Every man has two
Battles to wage:
In dreams he wrestles with God
Awake, with the sea
ANTONIO MACHADO, Proverbs and Song Verse
It was July when my youngest son and his new wife came to visit. Stasi and I wanted to take them out for a special dinner, the kind newlyweds cannot afford themselves. We booked an evening at the Broadmoor Hotel, a Forbes five-star resort you may have heard of. Picture a gorgeous estate like you might find in France or Germany—verdant gardens, flowing fountains, architecture with an “Old World” feel, red tile roofs, arched turrets, and curving balconies.
We had a lovely evening over a luscious dinner and rich conversation. Olivia, our new daughter-in-law, said, “I’ve never had an evening like this.” Happy, sated, feeling connected with one another, we wandered outside with the sort of leisure you enjoy after a sumptuous meal on a warm summer evening. Stasi was having difficulty walking due to a hip injury, so the two of us chose to rest on a bench while the lovers took a stroll around the lake. The main part of the resort lies across the water, and its lights were shimmering on the dark waters while echoes of laughter and the sounds of dining floated toward us. Closer by, the luscious smells of petunias and summer flowers hanging in baskets surrounded us with nature’s perfumes.
Then I remembered my dream.
It had been months since I let the dream slip away, largely because I simply didn’t know what to do with it; the happiness and beauty in the dream was nothing near the hard months we were living through. I also didn’t know what to make of it at the time, so I’d ventured to ask the Lord what the dream was about. My Kingdom, he’d said quietly, reassuringly, with a touch of pride. Yes, it certainly had the “aroma” of the kingdom of God. And yet . . . it did not feel like heaven to me, because the scene was so earthly—water, grass, lanterns, moonlight, a dinner party on a veranda.
Suddenly here we were, not in the dream itself, but in the promise of it. Sitting on the bench with Stasi, I was experiencing a taste of that settled happiness I had seen. Without bidding, my heart whispered, This is what we were meant for.
Now the curious thing is this: How did my heart know this? How do our hearts know this?
Because Pascal was right—there was once a happiness belonging to the human race, and in our hearts we only find now “the faintest traces that remain.”1 Eden was once our home, our long-lost dwelling place, and to Eden we shall return. Thus we keep bumping into the “promise” God placed both in the earth and deep in our hearts, and only by means of the palingenesia will we be able to interpret it.
“People will come from east and west and north and south, and will take their places at the feast in the kingdom of God.” (Luke 13:29)
ALL THINGS NEW
When Jesus used the phrase “at the renewal of all things,” he did it casually, almost breezily. You get the impression he assumed his listeners didn’t need an explanation or a long defense of the idea. Jesus spoke as though he were simply drawing upon a story and theology his disciples would know quite well. And indeed, these earnest Jews would have immediately found connection with many Old Testament passages stored in their hearts:
Those the LORD has rescued will return.
They will enter Zion with singing;
everlasting joy will crown their heads.
Gladness and joy will overtake them,
and sorrow and sighing will flee away. (Isaiah 51:11)
“Then you will look and be radiant,
your heart will throb and swell with joy;
the wealth on the seas will be brought to you,
to you the riches of the nations will come. . . .
“I will make peace your governor
and well-being your ruler.
No longer will violence be heard in your land,
nor ruin or destruction within your borders,
but you will call your walls Salvation
and your gates Praise.
The sun will no more be your light by day,
nor will the brightness of the moon shine on you,
for the LORD will be your everlasting light,
and your God will be your glory.
Your sun will never set again,
and your moon will wane no more;
the LORD will be your everlasting light,
and your days of sorrow will end.” (Isaiah 60:5, 17–20)
A contemporary reader just isn’t quite sure what to do with such lovely promises as these. The beauty is enough to make my heart ache. But who are they for? When does this take place? We would give our right arm to see a fraction of this happen in our lifetime; half of it would be beyond our wildest dreams. But something in us knows that however much we long for it, we live with the partial here. Moments may come to us, but these passages are referring to something as settled and done as the happiness I saw in my dream. Why has God scattered these promises like wildflowers and precious gems throughout the Scriptures? Is he taunting us?
A few chapters later in Isaiah we find the answer:
“See, I will create
new heavens and a new earth.
The former things will not be remembered,
nor will they come to mind.
But be glad and rejoice forever
in what I will create,
for I will create Jerusalem to be a delight
and its people a joy.
I will rejoice over Jerusalem
and take delight in my people;
the sound of weeping and of crying
will be heard in it no more.” (65:17–19)
Jesus knew his listeners already embraced this hope; he knew they ached for it and prayed for it. This is the culmination of all the Old Testament promises of a Great Restoration. And of course this passage foreshadows the climax of the book of Revelation, where the entire biblical canon swells to a crescendo like a symphony reaching its glorious finish. Here is the final word of God on his promise to us:
Then I saw “a new heaven and a new earth,” for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and there was no longer any sea. I saw the Holy City, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride beautifully dressed for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. ‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”
He who was seated on the throne said, “I am making everything new!” Then he said, “Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.” (21:1–5)
I know—this is so saturated with meaning, bursting with promise and overflowing with beauty so grand our souls can hardly take it in, like rich dessert. Honestly, it seems too good to be true. We, the survivors of the wreckage of Eden, have grown so accustomed to living on the faintest traces of happiness and restoration, we must slow down and take this proclamation in pieces if we are to understand it, embrace it. This is, after all, the final word of God and the summation of every other biblical text regarding our future. Read it like you would a ransom note if your child had been kidnapped; read it like you would the doctor’s report on your cancer—slowly, carefully.
Notice first, that the earth is included, a renewed earth. This passage isn’t just about heaven, the Sweet By-and-By. John is shown the New Jerusalem coming down out of heaven, an image begun in Revelation 3:12 and repeated a third time in 21:10, just to make sure we get our bearings. The city of God comes to the earth. The dwelling of God, which has heretofore been heaven, comes to humans, who dwell on the earth.
Notice also that God promises to make current things new—as opposed to making all new things. If God were wiping away reality as we know it and ushering in a new reality, the phrase would have been “I am making all new things!” But that’s not what he says, and God is very careful about what he says. Furthermore, if John witnessed some foreign reality being ushered in, he would have reported it so. He’s already told us about a meteor named Wormwood, a seven-headed dragon, and some awful beast the Whore of Babylon rides upon. However outrageous, he would have done his best to report the new reality if God had showed him one. But he doesn’t; he makes it clear: “I saw Heaven and earth new-created” (21:1 THE MESSAGE).
I find it especially touching that immediately upon saying, “I am making everything new!” our Father God quickly adds, “Write this down, because it is true.” Perhaps John the Seer was obviously dumbstruck on this point (wouldn’t you be?) and needed to be assured by God, Yes—this is what I mean. Write it down. Perhaps God knew that future readers of such a statement would need the same assurance.
No matter what translation you prefer, the truth of Revelation 21:5 is quite clear:
“Behold, I make all things new.” (KJV, NKJV, RSV)
“Behold, I am making all things new.” (NASB)
“Look, I am making everything new!” (NLT)
“Look! I’m making everything new.” (THE MESSAGE)
The Greek word for “new” is kainos—the same word used for the “New” Jerusalem. Certainly we understand that it is not the old Jerusalem coming down out of heaven. It is a freshly remade, renewed Jerusalem. But it is Jerusalem—not Baltimore, Baghdad, or Budapest.
REDEMPTION, NOT DESTRUCTION
Many people have the vague but ominous idea that God destroys the current reality and creates a new “heavenly” one. But that is not what Scripture actually says.
For all creation is waiting eagerly for that future day when God will reveal who his children really are. Against its will, all creation was subjected to God’s curse. But with eager hope, the creation looks forward to the day when it will join God’s children in glorious freedom from death and decay. For we know that all creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. And we believers also groan, even though we have the Holy Spirit within us as a foretaste of future glory, for we long for our bodies to be released from sin and suffering. We, too, wait with eager hope for the day when God will give us our full rights as his adopted children, including the new bodies he has promised us. (Romans 8:19–23 NLT)
Paul teaches us that creation—meaning the earth and the animal kingdom—longs for the day of its redemption, when “it will join God’s children in glorious freedom from death and decay” (v. 21). Clearly that does not imply destruction; far from it. Paul anticipated a joyful day when creation shares in the eternity of the children of God:
The created world itself can hardly wait for what’s coming next. Everything in creation is being more or less held back. God reins it in until both creation and all the creatures are ready and can be released at the same moment into the glorious times ahead. (Romans 8:19–21 THE MESSAGE)
The glorious times ahead, when all things are made new.
Now, yes—there are some ominous passages about the end of this age. Peter gives us one of the definitive texts:
Long ago by God’s word the heavens came into being and the earth was formed out of water and by water. By these waters also the world of that time was deluged and destroyed. By the same word the present heavens and earth are reserved for fire, being kept for the day of judgment and destruction of the ungodly. . . . The day of the Lord will come like a thief. The heavens will disappear with a roar; the elements will be destroyed by fire, and the earth and everything done in it will be laid bare. (2 Peter 3:5–7, 10)
Fiery words, to be sure, filled with images on par with the best of Hollywood’s “end of the world” movies. But let’s examine this carefully. First off, Peter points to the Flood of Noah’s day as the image for the end of the age: “By these waters also the world of that time was deluged and destroyed” (v. 6). Therefore, we can be confident he does not mean annihilated, vaporized like the Death Star, for the very obvious reason that the earth was not destroyed by the Flood—it is still right here where it’s always been. You’ve been living on it all your life. The Flood cleansed the earth, renewed it. Noah and his family stepped out of the ark onto a restored earth, to begin again.
Peter then turns from water to fire as the element by which the earth we love is scoured. Fire is also used for cleansing throughout the Scriptures; you recall that Paul said our life’s work will be tested in the fire, like gold. The good remains; only the dross is burned away (1 Corinthians 3:13–15).
Remember now—it was Peter who asked Jesus the question back in Matthew 19 that our Lord responded to by announcing the “renewal of all things.” Peter was right there; he heard his Master say it. And so he concludes his passage on the end of the age with these words:
But in keeping with his promise we are looking forward to a new heaven and a new earth, where righteousness dwells. (2 Peter 3:13)
For too long Christians have misunderstood their destiny. We have thought we would leave the earth we love and go up to an ethereal “heaven” somewhere. Not so. Dallas Willard was one of the most brilliant and influential Christian leaders and thinkers of the twentieth century. He spent a great deal of effort helping his readers understand the gospel of Jesus, which centers around this very truth:
The life we now have as the persons we now are will continue, and continue in the universe in which we now exist. Our experience will be much clearer, richer, and deeper, of course . . . rooted in the broader and more fundamental reality of God’s kingdom and will accordingly have far greater scope and power.2
The “you” that you are and the world we inhabit will continue. Scholar and theologian N. T. Wright has written a great deal on this matter; he assures us that the early Christians “believed that God was going to do for the whole cosmos what he had done for Jesus at Easter.”3 Peter picked up the theme of the palingenesia in Acts, declaring the Renewal the Jews had long anticipated, only now made clear and possible through Jesus Christ. In one of his famous sermons he declared exactly what his Lord taught him:
“Repent, then, and turn to God, so that your sins may be wiped out, that times of refreshing may come from the Lord, and that he may send the Messiah, who has been appointed for you—even Jesus. Heaven must receive him until the time comes for God to restore everything, as he promised long ago through his holy prophets.” (Acts 3:19–21)
Jesus is in heaven until the promised Day when God will “restore everything,” or “until the time for the final restoration of all things” (NLT). The Greek word used here for “restore” is another stunning word: apokatastasis, which in both biblical and secular usage meant to put something back in its original condition. The verb form is used in Mark 3:1–6 when Jesus heals a man’s withered hand (demonstrating restoration). Peter is both reaffirming and elaborating upon a long-held Jewish conviction that the Messiah will return things “to their original state, the universal renewal of the world which reestablishes the original integrity of creation.”4 Thus, Wright argues that “it is not we who go to heaven, it is heaven that comes to earth . . . the final answer to the Lord’s prayer, that God’s kingdom will come and his will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”5
Breathtaking. How is it I have missed this all my life? And I know I’m not alone.
Nirvana, “total nonexistence” as the Buddhist hopes, or “everlasting tranquility of death” as Hindus expect, is as unimpressive as the false Christian belief in the total destruction of creation.6 Annihilation is not nearly as impressive as redemption.
When we begin to unpack the teaching of Jesus and his disciples in light of the Jewish expectation—dramatically illustrated by miracles performed by Jesus like giving the blind their sight and raising the dead—the light of the Great Renewal begins to break through the darkness in which we have long dwelt. God does not merely scrap creation and our intended roles along with it. He restores everything.
I know, I know—it’s a lot to take in. This is a total reframing for most of us, even though it has been right there in the Scriptures for centuries. Take a moment; take a deep breath. Get a glass of water if you need to, or something stronger. You’ve just been told your future is “the restoration of all things,” real things, the restoration of everything you love.
No wonder it begins with a glorious feast of celebration! “Blessed are those who are invited to the wedding supper of the Lamb!” (Revelation 19:9). This wedding reception is also foreshadowed in the Jewish expectation of the coming kingdom:
On this mountain the LORD Almighty will prepare
a feast of rich food for all peoples,
a banquet of aged wine—
the best of meats and the finest of wines.
On this mountain he will destroy
the shroud that enfolds all peoples,
the sheet that covers all nations;
he will swallow up death forever.
The Sovereign LORD will wipe away the tears
from all faces;
he will remove his people’s disgrace
from all the earth. (Isaiah 25:6–8)
Perhaps this was what I saw in my dream.
There is a wonderful, tangible depiction of this feast in the book and film The Fellowship of the Ring. Bilbo Baggins is celebrating his 111th birthday with an extravagant celebration he throws at his own generous expense. It takes place on a late-summer evening; the countryside is in full bloom. Lanterns are hanging in the trees. Fireworks are going off over an outdoor party—picnic tables, a dance floor, pavilion, live music, laughter, celebration. An entire community is having the time of their lives. When our eldest son, Sam, was getting married and planning the reception, he said, “I want Bilbo’s party.” Don’t you? The joy, ease, companionship, the lightheartedness of it; there is no clock ticking, no curfew, nobody’s going to call the police—it just gets to go on and on.
Jesus is personally looking forward to this celebration immensely: “Truly I tell you, I will not drink again from the fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new in the kingdom of God” (Mark 14:25). Jesus assumes a day is coming when very real things like drinking wine together will take place in the kingdom of God. When all things are made new.
We have many chapters before us to unpack what the renewal of all things will mean for us, and some unpacking it needs. What about heaven? What is included in “all things”? Does everyone participate? Are we getting close to its arrival? Our imaginations are impoverished and need a good bit of resuscitation. But for now, let us pause and allow this to begin to seep into our being: God promises the renewal of all things. He promises to make all things new.
WHAT DOES RESTORATION LOOK LIKE?
Jesus Christ is the forerunner for the Great Renewal, “the beginning and the firstborn from among the dead” (Colossians 1:18). He died, as everyone has and will. But on the third day he was raised to life, leaving his grave clothes folded neatly in the tomb. (A very touching detail, I might add, as if to say, “And that’s that,” like a man putting away his flannel pajamas now that winter is past.) On Easter morning Jesus walked out of the grave radiantly alive, restored, and everyone recognized him. The “new” Jesus is not someone or something else now; he is the Jesus they loved and knew. He walked with them, had meals with them—just like before. The most striking thing about the post-resurrection activities of Jesus is that they were so remarkably ordinary:
Early in the morning, Jesus stood on the shore, but the disciples did not realize that it was Jesus.
He called out to them, “Friends, haven’t you any fish?”
“No,” they answered.
He said, “Throw your net on the right side of the boat and you will find some.” When they did, they were unable to haul the net in because of the large number of fish. . . .
When they landed, they saw a fire of burning coals there with fish on it, and some bread.
Jesus said to them, “Bring some of the fish you have just caught.” So Simon Peter climbed back into the boat and dragged the net ashore. It was full of large fish, 153, but even with so many the net was not torn. Jesus said to them, “Come and have breakfast.” None of the disciples dared ask him, “Who are you?” They knew it was the Lord. Jesus came, took the bread and gave it to them, and did the same with the fish. (John 21:4–6, 9–13)
This is such a homely scene, so commonplace, the sort of thing you’d expect to run into along the shore of Lake Michigan or the Mississippi. Just a group of guys hanging out at the beach, cooking breakfast for some friends. Jesus’ restored life is surprisingly like his “former” life. As will be drinking wine at the feast; as will be the feast itself (how many of you realize you eat in the life to come?!). The Great Renewal rescues us from all the vague, ethereal, unimaginable visions we’ve been given of an eternal life Somewhere Up Above. When Jesus speaks of the Restoration, he does so in very tangible terms, pointing to the recovery of normal things like houses and lands:
“Truly I tell you, at the renewal of all things, when the Son of Man sits on his glorious throne . . . everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or wife or children or fields for my sake will receive a hundred times as much and will inherit eternal life.” (Matthew 19:28–29)
There is no bait and switch here. The renewal of all things simply means that the earth you love—all your special places and treasured memories—is restored and renewed and given back to you. Forever. Nobody seems to have heard this or paid much attention to it because, for one thing, nobody I know is fantasizing about it. When was the last time you eavesdropped on a conversation at Starbucks about the restoration of all things? And for another thing, everybody I talk to still has these anemic, wispy views of heaven, as a place up there somewhere, where we go to attend the eternal-worship-service-in-the-sky.
Meanwhile we fantasize about that boat we’d love to get or the trip to Italy, the chocolate éclair or the girl in the cubicle next door. Of course we do—we are made for utter happiness.
But the restoration of all things—now that would change everything.
ALL CREATION IS PROCLAIMING
God has been declaring the promise of the Great Renewal faithfully, repeatedly, through nature since the dawn of time. How have we missed it? Creation is no accident; it is a proclamation. A wild, bold declaration. (This will rescue you from so many things; pay very close attention.) Every spring and summer God plays out for us the day of the Great Restoration with wild, splashy boldness. It meant more to me this year than ever before.
The-year-I-wish-to-never-live-again also included nine months of chronic pain for Stasi, which ended in a total hip replacement (a brutal surgery I won’t describe here). Following the surgery I spent two very long days in the hospital at her side. Hospitals are melancholy places. Don’t get me wrong—they can also be places of immense relief and hope. I think the people who serve there have taken a heroic stand on the side of hope. But let’s be honest—on the user side, no one is there because they want to be, unless they are there to have a baby; they are there because something is wrong, often very wrong. People don’t play pickup games of Frisbee in the halls of hospitals; you don’t hear folks loudly cracking jokes. The corridors are filled with hushed tones and a shared sobriety. Apart from the maternity floor, the staff, patients, and concerned visitors all agree: This is serious business. Somebody could be dying in that room you just walked by.
After what felt like a week in a hospital room with my dear love, I slipped into that mental space where you think this is all there is in the world—monitors going off all day long, staff coming in and out with urgency, the stupor of drug-induced rest, the IV and cold rooms and artificial everything. I left her room at five thirty to go grab us some dinner, and as I stepped outside I was washed over by a wave of summer evening. It was wonderfully warm; my body relaxed immediately. My eyes blinked to take in the colors. I saw cumulus clouds building towers for their evening show. Meadowlarks across the field were singing and singing. The aspens were shimmering in a gentle breeze; the rich scents of summer flowers enveloped me. I was suddenly immersed in all the wonderful fragrances and feelings of life in its summer lushness.
It was like experiencing the palingenesia.
Summer is God’s annual pageant on behalf of the restoration of all things, all nature practically shouting at us because we are tone deaf. That’s why we love it so much. We pack up the car and head to the lake or the park; we break out the grill and have friends over, laughing late into the starlit evening; we dive into waters and bake in the sun, and in this way we get a good, deep drink of Restoration. It’s no coincidence the classic surfing road-trip film is entitled The Endless Summer. I’m telling you, the message is everywhere.
God is trying to do two things with the promise in the earth and in our hearts: he is trying to woo us into hopeful expectation, and he is attempting to lift our gaze to the horizon so we might live for the real thing that is coming.
To be sure, it feels wintry enough still: but often in the very early spring it feels like that . . . the spring comes down slowly down this way; but the great thing is that the corner has been turned. There is, of course, this difference, that in the natural spring the crocus cannot choose whether it will respond or not. We can. We have the power either of withstanding the spring, and sinking back into the cosmic winter, or of going on into these “high midsummer pomps” in which our leader, the Son of Man, already dwells, and to which he is calling us. It remains with us to follow or not, to die in this winter, or to go on into that spring and that summer.7
We have quite a stunning present to unpack, dear readers, and chapters to do it some justice. But we must prepare our hearts to receive such a gift, or it will wash over us like rain on hard ground.