Thursday, April 3

Gone the Sea

Michael Andres

Reading

I saw Heaven and earth new-created. Gone the first Heaven, gone the first earth, gone the sea.
Revelation 21:1 (The Message)

Reflection

On Wednesdays this Lent, I’ve joined Chantelle Foster’s class The Scandal of the Kingdom. Last night’s class was one of the most impactful I’ve experienced—because of the loving truth spoken among the people in the room.

We spent time talking about justice and love. Mercy and grace.
Abundance and regard. Presence. Willingness. Compassion.
We talked about what the world would look like if it was turned upside-down—not just in some theoretical sense, but in a way you could feel in your bones.

What would our politics sound like, absent anxiety and fear?
Without that wretched compulsion to compare ourselves to everyone and everything around us?
What if the sorrowful discontent of the soul quieted long enough for us to really see each other?

The cynical will say wondering these things is impractical. The efficient might call it a waste of time.
That’s fine. But that’s not really the concern here, is it?
It’s about something more—something older and wiser, gentler and more steely.
Something moving through the carbon and electricity beneath our skin.
Stirring something in us to create things both beautiful and true.

I didn’t realize until last night how often I hang my hope on a few strange words near the back of the Bible.
Apocalyptic, sure. Mysterious.
But also kind. Kind enough to hold me together some days.

They’re his people, he’s their God…
He’ll wipe every tear from their eyes…
Death is gone for good—tears gone, crying gone, pain gone…
Look! I’m making everything new.

If I believe what I do (and I do), then Heaven’s a place where no one’s sad.
No one cries.
There’s no pain, no scarcity—in goods or in heart.
There’s enough. There’s always enough.

No dark nights of the soul.
No anguish, no shame.
No comparison. No slander.
No loneliness.

Heaven is where God dwells so fully and presently that everyone belongs.
Everyone has a home.
There’s always a seat at the table, and the table is always full.
No one goes to bed empty. And rest is actually rest.

And it’s not just something worth waiting for.

Our faith—my faith—says we can taste it now.
Jesus shows us how to live, how to make room for Heaven in the middle of our lives.
He shows us how to dwell within it this very moment.
To seek justice—not instead of mercy, but as mercy in motion.

In the ancient world, the seas symbolized chaos.
The unknown. Death.
Sailors and mapmakers drew monsters at the edges.
The sea was enchanted and terrifying. And, honestly, I don’t think we’ve changed all that much in how we see the world.

And yet.

Gone the sea.

God is remaking this earth—through you and me. Through all of us.
This is the forming of Heaven.
Here. Now.

Not someday.
Not somewhere else.

Here.
Now.

And if you’re in a place where the sea still feels very present,
where the sorrow hasn’t lifted—
you’re not alone.
Don’t go quiet.
Don’t disappear.
Stay.

There is space for you at the table, still.
Right here.
Right now.