Why did you come here today? Have you given it any thought? Why did you come here today, to church? There are all the usual reasons, I suppose: It’s our habit! It’s what we do on Sunday mornings! That’s probably as good a reason as any! Thank God for good habits!

But maybe it’s more than that for you. Maybe you’ve had a rough week, a strange week, a tiring week. Maybe things aren’t working out in your marriage. Maybe the first days of University are more than you’d bargained for. Maybe life on the job isn’t what you’d thought it’d be. And you came here this morning with a hope, a wish, a desire of some kind! Maybe you don’t even know for sure what it is that you’re looking for.

A fellow named Alex Black tried to sort out all of that one time. He wrote a novel (The Great Desire, Harper & Row, 1919) about a young man who was himself trying to write a novel. The young writer went off to a large city. He had that great dream that all writers have, he wanted to write a book that would explain life itself, that would help people find out who they really are, and what they really wanted. So he started out on page one with this grand title, The Great Desire. And his research went like this. He would stop people on the street and he’d ask them this question: "What do you want?"

And there were all kinds of answers, of course. Some pushed him aside rudely. What business did he have asking them something like that, something personal? Some joked with him. A million dollars, that’s what I want! (I want to win that Florida state lottery today!) Or maybe, A new husband! I’d give anything to get rid of the one I have now!

Or, some would say, A world in which people didn’t come up to me and ask me all these silly questions! But there were others who suddenly stopped when he said to them, What do you want! What do you REALLY want in life? And they’d start talking with him: You know, they’d say, I’ve always wanted to be an engineer....Why? he’d ask, pressing it just a little bit further. Why did you always want to be an engineer? And then they’d talk about some childhood fascination they had with bridges or buildings. Or they’d tell him about the secret dream they kept hidden in their hearts, a dream to design the perfect model city, where people could really live in safety and experience community together.

Why? he’d ask them again. What’s behind it all? What’s the driving force in your life? And in the end, he found it was always the same. The Great Desire, the ultimate wish, the foundation on which all other wants rested, was really a desire to see God, to know God, to experience God, however he was named. Is that why you came to church this morning? Is that why you’re here?

A British nurse tells about the time she was attending to Rudyard Kipling, the British poet. He was terribly sick. He tossed and turned on his bed. His nights were spent in restless agitation. Do you want anything? she asked him quietly one morning. And this is what he said. In a very weak voice, he said, I want God, I want God!

We say that too, don’t we? In a variety of ways we say it: I want God! I want to see God and make some sense out of this crazy world, this world of madmen playing unholy games in the Arabian deserts; this world of murder and hostility and broken homes.

I want to feel God and lose this loneliness that’s wrapped itself around my heart. I want to know God and find some purpose for what I’m doing at my job. There’s a God-shaped hole in our lives, said Augustine, and our hearts are restless till we find rest in him. And suddenly, here he is!

I was in the Spirit on the Lord’s day, says John. And all of a sudden, there he was! I wanted him! I needed him! The greatest desire of my heart, way down deep, was to see God, to find God, to know God. And there he was!

And somehow we know that’s true for us too this morning, God is here. He meets us in this place. We don’t always think about it like that. It’s not something that stays in our minds from week to week.

There are some wonderful lines in one of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poems. She says, ("Crowned and Buried"):

Earth’s crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
But only he who sees, takes off his shoes,
The rest sit round and pluck blackberries...

Well, that was a day when John took off his shoes. The rest of the folks on the island of Patmos may have been eating blackberries, but John was bowled over by the presence of God. And he brings his experience to us this morning.

And you know what?

IT SHAKES US.

It frightens us. It scares the pants off us. John says, "When I saw him, I fell at his feet as though (I were) dead!" (vs. 17) You know why? Because, even though we believe in God, even though, deep within our hearts, we want to see God, even though we’ve professed our faith in Him, we’ve gotten so used to life without Him, without His obvious presence, that if He shows up all of a sudden like this we can’t handle it.

You remember when Nelson Mandela was released from prison in South Africa? For years, for decades, his wife Winnie lived without him. He was alive. But she got to see him only once in a while. He was always her husband. She shared his family name: Mandela. He was essential to her world, but he wasn’t part of her daily life. She fought for his freedom. She campaigned for his release. She prayed every day that he would come home. And then one day it happened! The South African officials suddenly promised to set him free! And news reporters crowded around her. Aren’t you excited? Aren’t you happy? Isn’t this a great day for you? Yes! she told them. Yes, it is! but later, in a private interview, this is what she had to say: I’m scared! I’m really scared! I’ve lived without him for so long, I don’t know what it’ll be like when he comes home! You know what she was feeling, don’t you?

And that’s the way it is with us and God, isn’t it? We know He exists. We know He’s out there someplace. We want Him to live in the community, so to speak, just down the street, maybe, in the church building. We even carry His name around with us, and we say that we’re married to Him. But if He should ever interrupt our daily routine...What do we do? What do we do? We’d be scared to death, like John was. His presence scares us.

BUT IT ALSO SHELTERS US.

John never really gets rid of his fear. He shouldn’t. No one can sense the presence of God without fear. Let us worship God acceptably, with reverence and awe, says the writer of the letter to the Hebrews, for our "God is a consuming fire!" (Heb. 12:28-29) And you don’t play around with fire. But fire can be a comforting thing too. And the presence of God shelters John here.

Don’t be afraid! says the Voice. And then it tells him why. I am the First and the Last! I am the Living One! I was dead and behold! I am alive for ever and ever! And what’s more, I hold the keys of death and Hades! (vss. 17-18)

Why do we want to see God? Why do we want to feel His presence? Why do we want to know His touch in our lives? Isn’t it because we can’t make it on our own? We don’t always want to admit it, but in our dark nights and in our lonely hours that’s the thing that bothers us. We’re so strong at work. We keep up such good face for our friends. We can argue theology and politics with the best of them. But who can stop the cancer from spreading? And who can keep a child in safety? And who can take the sting out of tragedy? Too often we’ve sung along with that lonely voice on the radio, "Is that all there is?" Is that all there is?

Think of Gamaliel Bradford. He was a writer who captured the optimism of his age. Things were going great in his life. And things were going well in his world. Religion was a thing of the past, he said. We don’t really need God anymore. He wrote a poem about it, in fact. He called it: "Exit God" "Exit God." With a few strokes of his pen, he ushered God off the stage of human life. God wasn’t needed anymore. We could take care of ourselves just fine, thank you! Still, there was just a little uncertainty in his voice, for the closing lines of his poem carried this thoughtful reflection:

I sometimes wish that God were back
In this dark world and wide;
For though some virtues He might lack,
He had His pleasant side.

And then Gamaliel Bradford went off to war. He saw the horrors of human depravity. He saw the stupidity of greed and corruption. He threw up his hands at what lurked in the human beast. He lost his faith in himself. That year there was a new cry from his pen. These are the words in his diary, "Who will tell me something of God?" he said. "Who will tell me something of God?"

It’s John who’ll tell us something of God, isn’t it? He was a man of warmth and sensitivity. He was a man who needed people, who enjoyed being with people. He was a man who brought encouragement along with him wherever he went. But think of his situation now, by the whim of a dictator, or the role of the dice, or the chances of fate, it was all taken away from him. He’s a convicted criminal, although the offense was trumped up. He’s in exile, a man without a home. He’s powerless, destitute, oppressed, denied rights of any kind. "Is that all there is?" he could sing. Is that all there is?

And the Voice shouts from behind him, No! I am the First and the Last! I am the Living One! I was dead and behold! I am alive for ever and ever! And I hold the keys of death and Hades! And with John we meet God.

We know there’s more to life. And things begin to fall in place again. His word comforts us. His power shelters us. His promise takes hold of us. And the dark things that surround us aren’t the last word to be spoken. Rome will fall. Disease will end. Tyranny will collapse. But God will be there. God will be there. I am the First and the Last! I am the Living One! I was dead, and behold! I am Alive for ever and ever! And I hold the keys of Death and of Hades! When God shows Himself to us, it shakes us. But it shelters us too.

I can still hear a friend of mine who’s life had been hell. That was the best you could call it. But one day he started singing a new song. It went like this:

Shackled by a heavy burden, ˜Neath a load of guilt and shame;
Then the hand of Jesus touched me! And now I am no longer the same!
He touched me! He touched me! And oh! the joy that fills my soul!
Something happened, and now I know: He touched me, and he made me whole!

When God suddenly pops out of the woodwork of our lives, He shakes us with His overpowering glory. He shelters us from the twists of fate that leave us hanging. And there’s a third thing that happens:

HE SHAPES US IN NEW WAYS

Some time ago I was reading about the 18th century German sculptor Johann Heinrich von Dannecker. His skills were impressive. He could bring stone to life with his tools. At the height of his powers, he wanted to do something special with his gifts, he wanted to shape a statue of Christ that would stand out as a witness to his world. For two years he chiselled and scraped and polished the marble, till he was certain that it carried the likeness of his Lord. But he wanted to test his work on eyes that wouldn’t lie. So he went out to the street, and brought in a young girl. He took her into his studio, and he set her down in front of the shrouded stone. Uncovering it, he asked her, Do you know who this is? No, sir! she replied. But he must be a very great man. And Dannecker knew that he’d failed. The statue was good enough for kings and nobles, but it wasn’t good enough to speak the word about Christ.

He was discouraged. He was disheartened. He was depressed. But he knew that he had to try again. So he set his hand to the task. Six years it took him this time! Every day, painstakingly, shaping and carving. Finally, it was done. And again, he brought in a child as his first critic. He took off the shroud, and asked her gently, Who is that? Legend has it that tears came to her eyes as she recognized Jesus. It was enough. Dannecker had finished his task. He had created his masterpiece. He had given visible shape to his faith. And later, to a friend, he told the secret of those last six years. It was as if, he said, Christ had joined him daily in his little room. He felt the nearness of his Lord. He sensed the glory of his Presence. All Dannecker had to do, really, was to transfer the vision of Christ that he received to the block of marble.

It’s a powerful story, isn’t it? But there’s more to it. There’s another chapter that comes later, one so striking that it actually makes John’s vision come alive.

Some years later, the French emperor Napoleon Bonaparte saw Dannecker’s work. He was very impressed. He sent for the sculptor, and he had a commission for him, Make me a statue of the goddess Venus for the Louvre! he said. Quite an honor! to be chosen as the creator of a work of art like that! Who could refuse? But you know what?! Dannecker did! He refused the commission. He gave up that honor. And you know why? This is what he told Napoleon: "A man who has seen Christ can never employ his gifts in carving out a pagan goddess!"

Think of that! A man who has seen Christ! A woman who has seen Christ! A child who has seen Christ! What happened to John that day on Patmos? What happened to him when he saw Christ? It shook him. It sheltered him. And then it shaped him. Do you think he was ever the same again? Don’t you think it sorted out for him some of the priorities of his life? A man who has seen Christ can never employ his gifts in carving out a pagan goddess!

So much of what we do we do with mixed motives, don’t we? We do it because it’s part of our job. Or we do it because others expect it of us. Or we do it because it feels good. A fellow sat in my study one day, and he explained to me a long list of his recent activities. I know years ago the church wouldn’t approve of these things, he said, but times have changed, haven’t they? You’re not going to tell me I’m wrong, are you? Besides, I feel okay about it all.

So we talked for a while. We talked about why we do things in life. We talked about meaning and purpose and existence and God. And it was interesting. When we talked only about the church, then life became a set of rules and regulations for him. But when we talked about God, it didn’t work out that way anymore. Rules you can make and break. Traditions you can throw out the window. But a man who has seen Christ can never employ his gifts in carving pagan gods or goddesses!

And that’s where this vision brings us, doesn’t it? How can we be the same after today? How can we see Christ, know Christ, sense Christ, feel Christ in our lives, and not be changed? When God jumps out of the closet, it shakes us. When He shows Himself to us, it shelters us from the ravages of our world. And when He displays His glory in front of us, it shapes our lives in new ways. That’s what we prayed a little while ago when we spoke those words from Psalm 139:

"Search me, O God, and know my heart! Try me and know my thoughts! See if there be any wicked way in me and lead me in the way everlasting!"

And there’s one more thing this morning. When God comes to us, like He came to John that morning at Patmos, He shakes us; He shelters us; He shapes us.

AND THEN HE STIMULATES US.

Write what you’ve seen! He tells us. Publish this vision! Share it with others! Make it known in a world that’s still sitting around eating blackberries! We get distracted so easily, don’t we? We may get fired up by this vision of Christ, but it slips away from us when we turn to look at other things.

C. S. Lewis showed a picture of that one time. It’s in the first of his Screwtape Letters. A man is sitting in the Metropolitan Library in London, England. He’s been an atheist all his life. The idea of God hasn’t even entered the picture of his world. Until now. Somehow, as he sits there reading, and thinking, and reflecting, his thoughts begin to bend toward God. The devil who writes this little letter senses the warning lights flashing. He’s kept the man an atheist for 22 years already. He’s not about to let him go now. What to do? How to head him off from this dangerous train of thought? Don’t get him to debate it with himself, he thinks. Don’t get him to argue about it. The Lie can never stand up to the Truth. So instead, he taps the man on the shoulder of his heart. And he whispers to him: Aren’t you really a bit hungry? Don’t you think you could sort it all out better after lunch? And he encourages the man to go out to the street and to look for a restaurant. The newspaper boys are shouting for sales. And old bus number 73 comes lumbering by. And the sites and the sounds distract him. And the sense of God’s presence is gone. And the vision loses its power. And the man muddles on in his atheistic mire.

The truth of C. S. Lewis’ little tale comes home to us, doesn’t it? We get distracted by the many small things of life. We get twisted round by the tedium and the day-to-day demands. We need this vision of Christ that John shares with us. We need its shaking. We need its shelter. We need its shaping. And we need its stimulation. What will keep you church schoolteachers and you Bible Study leaders going this year? Your own strength? Your own determination? Your own stick-to-it-iveness? No. You know you’ll never make it like that. But if this vision of Christ captures you, if this stunning display of God’s glory rips into your world, if this scene of heaven’s authority overwhelms you, then you’ll have the stimulation to carry on.

For the book of Revelation reeks of battle. You hear the trumpets. You see the smoke and flames. You feel the earth shaking with the pounding machines of war. And chapter 1 is really a call to arms. You’ve seen God now. You’ve sensed His protection in the struggles of your life. You’ve had your priorities straightened out. Now stand up and be counted! Now join the combat! Now find your commission and act on it!

In 1887, young Ernest Shurtleff graduated from Andover Theological Seminary. The choir sang a powerful song for the occasion. It was a brand-new song. It was written by a member of the choir, Ernest Shurtleff himself. It had come to him one day, he said, in the strangest of ways. He was sitting in a class, listening to a lecture on the book of Revelation. And the vision captured his imagination. And he heard a marching tune written a few years before. And the words sort of flashed themselves across the screen of his mind. The choir sang well that day. Everyone knew it. But none sang more fervently than young Ernest. He had caught the vision in seminary. And he entered the ministry with this theme on his lips:

"Lead on, O King eternal! The day of march has come!
Henceforth in fields of conquest Thy tents shall be our home!
Through days of preparation Thy grace has made us strong!
And now, O King eternal, We lift the battle song!

"Lead on, O King eternal! We follow, not with fears;
For gladness breaks like morning Wher’er Thy face appears
Thy cross is lifted o’er us, We journey in its light;
The crown awaits the conquest; Lead on, O God of might!