The New Jerusalem Coming Down
— John the Apostle watches the descent of New Jerusalem from God in a 14th-century tapestry (“La Jérusalem céleste“, extraite de la Tapisserie de l’Apocalypse du Château d’Angers, France.)
by Jonathan Tobias
I don’t think I’m the only one who does this, but in a choral concert program, I have favorite pieces. The others I try to respect—to be true to the composer and the music. But there are one or two that require no effort at all. I inhabit them, heart and soul. They are so poignant, even heartrending, that I almost become undone.
And last Sunday, at the Albemarle Chorale Spring Concert, that song was “And I Saw a New Heaven.” The text is drawn from the luminous opening verses of Revelation 21, set to music by Eric Nelson, Director of the Atlanta Master Chorale. The music moves from soaring, almost mystical vision, to thunderous proclamation, and then to a deep poignancy that touches anyone who has ever suffered.
Poignant, that is, in the soft, certain hope that “God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.”
It is a promise we have heard so often that we are in danger of hearing it only as consolation for another world. But the vision John gives us is not of souls departing to heaven. It is of a city coming down.
This vision is not a story of escape, but of nearness. Not the abandonment of earth, but its transfiguration. The beauty glimpsed in music, in friendship, in the quiet fidelity of ordinary life—these are not temporary consolations on the way to somewhere else. They are intimations of what is coming toward us.
This New Jerusalem is seen as “coming down from God.” It is a city that is radiant and alive, the dwelling of God with humanity.
I know there are other visions of the end as well—visions filled with shock and awe, violence and destruction, images that leave us uneasy, even afraid. It is not surprising that the language of judgment is often met with dread, or quietly avoided altogether. And it may be that, at times, such fearful imaginings have not been without consequence in the life of the world. For there is always the temptation to mirror what we fear—to build, not the city of God’s nearness and communion, but something closer to what Augustine once called the “City of Man.”
Why would we think that the character of the King at the Second Coming will be any different from the feet-washing Jesus in the upper room? The reign of Jesus at the right hand of the Father, after his Ascension, is something like a quiet revolution of servanthood. Not the assertion of power as we know it, but the steady fire of love, burning away what destroys and distorts, restoring what was always meant to be. The revolution of the Ascended King, his reclaiming his rightful kingship over creation, is a revolution of praise (Psalm 149.6-9) and love (Matthew 5.43-48) – both of which are the “hallowing of the Father’s name” (Matthew 6.9).
It is a way of life that has little to do with power, domination, or revenge, and everything to do with Jesus. It is a way of waiting for God, even if he feels far away in a harsh and wounded world, but knowing that despite the feeling, he will never leave us or forsake us. It is a way of letting the darkness of the world transmute into the Kingdom inside our hearts, pain by pain, disappointment by disappointment, every enemy transmuted into friend, one by one.
Is not the tabernacle of God a dwelling of peace—Eden restored, the New Jerusalem lit not by sun or moon, but by the intimate presence of God? A river runs through the city, as in the beginning, now the Water of Life, nourishing the Tree whose leaves are for the healing of the nations—all people, all races—and our risen Lord, still bearing the marks of the nails, wiping away every tear.
Heaven is not waiting for us somewhere else.
It is drawing near, even now.
How? “The Kingdom of God is at hand,” Jesus announced over and over again. “At hand” through mercy, meekness, peacemaking, and kindness, charity, grace, purity in heart. The New Jerusalem descends step by step in every prayer for mercy, every act of servanthood and the gift of yourself for the sake of others.
Perhaps this is what Christian life, at its best, begins to look like.
How does the New Jerusalem approach?
“Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit,” says the Lord (Zechariah 4.6)—a line I once sang, years ago, teaching my daughters a simple children’s song, and one that still undoes me.
“And I heard a great voice out of heaven saying, ‘Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men,’ and he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself shall be with them, and be their God.”
I trust the music more than the fear. I trust the nearness more than the darkness.
I’ve decided that whenever my day comes, I would like this song to be sung. Because I have a quiet hope that, at that same moment, I will be hearing it for real.