Who Are These, Robed in White?

This was revised from a sermon I preached in class on October 31, 2011 (All Hallows' Eve). My text was Revelation 7:9-17.
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"You take the blue pill—the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill—you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes."

This quote comes at a decisive moment in the movie The Matrix. The main character, Neo, has just been told that his whole life is a lie. Machines have taken over the world and enslaved humanity, farming their bodies for energy and projecting false images and experiences into their brains. Neo has been ripped out of the Matrix and given a choice: he can take the blue pill and go back into the comfortable but false world of the Matrix; or he can take the red pill, permanently exit the delusion and suffer the consequences of knowing the truth.
Spoiler alert: he takes the red pill.

"Who are these, robed in white, and where have they come from?" "These are they who have come out of the great ordeal." These are the martyrs. They have suffered for the faith. They have taken the red pill. They have gone down the rabbit-hole—and they have come out of it.

"Who are these, robed in white?" "These are they who have come out of the great ordeal; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb."

I wonder what their robes looked like before they washed them in the blood that cleanses and does not stain. What kind of stories would their robes have told? Imagine a child explaining the origin of stains on her favorite pair of jeans: this grass stain is from when I caught a fly ball to win the game; that grease spot is from the pizza we had at my last birthday party; that patch covers up the hole I tore climbing a tree. Now imagine the martyrs examining their dirty robes: this blood stain is from when I turned the other cheek; these two spots where dirt is ground into the fabric—those are from kneeling in prayer; the front of my robe is damp from tears shed for my brothers and sisters who suffered with me.

"Who are these, robed in white?" These are they who have washed their robes, but not before telling their story through the stains.

Today, suffering and death is shut away in hospitals and hidden from view. So it's no wonder the church doesn't always know how to deal with it. Too often we actually see religion as an escape from suffering. My father went to see the film The Passion of the Christ when it first came out, and as he left the theater, he saw a woman sobbing. She had just seen the movie as well. Curious, he asked her what had moved her so deeply. Through tears, she said, "Jesus suffered so I don't have to."

Jesus suffered so I don't have to. Friends, this is not the gospel. Jesus did not come to give us the blue pill. Yes, Jesus has released us from slavery to sin and death, and yes, there is comfort in the presence of the Holy Spirit. But that comfort comes in the midst of suffering, not instead of it; in Revelation, the elder declares that "God will wipe away every tear from their eyes," but not that God will prevent those tears from coming.

"Who are these, robed in white?" These are they who weep even as they stand around the throne. Revelation says, "God will wipe away every tear from their eyes," in the future tense. They weep because this image of the people around the throne is not yet reality. And in many places, comfort does not come. Sometimes, suffering goes on senselessly.

Let me be clear: suffering itself is not redemptive. The only human suffering that was ever redemptive was that of Christ on the cross. Although in the crucifixion and resurrection Christ defeated sin and death, we are still waiting for the final consummation of that victory. "Who are these, robed in white?" These are the martyrs who weep.

Throughout the Bible, it is clear that proclamation and persecution are intertwined. We see this in the Old Testament prophets, in John the Baptist, in Jesus himself and in the disciples' and the early church's participation in his ministry. In fact, Christians' willingness to suffer for the gospel has often been a catalyst for evangelism. Martin Mittelstadt says, "The greatest defense of the gospel...is that it is worth dying for."

"Who are these, robed in white?" These are they who have shown in their lives that the gospel is worth dying for. Of course, how many of us are ever going to be in a situation where we are asked to die for our beliefs? Certainly Christians around the world die every day for the faith, but few of us will ever have to make such a choice. But even if none of us in this room are bound for martyrdom or physical suffering, we can still choose to take the red pill. The blue pill offers us false comfort by allowing us to deny the reality of suffering. The red pill calls us down the rabbit-hole.

And what will we find there? Perhaps we will be forced to face our sin. Perhaps we will encounter the depths of injustice and oppression. Perhaps we will see in that darkness our deepest fears and wounds.

"Who are these, robed in white?" "These are they who have come out of the great ordeal." They have taken the red pill. They have gone down the rabbit-hole, and Jesus has met them there. He has been their light in the darkness.

Tonight, Duke Chapel will host perhaps the coolest worship service they have all year. At 10:30 p.m., people will gather on the steps of the chapel and light candles around a fire. They'll join in a greeting and an opening prayer, then process into the chapel. As they come down the aisle, they will be enveloped by the sounds of chanting. The choir will be up in the triforium, the narrow passage below the tall stained-glass windows. More candles will eerily light their robed figures as they chant, Requiem aeternam—"rest in peace." The service will include prayer, hymns, Scripture readings, stories of the saints and martyrs, and the celebration of the Eucharist. The church will feel fuller than it looks as the readers invoke the memories of the saints. The candles will send light and shadow dancing across faces and hymnals, only just holding back the darkness.

Hope doesn't always look like the blazing sunlight of a cloudless day. Often, it looks more like a candle flickering defiantly in the darkness. South African pastor Peter Storey says this: "A candle is a protest at midnight. It says to the darkness, 'I beg to differ.'" "Who are these, robed in white?" These are they whom Jesus has met in the rabbit-hole, to whose darkness Jesus has said, "I beg to differ." They have gone into the great ordeal, and they have come out of it because Christ has lit their way.

A little over a month ago, my sister's boyfriend had a bad reaction to some pain medication. This caused him to black out and lose oxygen for a period of time. As a result, he suffered extensive heart, kidney and brain damage. At first, it looked like he wouldn't survive the weekend. Then it appeared he might live for a long time in a coma.

Today, Shane is walking, talking, making jokes and remembering people. He is in rehab and his brain is still healing, but his progress is beyond what any of the doctors thought possible. Shane is a walking, talking miracle.

As I've gone through the emotional rollercoaster of Shane's hospitalization at a distance, I've been asking myself what hope means in the midst of suffering. Interestingly enough, it was Shane himself who gave me an answer.

Shane still gets a little confused about where he is sometimes. One evening recently—and I did get permission to tell this story—my sister Grace was visiting, and Shane got up and announced that they were going golfing. Grace patiently reminded him that it was dark outside. He retorted, "I know, I'm waiting for it to clear up." Puzzled, Grace said, "Shane, it's not like clouds; darkness doesn't just clear up." Shane looked at her and said, matter-of-factly:

"Don't you know about morning?"