In the wake of the 1997 Heath High School shooting in Paducah, Kentucky, Steven Curtis Chapman released a song entitled, Not Home Yet! How much the song was written in response to the mass shooting is unknown. Chapman himself was reflecting on the themes of heaven and aimed at writing a song for those facing difficult trials to provide hope for their journey. In the song Chapman describes life as a pilgrim on a journey. Sometimes the view is breathtakingly spectacular, and the steps are easy as your feet are light as a feather. Other times, the view is hidden from sight. Storms hit and hit hard. Your shoes feel like concrete blocks, inching forward is all but impossible. You cannot take another step, and each step feels closer to the storm that drives the hopeless fear in you. So Chapman writes, “So close your eyes with me • And hear the Father saying, ‘Welcome home’ • Let us find the strength in all his promises to carry on • He said, ‘I’ll go prepare a place for you’ • So let us not forget • We are not home yet.”*
Max Lucado believes that deep within us lies the tiny Whipporwill who sings of eternity. His songs remind us that we are not intended for the temporary but for one day to be joined by the everlasting. His beautiful and soft melodic voice resonates with our soul. Too many times, though, his voice is drowned out by the noise around us, while other songs focus on the present not the future. The songs clamor for our attention to be satisfied. They play for our egos to be stroked. They thirst for our power to be quenched. They woo us for our affection to be fulfilled. But their competing songs do not and will not endure. They fade away like that last echo in the mountains. The Whipporwill, in the words of Lucado, says that “Out of the gray he sings a golden song. Perched in time he chirps a timeless verse. Peering through pain’s shroud, he sees a painless place. Of that place he sings.”** When he sings, we are reminded that we are not home yet.
Sunday mornings is a time of renewal and refocus. For six days we journey through the “here and now” until we come to worship where the focus is on the “then and there.” We live in the temporary, but we long for the Eternal. Sunday morning is that reminder that the real world is not the one that unfolds throughout the week, but the one that engages us on Sunday morning, as we peer with faithful eyes to what will be, not to what is. We read, “In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go . . . I will come back and take you to be with me . . ..” (Jn. 14:2-3). When we’ve read those words, we sing, “Oh, the land of cloudless day • Oh, the land of an unclouded sky • Oh, they tell me of a home where no storm clouds rise • Oh, they tell of an unclouded day.” As we are renewed and refocused, then return to our houses, we are also reminded that we are not home yet.
Hidden beyond the message of 2 Corinthians 3:7-11 is this home, a theme Paul will explore further in chapter 5. For now, Paul takes the readers back to Sinai where Moses receives the Covenant while Israel, camping in Sinai’s shadow, is doing everything they can to shatter any hope for a covenant with God. By using the word “ministry” instead of “covenant” Paul contrasts the difference between what Moses mediated and what Christ provides, noting that both ministries bring their own glory. Paul drops the word “glory” eight times.
He says the ministry at Sinai came with glory (v. 7) and that Moses’ face shined with glory (v. 7). Contrastingly, he says the Spirit’s ministry is more glorious (v. 8). In a “how much more” question Paul shows that the ministry that condemns is glorious, but that the ministry that brings righteousness is more glorious (v. 9). What was then glorious, referring to Sinai, has no glory when compared to the surpassing glory of this ministry with Jesus (v. 10). And finally, with the glory of Moses’s ministry fading away or faded away, the new glory of Jesus will endure forever (v. 11).
All that “glory” may be a bit much to absorb without slowly working through verses 7-11. But it is verse 11 that drew my attention when Paul writes, “And if what was fading away came with glory, how much greater is the glory of that which lasts!” For fifteen hundred years the glory of Moses’ ministry permeated and sustained Israel. And one might say that it sustained Israel in spite of themselves. But Moses’ ministry was finally coming to an end. As glorious as Moses’ ministry was the clock had been ticking and what Moses was offering was soon running out.
On the other hand, the ministry brought by Jesus has an enduring quality about it. The glory of Jesus’ ministry is not only its power, but that it will endure. Whatever you do in the name of Jesus will not be in vain or ultimately leave one empty handed. Jesus’ ministry brings meaning and substance to life as people are changed and transformed into his likeness (v. 18). In essence, what Paul is saying is that the closest we find our home on this side of eternity is experienced through the glorious ministry of Jesus. And that home or ministry lasts, no matter what.
The tension between the ministry that occurs in the “here and now” and the ministry that takes root and grows into the “then and there” is present and felt. Too often, with limited vision, all we see is what happens in the “here and now” without clear sight on the “then and there.” It gets frustrating. It feels like we are always estranged from home. When that happens, we all wonder, “What’s the point? What good have I done? Who really cares?”
We care for our patients. STNA’s minister through bathing them. Nurses minister by checking on their vitals. Social Workers minister by calming their financial worries. Spiritual Care ministers by leading them closer to God. Visitation Coordinators minister by providing team support while they suffer. Patients come and go and sometimes the eternal gets lost in the daily grind, the temporary, day-to-day visits, as we check off who we’ve seen and who we need to see next. I get it. I do too.
For thirty years I gave my life to ministry. In the process, like most church ministers, I’ve worn a lot of hats. I welcomed babies at hospitals, taught the young, married couples, worked with the aging, and overseen funerals. Outside of caring for churches, I’ve volunteered for civic organizations. I led Cub Scouts, helped with Boy Scouts, coached baseball teams, was an ongoing presence the schools where my children attended. At the end of it all, what did it get me? If what I see in this temporary is all I see, then I’m not the only one to feel the weight of disillusionment. Others have felt it as well, including Samuel Morrison.
In the early days of the Twentieth Century, Samuel Morrison decided it was time to go home. For the past twenty-five years he had given his life as a missionary to the African people. At the end of his tenure, he had nothing to show for it. He was broken. His finances were broken as he had run out of support and barely had enough money to return Stateside. He had no retirement. His heart was broken as he had buried his wife in Africa. His spirit was broken and had nothing left to give. With no fanfare, he left the mission field behind and boarded an ocean liner for the United States.
By happenstance one of the passengers on that ship was the President Teddy Roosevelt who was returning from a successful hunting expedition in Africa. All the excitement and fanfare kept the ship a buzz during the journey. But it was when the ship docked in New York Harbor that Samuel Morrison saw that the entire city of New York came out to the harbor to catch a glimpse of the President. Banners were raised. People were cheering. Choirs of children were singing. Balloons were floating in the air, flashbulbs were popping, cameras were recording the President’s arrival. Bands were playing. As the president departed the ship confetti and ticker tape showered on him like summer rain.
Samuel Morrison watched the spectacle unfold as one more broken moment sank in. He quietly exited the ship. No one greeted him as he was a nobody, a ghost. Alone, he slipped through the crowd hoping, to no avail, to find a cab. As walked the streets of New York, he prayed to the only one listening, if he really was listening, “Lord, the president has been in Africa for three weeks killing animals, and the whole world turns out to welcome him home! I’ve given twenty-five years of my life in Africa, serving you, and no one has greeted me, or even knows I’m here!”
Samuel Morrison continued to walk in his own silence. But in the quietness of his heart, a gentle, loving voice whispered, “But my dear child, you are not home, yet!” You are not home, yet!
Soli Deo Gloria!
(i.e., only God is glorified!)
* Steven Curtis Chapman, Not Home Yet, 1997.
** Max Lucado, “The Song of the Whipporwill” from When God Whispers Your Name, 1994.