You, Me, Some Words

We’re at the center of heaven, the hub of the universe, and the time is God’s time, the day of fulfillment and victory.  Look, do you see?  The throne and the Lamb—God the ruler of all, Christ who suffered for all—and around them, angels, elders and the four living creatures (none of which I’m going to attempt to explain), and in the next great circle a “multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages … robed in white, with palm branches in their hands.”  They call out their praises, and the angels, elders and four living creatures (maybe we can think of them as choir and liturgists) respond with a doxology of their own.  Imagine the sound of that, the scale and glory of it all.

Our scene is from Revelation 7 (a good biblical number), one of the few visions in that strange, beautiful book that I can read with a confident nod of comprehension.  I mean, I might not feel up to tackling the subtleties of apocalypticism and eschatology, but I’ve been to a lot Sunday services, and I know worship when I see it.  And what we have before us is worship—clearly the most diverse and best attended service in the universe.  Who’s in charge of getting nametags?

Because I, for one, am going to need nametags.

See the bearded, unkempt guy in animal skins?  Is that Elijah or John the Baptist?  I don’t have a clue.  And over there—Mary Magdalene or Jesus’ mom?  Your guess is as good as mine.  I’ll be able to pick out a couple of generations of family, I think, and my childhood Sunday School teachers, and maybe even John Wesley—short, white hair, with a horse?—but that leaves an awful lot of unnamed saints.  I want nametags.

Now, some might argue it won’t matter.  After all, Jesus answered the Sadducees’ tricky question about resurrection by saying we’ll be like angels.  And Paul said the body is “sown a natural body [and] raised a spiritual body” (1 Cor. 15).  What does that mean?  Maybe we will know such communion with God that our individuality is transformed.  Maybe names just won’t matter anymore.

But I believe they will.  You and I are strangely and wonderfully made, and I think the uniqueness of who we are and the stories we carry last.  We are created for God and each other, and each “other” is uniquely holy.  I’m hanging onto the words from our creed, “I believe in the resurrection of the body.”  Our being, our whole nature, is raised in that day of mystery and resurrection.  Each of us is known to God, every name remembered.  The ones whose blood Pilate mixed with their sacrifices mattered and matter.  Each person who walked into the hell of Auschwitz is holy before God.  The Christians dead in the Colosseum will join in that worship.  The names of the children of Gaza will be called.  And you and I will know it all as we have been known.

Access to the heart of the universe requires no documents, no reservation, only God’s invitation.  Hand out the nametags and show them in.  In God’s grace, there is room, with nothing but premium seating.  Imagine the sight of that great body of wondrous bodies; imagine the sound of voices blended.  Listen closely, and you’ll hear a single voice and another and another, with every worshiper known.

I want the name of the guy on the cross next to Jesus.  I want to introduce myself to the shepherds who showed up in Bethlehem and the kid who offered fish and loaves for the crowd.  I want to meet the centuries’ martyrs who refused to bow to injustice and brutal power.  I might feel a little unworthy, honestly, in their company, but I want to meet them and call them by name.  And even across the temporal blip that was my ministry, there were wonderful, gracious people whose names are lost to me now, but I love them still.  I need nametags.

I’m guessing the adhesive paper kind will hold up just fine in heaven, though I have no scriptural foundation for that statement.  And if there’s a committee responsible for handing out all those nametags, then OK, OK, I’ll volunteer.