St. John’s Episcopal Church
Tallahassee, FL
Job 19:23–27a
2 Thessalonians 2:1–5, 13–17
Luke 20:27–38
I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed,
but every year about this time,
our readings begin to take a turn.
They start to sound heavier:
full of talk about the end of the world,
and death
and judgment,
and plenty of things
we’d rather not face.
That’s because
as the Church year draws to its close,
the lectionary turns us toward
what we call apocalyptic texts.
You can hear it in Job talking about
what will happen “at the last.”
You hear it in 2 Thessalonians
with Paul talking about
“the day of the Lord.”
You hear it in Luke
with Jesus talking about “this age”
and “the age to come.”
When people hear these things
and the word apocalypse,
most minds immediately go
to thoughts of destruction:
fire, chaos, collapse,
the end of life as we know it.
But at its heart,
the Greek word apokalypsis
does not mean destruction.
It literally means unveiling.
An apocalypse is when the curtain lifts
and we glimpse what has been true all along:
that even in the dark,
God is still in charge,
life is still breaking forth,
and love is still going to have
the final word.
So today, I want to pull back the veil
on one tiny word in the book of Job
to see what God is trying to reveal
to us today.
* * *
If anyone ever lived
through a personal apocalypse,
it was Job (pronounced “johb,” rhymes with robe).
By the time we meet him,
Job has lost everything:
his children,
his health,
his livelihood,
his reputation.
But when we find him today
in the middle of all that ruin,
Job says something inexplicable.
Sitting in filth and ashes, Job says,
“As for me, I know that my Redeemer lives
and that at the last he will stand upon the earth . . .
I myself shall see, and my eyes behold him
who is my friend and not a stranger.”
That’s actually one of the opening lines
at every Episcopal funeral.
But here’s the thing, y’all.
Let’s talk about that word Redeemer.
“As for me,” he says, “I know that my Redeemer lives.”
That word Redeemer has more going on in it
than you think it does.
In Hebrew, it’s go’el—
(repeat that after me: go’el)—
and this tiny little two-syllable word
carries a ton of hidden meaning.
You see, a go’el isn’t just anybody.
A go’el is your nearest family member
who steps in when your household is in crisis.
It’s the tenacious
sister
or cousin
or auntie
who doesn’t just come
with a pot of soup in hand
but comes in and takes charge.
The go’el goes to bat for you.
The go’el takes up your case.
The go’el buys back what was lost
and will not let your story end in shame.
In the old days, they called it
your “Kinsman-Redeemer”
or “Redeemer-Kinsman.”
Basically, Job is saying,
“If nobody else is gonna stand with me,
God will.
God will be my go’el.
God will be my Redeemer-Kinsman.
God will be the one
who claims me,
defends me,
and raises me up.
I myself shall see and my eyes behold
him who is my friend, and not a stranger.”
Y’all, this is not just cheap,
amby-pamby optimism.
This is revelation.
This is the lifting of the veil . . .
the moment that Job discovers and declares
that God is not far away
but is his go’el,
his nearest kin,
his Redeemer-Kinsman.
* * *
So that’s all well and good
but how does any of this matter
for you and me today?
Well I’ll tell you how it matters.
It matters because
just as in the days of Job,
just as in the days of Paul,
just as in the days of Jesus,
we live in an extremely faulty
and broken world.
We live in a world
of petty politics,
of gamesmanship and
government shutdowns.
We live in a world
where bus drivers on SNAP,
where grocery baggers who work at Publix
but shop at the food bank,
where government workers unexpectedly furloughed
all suddenly have no idea
where their next meal will come from.
That includes people right here in Tallahassee—
more than you might ever imagine—
and if you don’t believe me,
Deacon Joe,
or Deborah at our front desk,
or our parishioner Monique Ellsworth
can easily introduce you to some of them.
If you don’t know Monique,
she is the CEO of Second Harvest of the Big Bend,
and when we asked her last week,
“Monique, what do you most need right now?”
her answer was, “Money.”
“With money,” she says,
“we can move quickly.
With money,
we can turn it immediately
into groceries, and meals,
and immediate hope
for people tonight.”
So that’s what we’re doing.
Where the government fails,
the Church steps in,
and in the pattern of our Redeemer-Kinsman
we become the redeemer-kinfolk.
You can give to
Second Harvest of the Big Bend or
Deacon Joe’s Discretionary Fund.
You can do it online,
and you can do it now.
And while money helps,
groceries definitely don’t hurt.
If you’d rather give groceries,
we’re collecting them in Graham Lounge.
Go load up and bring them by.
Every bit of it matters.
Every act of mercy matters
because every act of mercy says,
“You are not alone.
God has not forgotten you.
We are your kinfolk.”
Because this, too, y’all,
is an apocalypse.
This moment is also an unveiling . . .
an unveiling of who can be relied on and who cannot . . .
a moment when the love of God
must be revealed
by the hands of God’s people.
Because what do kinfolk do when systems fail?
When systems fail, kinfolk step in.
When neighbors are in need, kinfolk step up.
When hunger cries out, kinfolk bring bread.
That’s not politics.
That’s abundant grace
with its sleeves rolled up.
So, my friends,
as Paul says to the Thessalonians today,
do not be quickly shaken.
Instead, stand firm.
For when you do,
the veil lifts a little more,
and the Kingdom gleams through.
That’s resurrection, baby.
That is apocalypse.
That is the Redeemer-Kinsman at work
through his redeemer-kinfolk.
* * *
So, my friends,
in times like these,
when the world feels uncertain
and everything is being laid bare,
blesséd are they,
because blesséd are you.
Blesséd are you, St. John’s,
when you keep your lamp trimmed
and burning bright for others.
Blesséd are you
when you feed the hungry
and hold the hurting as your own.
Blesséd are you
when you stand firm, unshaken,
because you know that
your Redeemer-Kinsman lives . . .
and because you dare to be
the redeemer-kinfolk he has called you to be.
For you, my friends,
are the Church of the living God,
and you were born to shine
for such a time as this.
Amen.