that appears in his book: Chappell, Clovis G. Chappell's Special Day Sermons. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Book House, 1983. Print.
II
The Great Certainty
(Easter Sunday)
"Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be: but we know that, when he shall appear, we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he is."
1 John 3:2
I
This is a joyous and bracing text. It has in it the deathless hopes and the high certainties that we associate with Easter. The author, the Apostle John, is looking out toward tomorrow. He is not thinking now of the immediate tomorrow, though to that he is never indifferent. He is rather looking toward that infinite tomorrow that he is sure lies beyond this world, with its light and laughter, with its griefs and graves. He is looking through the eyes that are lighted by the radiance of Easter morning. What does he see? What is his attitude toward what lies beyond death? The answer is one that ought to bring a burst of spring to the most wintry soul. For his attitude may be shared by every one of us. It is the privilege of every genuine Christian. What is it?
It is not one of indifference. John does not dismiss all thought of what may lie beyond the grave with a careless shrug. "One world at a time!" is the popular cry of our day. We have become far more extreme in our hither-worldliness. Of course more or less indifference as to what lies beyond death is quite natural to the youthful. The reasons for this are obvious. They have been pointed out more than once. In the first place, to those who are in life's green spring, the life that now is seem entirely sufficient. It is a bit of an eternity in itself. So long as our sun hangs in a morning sky, we are likely to think little of what is to come at the end of the day. It is after considerable experience with life, often after the shadows grow long and we become conscious of the approaching night, that we begin to wonder just what may await us beyond the sunset.
Then in youth we have not passed through those experiences that make life after death so desirable to many who have reached maturer years. We have not yet come, through much living and working and suffering together, greatly to love. We have not yet stood by open graves that have taken into their grim arms those that we hold most dear. We have not been broken upon the wheel of life. We have not cherished hopes that long deferred have made the heart sick. We have not yet bruised and broken the wings of our souls against forbidding bars that have shut us in and held us back from the realizing of our dearest dreams. It is natural, therefore, for those who are young to think little of what lies beyond the life that now is.
But such indifference on the part of those who have older grown is, I think, neither quite normal nor wholesome. It is genuinely tragic. This is true even when such indifference is born of a rugged self-discipline that has schooled its possessor to live without hope. It is even more so, when it it rooted in a profound selfishness. And this is often the case, I dare say, in spite of the fact that those parading such views tend to give an impression of unselfishness. The other day, for instance, a certain college professor was telling his class how utterly indifferent he was as to what lies beyond death. He put it even stronger than that, he expressed a preference for sleeping forever once his little day was over. Now, in my opinion, not a member of his class was greatly shocked by his statement. Nobody said, "How heartless! How utterly selfish!" For the most part, they rather seemed to approve, to say with admiration, "Here is one who is big enough not to be selfishly grasping at life as if he were essential to the ongoing of the universe."
But there is really nothing here to challenge our admiration. To be convinced of this it is only necessary to change the setting of the professor's statement. Suppose, for instance, that we pass from the classroom to the cemetery. Here arm in arm with him we stand beside an open grave. It is the grave of his mother. Now, suppose that, standing in this solemn present, he should repeat approximately what he has just said in the classroom: "I do not care in the least whether there is such a thing as immortality or not. It is a matter of complete indifference to me whether my mother is as if she had never lived, whether she has now become 'a brother to the...clod which the rude swain turns his share and treads upon,' [ a line from William Cullen Bryant poem “Thanatopsis”] or whether she is consciously alive forevermore. In fact I really prefer that, now that her brief day is over, she shall sleep forever." Who would admire and applaud now? Who would not rather say, "How horribly heartless!" To John such indifference is utterly impossible. He has too big a heart. He is too much of a lover.
No more does John look toward death, and what may lie beyond, with terror. There are those, you know, who refuse to think of these matters because they dare not. To cold thought of the tomb is for them the skeleton of all feasts. This is the case because they never think of death as an exodus, a mere passing from one room in God's great house into a larger and brighter [room]. It is rather a blind alley that leads nowhere but into nothingness. It is a ghastly red light that either puts an end to all traffic forevermore, or guides the way to yet deeper tragedy. It is said of Louis XIV that he never allowed death to be mentioned in his presence. That was the case because the very thought of it made him afraid. He shut his eyes to ti because he dared not face it. But for John, it has no terror at all.
How, then, I repeat, does John face the future? He faces it with calm confidence. He faces it also with keen and eager interest. This he does, not because he claims to know all that lies beyond death. He does not claim to have a blueprint of heaven. The Bible is consistently and beautifully reticent about the afterlife. It does not undertake to tell us all that we should like to know. It makes no effort to satisfy our curiosity. This to me is an evidence of its truthfulness. I am not sure that such knowledge would be best for us. I am quite sure that it would be quite beyond our comprehension. John, therefore, is not afraid to tell us that he has no full knowledge of all that we are to expect when done with this present world.
For instance, he says, "We know not," or, "It has not yet been made manifest what we shall be." [ 1 John 3:2 ] That is, I take it, John is confessing that he does not yet fully know the manner of life we shall live in that great tomorrow. He is sure of its reality, but of little else. But while he is ignorant as to the details he knows enough to make him at once both confident and eager. In fact his eagerness is heightened, not only by what he knows, but even more, possibly, by what he does not know. That is quite natural. Here, for instance, are two boys who are expecting Santa Claus. One if not only sure of his coming, he is also sure tat he knows what he is going to bring. But the other is in entire ignorance as to what he is going to bring. His one big certainty is that he is coming. Which if the two will look to the event with the greater eagerness? Not the one who knows, but the one who does not know. Thus it is with John. Being sure of the afterlife, his ignorance as to details only makes his great expectation all the more thrilling.
II
But while John confesses his ignorance of certain details of the afterlife, he does not desire to leave the impression that he is entirely in the dark as to the whole matter. There are certain fundamental facts of which he is genuinely sure. "We know!" is his bold and bracing declaration. Of course his knowledge is not that of the mathematician. He does not know, as we know, that three times three make nine, or that a straight line is the shortest distance between two points. He knows, with knowledge that is far more thrilling and far more satisfying than that. What are some of the things of which he is so sublimely certain?
1. Though he does not know what we shall be, he is certain that we shall be. He is sure of the survival of personality. He is firmly convinced that you will always be you, and I will always be I. He believes in the immortality of the individual. And that, by the way, is the only immortality that is reasonable. It was George Eliot who sang very beautifully about the immortality of influence, of living again in lives made better by our service, etc. [ this is a possible paraphrased reference to George Eliot’s poem “O May I Join the Choir Invisible” ] But such an immortality of influence requires, as others have pointed out, an immortal race. But where shall we find an immortal race? Surely not here. Science tells us emphatically that such is impossible because this world is passing on to a time when it will not be fit for habitation. Unless we live, therefore, as individuals, we cannot live at all. But John is sure that he is going to live individually, to be himself forever.
2. John is also certain that in the afterlife, his fellowship with Jesus Christ that has begun here, is not going to be broken, but is going to grow dearer and more intimate through eternity. "We know that we shall see him as he is," he declares joyfully. [ 1 John 3:2 ] Here he has been privileged to walk with Jesus about the dusty roadways of Judea and Galilee. Here he has leaned upon his bosom. But even then, he has seen him but dimly. He has seen him with eyes that were dreadfully lacking in clearness of vision. There, he will see him as he is, and have fellowship with him forevermore.
When John wrote this, he was doubtless thinking of that solemn scene in the upper room years ago when he had sat with his fellow-disciples under the grim shadow of the cross. It had dawned upon them at last that their Master was going away. They were crushed. Their hearts were utterly broken. They saw nothing worth living for in the dull, gray days ahead. Then it was that Jesus turned to them with these healing words: "Let not your hearts be troubled; ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also." [ John 14:1-2 ]
3. Then John is not only sure that he shall enter upon a richer experience of the fellowship of Jesus in the afterlife, but that this shall also be the privilege of al of his fellow-saints. Thus entering into a richer friendship with their risen Lord, he is further sure that they shall enter upon a richer friendship one with another. And this bracing assurance may also be ours. For, if beyond the life that now is, we are to enter upon a greater intimacy with our Lord, we may be sure that we shall be privileged also to enter upon a greater intimacy with those that we love and lose. We shall know there, with a fuller knowledge than we have known here, and this knowing, we shall love with a far deeper love.
4. Finally, John is sure that the afterlife is going to be one of eternal progress. He is convinced that the Christ who has exercised such transforming power upon his life in the here and now will go on exercising that power forever. What vast changes Jesus has already wrought within him [the apostle, John]. [ John ] is now known as the Apostle of Love. But he was anything but that when Jesus found him. He was a hot-hearted man, full of lightning and thunder. He it was that swaggered into the presence of Jesus with this report: "We saw one casting out demons in thy name, and we forbade him because he followed not us." [ Mark 9:38 ] He it was that wanted to call down fire from heaven upon certain ignorant and misguided villagers who had refused himself and his Master a night's lodging. [ Luke 9:54 ] Certainly it is a far call from the John of that day to the radiant-faced saint whose one message has come to be, "My little children, love one another." [ 1 John 3:11 ] John has made progress. Therefore, he believes, and has every reason to believe, that he will go on making progress forevermore. "We know that, when he shall appear, we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he is."
Thus it is evident that John does not believe in a static heaven. He does not believe in an afterlife tat is little more than a long preaching service. The picturing of heaven as a kind of lotus land where we are to drowse in utter idleness has, I am sure, done much to lessen the interest of adventurous and eager souls. We yearn for the joy of going on. And that is what is offered in our text. How do we make progress here? By work. By conflict. By flinging ourselves into great tasks and great adventures. I am sure it will so there. Only there, we shall work with more skillful hands, with hotter hearts, and with wilder joy. Therefore, we are sure that, working and achieving, we shall go on becoming increasingly like our Lord throughout eternity. What a blessed hope!
III
But what makes John so sure of all this? Upon what does he base his firm conviction? "We know that, when he shall appear, we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he is." "We know." How dogmatic! How daring! How little at home is such a claim today, even upon the lips of the saints! "We faintly trust the larger hope" [ paraphrase of the last line in Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s poem “In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 55”] ; but as for knowing, that, we feel, is far too strong a word for the pale dream that is ours. But not so for this spiritual giant. "We know," he affirms with unshaken and unshakable conviction." But surely here is a knowledge that we should all like to share.
Now, when John undertakes to answer this question, he does not do so by any elaborate argument. But as we listen to him, this at least is evident: The foundation of his conviction is his certainty of the resurrection of Jesus. But why is he so sure of this? Here he makes no appeal to mere external evidences. He does not remind us of his visit to that empty tomb on a certain Easter Sunday long ago, when he saw and believed. He does not tell us that since the tomb was empty it must have been emptied in one of three ways - -by the friends of Jesus, by his foes, or by a resurrection. That it was not emptied by his friends, because they believed he had risen, believed it strongly enough to preach it , and even die for preaching it. That it was not emptied by his foes, else they would have produced the body and ended the heresy. Since it was not emptied by either friends or foes, it must have been by a resurrection.
But John has nothing to say of outward evidences. This is the case, I dare say, not because he thinks that evidences are of no importance, but because he is sure that they are not enough. Once, as a boy, when too much company came, I was not allowed to eat at the first table. When I went to the second, I found abundant evidences of fried chicken, but, sad to say, I found little else. In fact, as I looked the situation over, there was no doubt in my mind that chicken had been served. The evidences were overwhelming. But in spite of this fact I was far from satisfied. And John is wise enough to now that the human heart can no more be satisfied by evidence of the risen Christ than the hungry can be satisfied by evidences of bread or the thirsty by evidences of water.
On what, then, does he base his certainty? He bases it upon a present experience. It is an experience that is intensely personal. It is one also that he is sharing with his fellow-saints. "Beloved, now are we the children of God." [ 1 John 3:2 ] He is conscious in the here and now of sonship with God through Jesus Christ. Therefore he never thinks of Jesus as merely a beautiful memory. He never thinks of him as one whom he has loved and lost in the radiant long ago. He is a present reality. He is One whom he knows now and with whom he is now experiencing joyful fellowship.
"No fable old, nor mystic lore,
Nor dream of bards and seers.
No dead fact stranded on the shor
Of the oblivious years.
"But warm, sweet, tender, even yet
A present help is he;
And faith has still its Olivet,
And love its Galilee.
"The healing of the seamless dress
Is by our beds of pain;
We touch him in life's throng and press,
And we are whole again."
[ lyrics to the hymn "Immortal Love, Forever Full" adapted by Uzziah C. Burnap from the John Greenleaf Whittier poem "The Master" ]
Such an experience does not do away with evidences any more than the sunrise destroys the stars. It only makes them seem secondary and insignificant. For John, therefore, argument about the reality of life in Christ seems utterly unnecessary. He no more needs verbal proof of it than a thirsty man would need proof of the reality of water when he was kissing a gushing spring upon the lips.
Now since John is in possession of eternal life in the here and now, he believes that this priceless treasure will be his forever. This does not mean that the regards eternal life merely as endless existence. He rather looks upon it, as do the other writers of the New Testament, not was endless existence, but as endless right existence. It is not a quantity of life; it is a quality of life. It is not to be ours simply when we die, but in the here and now. We possess it as we possess and are possessed by our Lord. He is himself the resurrection and the life. That is what he is to John now; that he is sure he will continue to be always. He cannot conceive of the Good Shepherd's going home in the gloaming and leaving his sheep to the terrors of the night. [ Psalm 91:5 ]
[John Michael Talbot adapted and Isaiah 40:31 “On Eagle’s Wings”]
That would mean either that he did not love us, or that death were stronger than he. John is sure of his love. He is equally sure of his power. And we, too, may be sure. Therefore we may join our voices with his this Easter morning as he shouts: "Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be: but we know that, when he shall appear, we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he is." [ 1 John 3:2 ]
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From Plummer, John. The Hours of Catherine of Cleves. New York: George Braziller, 1966. Print.
The illustration at the bottom of the page depicts chickens, possibly in reference Matthew 23:27
@LeMarquand ott, possible #solascriptura ref for #EasterEggHunt Matt23:37assuming #NARAL chickens who eat their young http://t.co/AKiKAYyBey— 🎼AdagioForStrings🎻 (@adagioforstring) March 27, 2013
@LifeTeen "Remember,God made vegetables, too☺"LOL!FYI @BillSchulz #RedEye #Lent fasts created Easter eggs not bunnies http://t.co/cmHvaAL9UH— 🎼AdagioForStrings🎻 (@adagioforstring) March 22, 2013
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From Meiss, Millard, and Edith W. Kirsch. The Visconti Hours: National Library, Florence. New York: George Braziller, 1972. Print.
LF 166v. The Redeemer
[Here's a gif of the illuminated manuscript drawing of the risen Jesus because it changes depending on the angle of the light]
A red book in Christ's left arm emphasizes the color of the blood which seeps from his wounds. He also holds a palm whose form is echoed by the slender fingers of his blessing hand and whose color is restated in the initial which frames the representation. The Holy Sepulcher appears within a smaller initial beneath the Redeemer.
Exuberant sprays of foliage and flowers in the borders celebrate his Resurrection.
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