peak of the mountain, like wool on the purest lamb –
it was the hair of the Ancient of Days, the hair of Daniel's God.
Above his flowing beard, the elder saw eyes that burned like a
furnace, eyes that crackled, eyes that smoldered – and the elder
tore away his gaze as his knees buckled and he sank. How could he
bear to look into those eyes – those eyes that surveyed the
proteins in his cells and the contours of galaxies, those eyes that
no seraph dared meet, those eyes that melt mountains, those eyes that
lit the spark of creation with their heat? How dare the elder count
the hairs that bespoke antiquities of eternity when yet every nebula
was a newborn?
The elder tore away his
gaze before the radiance could burn him out his body. But where to
look? Every inch was overwhelming. The flesh of his hands, flesh of
his bare feet, was like living metal, like burnished bronze of
highest quality, glowing and molten and polished and perfected and
glaring and beautiful. And the elder, the elder wept tears of joy
and terror and agony and confusion and bliss. His ears were ringing,
still aching from the boom of the voice – that voice that flashed
bright, that pierced the mist, that split the air like a broadsword
with every divine roar this priest spoke like a crashing ocean and
howling tempest – this priest, Ancient of Days and Son of Man in
one, whose whisper of command shook the fabric of space and time like
an earthquake. The elder felt dizzy, felt sick – his vision pulsed
white, fading from overstimulation. Features of the... the man...
leapt forth to his view, discombobulated, jumbled, as if every twitch
changed the whole picture – the elder felt like a dot, a speck, a
fragment of a line trying vainly to comprehend all the unfamiliar
dimensions of a meteor.
The elder struggled, from
his knees, in a daze, to look up again. He glimpsed, if only for a
moment, the priest's right hand. Swirling, spinning, a solar system
of flashing light, the sun and moon and planets in their courses, all
seven that dictate the nations' fates, were clutched in the man's
grasp, nestled in his palm, brushed by his fingertips. The elder's
vision sank into those stars, plummeted, toured the vast reaches of
cosmic space – all within the man's hand. As the man raised that
hand, the elder's sight tracked it almost involuntarily – until it
came near the face. That face! That face, bright beyond compare,
that face streaming rays of light, that face to which the burning
noon is pale, to which the heavens are but a dirty mirror! That face
was stronger and brighter than the sun at its height, unobscured.
And the vision was too much. The light pulsed, and the elder's sight
would have given way to blindness, save that the strength of the
vision held his eyes captive against their will, against their
protest, as he felt them itch and dissolve in their sockets,
compelled to function beyond possibility.
The elder had seen what
was impossible to see – had seen a man, a portrait of humanity far
beyond anything the elder had ever dreamt humanity could be. But
once he'd seen such a man, nothing less than this could ever seem
human again, could ever measure up again, could ever make sense
again. The elder's world was shattered by the encounter.
Traumatized, shaken, overwhelmed, he swooned, he gave up his mind to
the gulf, he surrendered consciousness, let go, and his body went
limp as tattered rags. He collapsed, helpless and hopeless in
imitation of death, at the burnished-bronze bare feet of the
Everlasting Man.
And there he lay. His
story closed. The book slammed shut. Transported to a lethal
vision, lethal because too great for human sight. Paralyzed by
grandeur, stricken by beauty into a coma, sapped of strength by a
vigor so vital tornadoes seem lazily listless in compare. And so
fell John, the elder exiled to Patmos, frightened by the sight for
which he'd so long longed. Any pretensions of sufficiency, any
illusions of competence, any will to achieve and accomplish, any
self-concern – they lay slain, dashed to bits on that
crystal-cloud floor. If only it could be so for us, who, for seeing
and knowing less, can still feel ourselves strong in ignorant
twilight!
But then the action goes
on. The book is reopened in the Ancient of Days' court. The Son of
Man stretches forth his starlit hand and touches the dusty skin of
the catatonic elder. A booming whisper of thunder crashes through
the elder's paralysis, shatters his chains, heals his hearing and
sight and makes them able to bear itself. And the first words that
revive the deadened elder to life are these: “Don't be afraid.”
The trumpet of truth was commanding, compelling, irresistible,
undeniable. It was the whip of an exorcist's words, and fear itself,
like vermin, fled the elder's heart as from flame. The inward
implosion of his psyche froze; every fragment of his soul stood in
place. With a touch, the Everlasting Man restored the elder to
himself, gave him back the gift of Johnhood, revived him to perfect
peace and stillness, enabled him to stand under the unbearable weight
of glory.
The elder's lost eyes and
scourged ears became one with the Spirit of the Lord; through the
Spirit, he could hear and see the Everlasting Man, look him square in
the dazzling face unflinching, hear the surge of a universal ocean in
his voice and yet make out the finest tones of heavenly melody. But
still he did not understand. This great high priest, tending the
seven menorahs – John the Elder could see some of them half-lit,
some of them flickering, some of them glaring and blaring, some of
them struggling 'gainst the breeze – but this priest who tended
them, who dredged out the old and spent, who trimmed and pruned their
wicks, who poured new oil into them, who touched them and bade each
lamp be lit – this priest, this Everlasting Man: who? what? how?
And to the elder, the
Everlasting Man explained. He explained that he knew what it was
like for the elder to lay there on the floor, limp and lifeless. He
knew because he, the Everlasting Man, had died once. On a chilling
spring day, on a hill outside a city, stretched between dirt and sky,
robe stolen, caked with gore had he died. He himself had been there.
But look, look! The Everlasting Man is dead no more! He is alive
again, alive again, and terminally so, interminably so! “I
died, and behold! I am alive forevermore!”
Forever and ever, forever and ever, lives the Everlasting Man –
humanity beyond death, humanity beyond conquest, is he! And so
gained the Everlasting Man his new title, new name: “The Living
One.” The One who is himself Life itself.
This
Living One – the elder was stunned by the revelation. He knew this
Living One, had walked with him and talked with him before that
chilling spring day, and after, too. Could it be? Could this priest
of heaven, this tender of the lampstands, this holder of the stars,
be the very Jesus who'd broken bread into his hands? Jesus, the
Living One! Jesus, who effortlessly steers fates and destinies with
a flick of his finger! Jesus, whom no law of decay can touch, whom
no raging eon can wear down, whom no shadow can dim, no chance
relativize – the Living One forever and ever! First before the
dawn of creation, Last beyond the limits of all infinity, in himself
he spans, encompasses all things; as God Most High he dwarfs the
universe as the universe dwarfs a dust mite.
With
his burning sight, he surveys the true state of all things. Every
person – you and me – his fiery view sees. Every collective,
every society, every structure – his flaming eyes behold how they
really are. The Living One speaks sharpness, striking down all
that's unworthy, surgically separating reality cell from cell, atom
from atom, quark from quark. His outcry instills and relieves fear,
binds and looses the hearts of men and angels. And in his clutches,
he's stolen away the very keys of Death and Underworld. No Caesar
and no bandit can wield death as a weapon of tyranny forever – they
go only so far as the Living One unlocks the doors, and when he locks
death and grave against his servant, no power in creation can force
them through. No dark chthonic demon, no petty idol, no binding
necessity of nature can keep any hemmed in death and grave and
netherworld, should the Living One unlock the door and proclaim
release. To ferry soul or star or society from upper realm to lower
or from lower realm to upper, from death to life or life to death, is
to the Key-Holder effortless – and the keys are in the Living One's
hands, and no one can steal them away from his grip.
And
where does the elder see him? Ministering as a priest between the
menorahs, the lampstands. Trimming the wicks. Cleaning out the
spent oil. Supplying new oil of his Spirit. Bidding them receive
him and burn with bright life. And what are these seven lampstands?
He himself – the Living One, the Everlasting Man – tells the
elder: They're churches. They're the witness of whole communities of
believers, of disciples. Not all are lit up brightly. They flicker.
Some have big flames soaring high; others sputter and smolder on
just a few branches; some scarcely emit dim puffs of smoke.
But
still, to these flickering, flaming, sputtering, smoldering lives, he
reaches out his touch, he voices his speech. Even to the small
lives, buffeted by stiff winds, choked and spent, he actively
ministers, bidding them only receive and burn with bright life. Yet
as they flicker still, he does not leave. He has not left. The
Living One, the Everlasting Man, the Priest of the Lampstands, in all
his splendor and majesty, is ever present among them. He walks
between them, never far from the smallest and most misshapen branch,
never distant to the brightest or dimmest flame. The Giver of Life,
the Presence of Life, is never far from our lampstand here, never
absent from your life, no matter how smoky or deadly the breeze.
When
we're far from outselves, still he stays near. When we're few, still
his starlit hand tends to us as much as to the tallest and most
polished. When the hostility of a dark world makes our light seem
pointless, still the Living One shines brighter than noonday. When
the fashions of a restless world scoff at his antiquity, still he is
First before them and Last after them, relevant unchanged for longer
than the sun can burn. When the hemming and hawing of an uncertain
choir peddles truth softly, still his voice slashes beyond the
confusion and speaks a clear word. When the stars above seem dizzy
and all fate seems up for grabs, still he nestles the spinning worlds
in his hand as they dance from sign to sign. When the seismic shifts
of modernity and tragedy threaten to overturn all things, still his
burnished-bronze feet stand firm forevermore, and he stabilizes our
lampstand if we rest on his hand. And when we swoon in helplessness
and hopelessness, still his starlit touch can cast out all fears and
raise us up to life and strength again, for every key is in the
Living One's hands. All glory to the One who died and is alive
forevermore, the Priest of the Lampstands, the Everlasting Son of
Man!
Why
do I bring you this message? Why do I recount this vision? Why do I
share such things to the place from which a lampstand rises? Because
I want you to see him. The Living One said to John, “Write,
therefore, the things that you have seen”
(Revelation 1:19). Write it down. Send it along. Make a record of
this vision, that others might catch a glimpse through you. So,
through John's obedient writing, may you, too, hear him, see him,
know him. Encounter the Living One whom John, caught up in worship
on the Lord's Day, saw amidst the lampstands. Find what the elder
found. Grapple with a Jesus who is not tame, who is not simple, who
is not dull or discountable. See the Jesus John saw, hear the Jesus
John heard. Behold him for who he is; let his glory conquer you,
yield beneath his starlit hand, allow him to raise you up and make
you able. Then write, speak, share the Jesus you've seen faithfully
among the lampstands. He is not far. He is not dead. No, no –
never dead again. The Living One holds the keys, he holds the stars,
he holds us all. Behold him, and be cast down and upheld. All glory
to Christ the Living One, far as eternal ages run! Amen!
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