The Pastor's Apocalypse

(I wrote the following story as an exercise in theological reflection.  I didn't really know how else to make sense of Isaiah 24 - 27.)

Journal Entry:  March 4^th, 2018

          I had another dream last night.  Or at least I think it was a dream.  I can’t tell anymore.  

 My life is like that short-lived television series from back in 2012, you know, that program where the main character existed in one reality, then fell asleep, only to wake up in another world altogether?  He bounced back and forth between his two worlds until he couldn’t tell whether he was dreaming or awake.  I feel like that every day now.

  Some days my sky is blue and the rain makes the flowers grow.  Other days smoke obscures the sun and rain poisons the crops.  Sometimes life is like a poem, truer and finer than the worst sort of prose that can pass for religion, and my small congregation here in the mountains of North Carolina hungers to understand the metaphors and the images that help us cope with life.  Other days I seem trapped in one of those “Left Behind” end-of-the-world-type-novels I once likened to theological Cheese-Whiz.  In my dream last night, I would have gladly drunk Cheese-Whiz from out of the can --- if I could have found any.

You see, I was walking through the glass-strewn aisles of our local Wynn Dixie.  The store had been looted.  The shelves were empty.  I had to step over several dead bodies, bloated by the endless summer, in my search for FOOD.  I was so hungry, so desperately hungry.  Finally, I found a nearly empty jar of Peanut Butter near the Pharmacy Department.  A rancid finger-full of "Jiffy" made me giddy, and I almost forgot that the world (at least as I had known it) had ended.  Even little Lenior, North Carolina had been laid waste.  The whole earth lay devastated. By God?  By man?  By sin?  I didn’t know.  And I was too hungry to care.

Though I do remember hoping within my non-dream-like dream that my family was OK, that they had made it safely to Theresa’s parent’s log cabin up in Maine, that they were eating wild blueberries and drinking cow’s milk, that those mountainous clouds of radiation would blow into the Pacific and that the sweet, fresh air of the Pine Tree State would stay sweet and fresh, and that cousin John’s store house of artillery would keep the marauding gangs at bay.  In my nightmarish apocalyptic world Theresa and our daughter, Kate, headed north in December of 2017, and I’d like to think --- I need to think --- they made it across the border before the wars began.

    But then I woke up this morning --- and my wife was lying right beside me in our own bed.  Asleep.  And alive. The cancer scare of 2015 has passed, and even though the smash-up on I-26 still feels fresh --- too fresh to go there.  I can’t go there.   I almost prefer the nightmares to my reality.  At least in that world I can still believe that Kate is alive, and I don’t have to stand behind any pulpit proclaiming the goodness and glory of a God who has clearly abandoned ----

 OK.  I don’t believe that.  It’s just so difficult to know what to believe or who to hold onto in these terrible days --- or nights.   And that’s why last night’s dream, if it were a dream, felt so different.

Anyway, I walked out of Wynn Dixie and headed towards Walgren’s.  I once found some aspirin and a bottle of Pediolyte in their dumpster.  You know, sometimes I am at peace with the hunger and the thirst --- the waste, the plunder, the curse, the ruined cities lying desolate, the entrance to every house barred shut.  I guess the prophet Isaiah told it true.  Amen and Amen.  But I don’t care anymore.   I live only to eat.  I pray only to die.

  I knew on some level that I am witnessing God’s judgment upon human rebellion, and I wonder if all those other preachers were right --- if God has raptured God's holy people?  If such is true I am glad for Theresa and Kate, but I am not broken by this devastation.  I don’t know if I can or if I even wish to join with the ends of the earth to sing, “Glory to the Righteous One.”  Where are the ends of the earth, anyway?

Sometimes I don’t see God’s glory in either of my realities.  I can’t apprehend God's righteousness.  I did see myself in my dream, if it was a dream --- in a broken mirror at Walgrens.   Boy, I looked like a bag-of-bones.  I also caught a glimpse of a man, kind of scruffy, watching me as I counted my ribs.

  “Hey, Hey --- who are you?” I yelled. 

 I thought for sure he would run away. He didn’t.  Strange.  I hadn’t seen another human being for days.  Stranger still, the man walked over and handed me a flyer. 

The pamphlet read, “You are Cordially Invited to The Feast of Fat Things”. “What?” I laughed.  “Buddy, what the heck is this? Is this some sort of joke?”  But Buddy was gone. 

"You are Cordially Invited to The Feast of Fat Things.   When:  Now.  Where:  In Sue Mayberry’s basement.  Come one, come all and partake freely of wine on the lees and of fat things full of marrow."  I thought about throwing this odd invitation away, but wine on the lees sounded good to me --- because I was really thirsty and desperate to numb my pain.  But what pray tell is wine on the lees?

 It rang a bell within.  I thought it might be a biblical phrase.  In fact, the phrase originated from the prophet Isaiah. I preached a sermon series on Isaiah --- just before the Great Tsunami hit the east coast in May of 2014.

 If I remembered correctly wine on the lees is undiluted, unpolluted wine, wine in which the sediment has settled to the bottom --- as in the good, expensive stuff. And marrow --- the thought of eating bone marrow might have turned my stomach back in my vegetarian phase --- every gourmet chef to the ends of the earth (wherever that may be) knows that marrow is God’s butter.   And while I didn’t give a whit about God at that moment, I wanted nothing more than to devour a stick of butter like a Popsicle.    

And Sue Mayberry?  I knew Sue Mayberry.  Sue had pastored the only church in town that had actually opposed the war.  She was a liberal kook.  I suspect she thought I was a conservative crank.  Perhaps it was the other way around?  I couldn’t really remember.  I simply knew I didn’t relish the thought of feasting with Sue Mayberry.  But the gnawing in my stomach changed my mind.  So, in my dream that may not have been a dream I walked straight to Sue Mayberry’s burnt-out mountain cottage. No barbed wire on her windows.  I also discovered the front door was open, so I made a B-line for the basement. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

 A banquet table forty or fifty feet long, decked out with linen and fine china and tall-stemmed crystal goblets and fresh cut flowers and fat things like buttered popcorn and chicken gizzards fried with pancetta and cookie dough ice cream and bottle after bottle of Pinot Noir filled the room.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  Seriously, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  I think it was some sort of mirage within my dream that might not have been a dream because when I rubbed my eyes the food and the drink disappeared, and all I saw were twenty or so shabby looking folks standing in a circle singing, “Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus, just to take him at his Word.”  At first, when I thought I heard sirloin spitting on the grill, I literally reckoned I had died and gone to heaven. Obviously, I had wandered into hell instead.

“Where is the food?” I hollered.  "You invited me to a feast.  I want my wine.  And I don’t want any of that watered-down Presbyterian stuff either. I want me some Episcopalian wine, and I want it now.”  But the small group of tattered misfits just kept on holding hands and singing. 

“Feeding on the husks around us,

 Till our strength was almost gone,

 Longed our souls for something better,

 Only still to hunger on.”

“Stop it”, I screamed.  And they did.  Everyone stopped and looked at me.  Ed Jones from the AME Zion Church.  Patricia Kelly from that Missionary Baptist lot.  A few elderly nuns.  And even Joseph Rivers, who was the most crooked small town politician I had ever known, was there.  I guess once the bombs started dropping he found Jesus. How convenient.

Then, I heard a high pitched voice.

"Look, everyone, it’s Brother Tim Adams.  Welcome."

 "Oh, Heavens",  I thought.   It was insufferable Sue herself.

" I’m so glad you came.  Join us.  Please."

"No thank you.  I came for the food."

"Food?  I’m afraid we don’t have much food, but you’re welcome to share in what we have."

"What about the Feast of Fat Things?" I demanded.

"Oh, that’s a reference to a passage of Scripture found in Isaiah 25: 6 - 9. Right in the middle of this horrible description of worldwide devastation the prophet says:

“On this mountain the LORD Almighty will prepare a feast of rich food for all peoples,

a banquet of aged wine—

   the best of meats and the finest of wines.

 On this mountain he will destroy

   the shroud that enfolds all peoples,

the sheet that covers all nations;

  he will swallow up death forever.

The Sovereign LORD will wipe away the tears

   from all faces;

he will remove his people’s disgrace

   from all the earth.

            The LORD has spoken.

  In that day they will say,

   'Surely this is our God;

   we trusted in him, and he saved us.

This is the LORD, we trusted in him;

   let us rejoice and be glad in his salvation.'”

OK. I was deeply, deeply offended that this woman dared to preach to me. 

"Sue", I said in a polite but clipped tone, “I preached a very fine series on Isaiah at Shady Grove Presbyterian back in 2014, and I don’t need you to tell me what the prophet was seeking to convey."  Actually, I did --- but I was too proud to ask.

That didn’t stop Sue from volunteering. 

"So then, you must see that the mountain of the LORD is Mount Zion and that Mount Zion is the Church of Jesus Christ!  The psalmist wrote in Psalm 132: 13: 

 

'For the LORD has chosen Zion,

he has desired it for his dwelling, saying,

This is my resting place for ever and ever;

here I will sit enthroned, for I have desired it.

I will bless her with abundant provisions;

and her poor I will satisfy with food.'

And in the New Testament the apostle Paul makes it clear that the church of our Lord Jesus Christ is that habitation, the very dwelling place of God through the Spirit.  We are the Ark of safety for those in need.  We are the ones called out to bless the world with the truth of God in Christ. Isn’t it wonderful, Tim?"

“No, Sue. It’s not wonderful”, I countered.  "The world is going to hell in a hand-basket.  In case you haven’t noticed.  We’re living through a nuclear holocaust.   I don’t know if my wife and daughter are alive.  And I’m hungry, Sue.  I’m really hungry."

"I’m sorry.  I know it’s hard.  My son lives --- lived --- in Los Angeles --- or what used to be Los Angeles. It’s hard for us all, Tim.  But all we have to hold on to right now is each other."

I wanted to say something snarky. But my head hurt.

 

"Are we dead, Sue?" I asked.

 

"I don’t think so."

"Is this heaven?"

"Not quite."

"Has everyone else been raptured? Have we been left behind?"

"I hope not",  Sue smiled.

 

"And don’t a lot of people take those promises, like the one you read from Isaiah, literally?  I mean, I didn’t go to the hoity-toity seminary you attended, but doesn’t that passage refer to Christ’s literal thousand year reign on earth --- or better yet to the New Heaven and the New Earth that God will establish at the end of the age when we’ll get to eat real food at a real table with a real resurrected Savior?  I was kind of counting on some real food --- Beaujolais, filet mignon, hot buttered rolls.  You get the picture."

"I get the picture.  I love the picture, Tim.  I live for that picture.  So, come LORD Jesus, come.  I can‘t wait.  But I also know that in the good times and the bad times --- even these worst of times --- the Church has been commissioned to show the world that the richness of God’s blessings, all the good things of God, have been revealed through Jesus.  I believe the very heart of Isaiah’s prophecy was fulfilled when Jesus came the first time.  And I believe his prophecy continues to be fulfilled through his Church.   We’re spiritually alive right now Tim, and until that day when the death shroud wrapped around this world is fully and finally ripped away and the power of our Savior’s resurrection is revealed the best we can do is keep the Feast."

"What feast?  I don’t want to feast on a bunch of hymns with the likes of you.  Mayor Rivers is the most corrupt man I’ve ever known.  Ms. Kelly over there has slept with half the school board, and you --- you’re a squeaky-voiced woman educated beyond all sense --- and you’re not fit to teach the Holy Scripture much less lecture me about what it means."

          "Tim, we’re all sinners --- saved by grace.  Come, let’s partake of the Feast together." 

          "What feast!?!"  I shouted.

         " Well, the feast of fellowship, the feast of love, the feast of forgiveness, the feast of unity, the feast of hope, the feast of reconciliation, the feast of our salvation, the feast of our holy communion with one another and God our Savior." 

          That’s when Sue stepped aside, and I finally saw the small card table, upon which sat a loaf of bread and a small cup of wine. 

          "This is Jesus’ body broken for us.  This is the new covenant in his blood poured out for us."  And on and on Sue Mayberry spoke those words I was once so familiar with speaking myself.  But I couldn’t stay.  I didn’t want to.  I needed to find real food.

         Yet as I headed up the stairs, I heard Sue recite the words of the ancient creed,

          “This is the day of resurrection.

          Let us be illumined by the feast.

          Let us embrace one another.

          Let us call brothers even those who hate us,

          And forgive all by the resurrection."

So, I sat down --- because I was tired --- and listened as the motley crew of Christ-followers from little Lenior, North Carolina sang:

“Well of water, ever springing,

 Bread of life so rich and free,

 Untold wealth that never faileth,

 My Redeemer is to me.

Hallelujah! we have found Him

 Whom our souls so long have craved!

 Jesus satisfies our longings,

 Through His blood we now are saved.”

And as I listened, I cried.  I couldn’t stop crying.  In fact, I woke up crying --- in my own  clean, crisp-sheeted bed. Theresa was awakened by my sobs as well.  “What’s wrong?" she asked.

"I’m angry", I answered.  "I’m so angry at God.  I’m so angry that our daughter is dead.  I’m so angry at the people in my life who have disappointed me."  My wife didn’t say anything.  She just wiped the tears from my eyes and gave me a good morning kiss.

Later, as I smelled the coffee and the bacon announcing breakfast, my wife yelled from the kitchen, “Tim, you better hurry up --- it’s almost time for church."

          I looked in the mirror to straighten my tie --- and replied, “Yeah, I know."