“No More”
Fifth Sunday of Easter
May 25, 2025
Burnt Hills United Methodist Church
No more beast.
No more death.
No more fear.
All things new.
All things new.
All things new.
Once upon a time, there was a man named John. Unfortunately, there aren’t many details about this man that have stood the test of time.
Where he came from.
How he made his living. How he spent his days.
What his favorite color was. How he wore his clothing. Whether he liked to mix his garum with black pepper or oil.
We don’t know who he loved or who loved him back, but we do know this:
John was no stranger to the power of death.
I can’t begin to overstate how important that detail is to understanding this man and his impact.
John was no stranger to the power of death.
John was intimately familiar with the might of the imperial machine.
A machine that sought only to extract and consume and grind into dust all who stood in its way.
A cold, unfeeling beast of a machine that put him exactly in the place in which we find him writing words down that are trustworthy and true.
Exiled. Stranded on an island.
Plucked up; extracted from his context—from his home and all that he has ever known and loved—and discarded to be forgotten.
Surrounded on all sides by the crashing waves of an expansive sea. A sea that connected his entire known world. Policed by an imperial navy imposing order on behalf of a man one thousand miles away who called himself a god.
For John, this sea wasn’t just water.
It was chaos.
It was isolation.
It was empire.
It was death.
John knew the power of death all too well.
And yet, we still talk about this man named John, even to this very day.
Even though we know frustratingly little of the details of his life. Even though he was a prisoner and discarded by the powers of his day to the dustbin of history. Even though he was nobody from nowhere we can utter his name today because John dared to dream.
John dared to dream and dared to share that dream with anyone still around who dared to hear it.
John dreamed of a day when the sea—the very sea that functioned as the bars on the cage that was his prison cell—was no more.
No more sea.
No more beast.
No more death.
No more fear.
All things new.
All things new.
All things new.
John looks out at the waves crashing all around him, but he doesn’t see escape. He sees resistance. His vision is one of truth that unmasks the illusions of the death-dealing powers of his day and age.
One day, this sea will be no more, because God is never far from the chaos of the waters.
In the beginning, the spirit, the wind, the breath of God—the ruach Elohim—hovered over the primordial chaos waters. And when other gods of other peoples violently fought those waters of creation in a raging cosmic battle to bring forth the created order, John’s God simply uttered four little words and light shone bright in the darkness.
The waters separated and revealed dry land and heavenly sky.
And life—humanity itself—was born, bearing the divine image.
God hovered over the chaos waters and from them made something proclaimed to be good.
Very good.
John’s ancestors of the faith found themselves pinned against a raging sea. Their captors and oppressors breathing down their necks, their deliverer stretched out his hand and that great wind of God blew, separating the sea right in two.
The people crossed it on dry land, but it swallowed up the ones who sought to enslave them once again.
We know this, too, don’t we? Ask any sailor who’s had to navigate a storm. The sea is treacherous. The sea is not to be trifled with.
The sea was empire. The sea was separation. The sea was death.
And John saw a great and mighty beast rise from the sea—Rome in symbolic form—drawing its power from the forces of death.
But John also saw a rider. A rider called Faithful and True, wearing a robe dyed with blood. Not the blood of his enemies, but his own.
This rider, this Word made flesh, defeats the beast not with a weapon in his hands but a Word on his lips.
Not some thunderous war cry, but the simple truth:
You.
Have.
No.
Power.
You.
Are.
Nothing.
And with that Word, John saw the beast destroyed.
You see, John knew what all who call Christ and Christ crucified Lord know. John knew that death was the ultimate lie of the empire.
Death was the ultimate lie of the beast.
Death is my final word, the beast proclaimed, taking another life. Nothing is as powerful as death.
John was no stranger to the power of death.
John looked out and was confronted with it every day.
And still, John dared to imagine.
John dared to dream—not as escape, but as resistance.
Not as fantasy, but as faith.
And in that same vision—after the sea was gone and the beast was defeated, John saw something else. John dared to dream of a city. A city bigger and more grand than you or I could ever begin to fathom. A city spanning 1,500 miles in all directions with room enough for everyone.
A city with a tree whose leaves would be for the healing of the nations.
A city with streets paved in gold.
A city that shone with God’s glory.
A city with gates that are never shut—never closed to keep anyone out.
A city where every tear is wiped from every eye.
A city where death is no more.
No more sea.
No more beast.
No more death.
No more fear.
All things new.
All things new.
All things new.
Once upon a time, there was a man named John. And though not much about his biography is known—where he came from, how he spent his days, who he loved or who loved him back—his name has endured throughout the generations.
We keep coming back to this man named John because, even though he was discarded by empire and exiled on an island, he looked death in the eye and still dared to dream.
And by the power of the Holy Spirit, his dream persisted.
His dream didn’t wither and die on that island, but it echoed.
It reverberated.
It took root in the hearts of the faithful and was passed from generation to generation.
From suffering to suffering.
From hope to hope.
We may not know John, but his voice still resonates in our ears.
Because, dear ones, John’s dream is our dream.
John’s hope is our hope.
John’s resistance is our resistance.
We look out at the waves of the sea crashing all around us, but we will not run from it.
We look out and see the beast still roars and lashes out, but we will not tremble before it.
We look out and see and can palpably feel the sting of death, but we will not bow down to it.
Instead, we will listen for the Spirit hovering over the waters.
We will trust in the Word that tells the truth.
And we will walk towards that city—gates flung wide open, streets aglow with glory, and every tear wiped from every eye.
This is no fairy tale. This is no fantasy. This is the promise of the living God.
Write these words down, my friends, because they are trustworthy and true.
No more sea.
No more beast.
No more death.
No more fear.
All things new.
All things new.
All things new.
May the one who began a good work be faithful to complete it in us.
The work continues.
Amen.
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