Homily for Easter 2 Year C 2025
Homily for Easter 2 Year C 2025
Revelation 1:4–8
Grace to you, and peace—
peace from the One who is, and who was, and who is to come.[1]
That’s how it begins. Not just a hello, not just a good morning,
but a thunderclap of eternity.
From the edge of empire, a voice is writing.
Not from Rome.
Not from the temple in Jerusalem.
Not from a palace.
But from exile.
A man named John. Not John the Baptist. Not John the disciple.
Just—John.
Writing from Patmos, a rocky outcrop in the Aegean, a place where prophets get parked when the empire doesn’t like what they say.
And John writes to seven churches—real places.
Smyrna. Pergamum. Laodicea.
Little gatherings of Jesus-followers,
meeting behind closed doors, watching their backs.
Because Rome was watching.
And Rome didn’t like rivals.
Now John writes what nobody dares to say aloud:
Jesus—not Caesar—is Lord.[2]
Not only that—Jesus is ruler of the kings of the earth.
Did you hear it? Ruler. Of all of them.
Of Nero. Of Domitian. Of the local governors and their enforcers.
Of the men who parade down marble steps in golden sashes.
Of the ones whose faces are stamped on coins.
No—Christ is Lord.
But wait—Jesus, the crucified?
The one pierced and humiliated?
Yes.
The faithful witness.
The firstborn of the dead.
The one who showed us what God looks like—
not in domination,
but in love poured out.
And now—
now you are a kingdom.
You are priests.[3]
Yes, you—exiles and outcasts, ordinary believers in backwater towns.
Priests.[4]
Not robed in gold, but in grace.
Not serving incense at some stone altar,
but carrying the Spirit of God into every dusty corner of the world.[5]
You are a kingdom.
Not of armies.
But of witnesses.[6]
You are priests.
Not of sacrifice.
But of love.[7]
Do you believe it?
Can you dare to?
Because John is saying: the church is not a hiding place—
it’s a sanctuary on fire.
A resistance movement of hope.
Then comes the cry.[8]
“Look!
He is coming with the clouds.”
This isn’t soft-focus Jesus with a halo.
This is the Son of Man—
coming not quietly,
but in the open, in the wide sky,
for every eye to see.
Even those who pierced him—
they’ll see.
Even the empires that crucified love.
Even the crowds that chose Barabbas.
Even the preachers who fell silent.
Even the disciples who fled.
Every eye.
This is not a private resurrection.
Not a personal piety moment.
This is cosmic.
God doesn’t just save souls—God reclaims history.[9]
And just when your head is spinning—
John tells you what all this means.
“I am the Alpha and the Omega,” says the Lord God.[10]
The beginning—and the end.
History does not belong to Caesar.
It does not belong to Wall Street or Washington.
It does not belong to missiles or markets.
It belongs to God.
The One who is—right now.
The One who was—before we ever thought to ask.
The One who is coming—
breaking in,
unveiling what’s always been true.
That’s what apocalypse means. Not destruction.
But unveiling.[11]
Peeling back the curtain so we can finally see.
So, church—what do we do with this?
How do we live when we believe that
He is coming,
and we are priests,
and Christ—not the emperor—is Lord?
We live as if the empire has no ultimate claim.
We live as people of the Lamb, not the beast.
We refuse the lie that power and violence get the last word.
We serve.
We love.
We proclaim.
And we name the lies for what they are.
When the world says, “Peace,” but it means domination—
we remember Christ, pierced and risen.
When the world says, “This is just the way things are”—
we remember the Alpha and Omega.
When the world says, “No one can change this”—
we remember the One who is coming with the clouds.
So let the churches hear.
Let the preachers preach.
Let the priests of this upside-down kingdom walk into the world with fire in their bones.
Let every eye be opened.
Let every mouth confess.
And let every weary soul rise up—because he loves us,
and he has freed us,
and he has made us new.
To him be glory and dominion forever and ever.
[1] Craig R. Koester, Revelation: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, Anchor Yale Bible 38A (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2014), 214–218. In the cited section, Koester explains that the greeting “Grace to you and peace” is not merely a conventional opening, but a deeply theological declaration, rooted in Jewish and early Christian apocalyptic tradition. It signals the cosmic scope of God’s identity—the One who is, who was, and who is to come—and introduces the entire tone of the book. He also notes that in the context of empire, this greeting serves as a counter-claim to imperial assurances of peace and favor (e.g., pax Romana). In Revelation, “grace and peace” come not from Caesar, but from God. By beginning with “the One who is, who was, and who is to come,” the book destabilizes Roman claims to eternal rule and reorients readers to divine eschatological hope.
[2] Richard Bauckham, The Theology of the Book of Revelation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 33–38. In the cited section, Bauckham demonstrates that one of the central themes of Revelation is its opposition to the imperial cult—the worship of Caesar as “Lord” and “Son of God.” He argues that Revelation presents a radical confession: that Jesus alone—not Caesar—is worthy of worship, allegiance, and cosmic authority. Bauckham carefully examines how Revelation appropriates titles that were used for the emperor—such as Lord, Savior, King of kings, and God—and applies them exclusively to Christ. Bauckham calls Revelation “a theopolitical act of resistance”—a worshipful declaration that the crucified and risen Jesus alone reigns, and that every earthly empire is provisional and accountable to God. For Bauckham, the figure of Jesus in Revelation is not simply messianic but divine—the One who shares in the glory and authority of God, receiving worship from heaven and earth alike.
[3] David A. deSilva, Seeing Things John’s Way: The Rhetoric of the Book of Revelation (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 108–113. In the cited pages, deSilva examines how Revelation 1:6 and 5:10 declare that those whom Christ has redeemed are made into “a kingdom and priests serving our God.” This is not just honorific language—it is a rhetorical strategy designed to empower marginalized Christians in Asia Minor, calling them to embrace a divine vocation. deSilva argues that by calling the Church a “kingdom” and its members “priests,” Revelation inverts Roman social hierarchies. The exalted language applied to the imperial court—power, priesthood, glory—is now used of those who are poor, persecuted, and powerless in worldly terms. deSilva emphasizes that the priestly and kingly role of the Church is expressed not in dominance, but in witness, worship, and prophetic truth-telling. For deSilva, Revelation invites the faithful not merely to await God’s victory, but to live now as God’s royal and priestly people, serving as witnesses, intercessors, and agents of grace in a hostile world.
[4] And what does it look like to live as priests of the Lamb under the shadow of empire? Look to El Salvador. Look to Archbishop Oscar Romero—pastor, preacher, priest. He stood not in cathedrals of comfort, but on the trembling ground of civil war, where death squads roamed and truth was dangerous. At first, he was quiet—measured, cautious. But when he saw what Rome never sees—when he heard the cries of the poor, the grieving mothers, the disappeared—something in him changed. He opened his ears to the suffering of his people, and in doing so, he heard the voice of Christ. And then—he spoke. Week after week, his pulpit became a throne of Lamb-like defiance. “In the name of God,” he once said, “in the name of this suffering people, I beg you, I implore you, I order you: stop the repression!” And the very next day, while saying Mass at a small altar, the gunman came. He was shot with the bread of life in his hands. Killed by the beast, yes—but claimed by the Lamb. That’s what it means to be a witness. That’s what it looks like when someone lives as if “glory and dominion” do not belong to Caesar, but to Christ.
[5] And what does it look like—this priesthood of the Lamb, this kingdom not built on power but on witness? Not long ago—in our own country—a woman stood before the powers of her age. Her name was Fannie Lou Hamer. She was born the twentieth child of Mississippi sharecroppers, raised in poverty, denied education, silenced by law and violence. But she heard the Gospel. And she believed it. She believed that Christ was Lord—not Jim Crow, not the sheriff, not the system. And so, she joined the movement for voting rights. She tried to register. For that, she was jailed. Beaten with a blackjack. Left for dead. But what did she do in that jail cell? She sang. Wounded and bloodied, she lifted her voice with the spirituals she’d known since childhood. Songs of hope, songs of freedom, songs of resurrection. And the other prisoners joined in. She bore witness with her body and with her voice. Later, she would testify before Congress. She told the truth about what had been done to her. And when they tried to cut her mic, when they tried to silence her, she leaned into the Gospel’s power and said: “I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.” And the world heard her.
[6] In The Politics of Jesus, Yoder argues that the Church is not a passive spiritual entity but a visible, embodied community that lives out the radical ethic of the kingdom inaugurated by Christ. To call believers a “kingdom” is not to endorse dominion or worldly rule, but to confess that they form a new social reality shaped by the cross, where servanthood replaces domination and reconciliation replaces retaliation. Likewise, in The Royal Priesthood, Yoder contends that to be “priests” means that all believers participate in public witness and mediation—not through hierarchy or coercion, but by making God’s reconciling work known in daily, communal practice. The priesthood of all believers is, for Yoder, a political vocation: Christians live as those who, by their life together, proclaim the power of Christ’s resurrection over the false sovereignties of the world.
[7] And what does it look like—this priesthood of the Lamb, this kingdom not built on power but on witness? It looks, sometimes, like a young seminarian from New Hampshire, standing in the heat of Lowndes County, Alabama. Jonathan Myrick Daniels heard the voice of the Risen Christ call his name through the voices of Black sharecroppers and schoolchildren. And so he left the safety of seminary and went south—not with weapons, but with Word and witness. He lived among the poor, marched, sang, went to jail. And one hot August day in 1965, he stepped into the path of a shotgun to shield a young Black girl named Ruby Sales. He died with no crown, no robe, no accolades. But if Revelation is true—and I believe it is—then Jonathan was a priest that day. A witness. A citizen of the kingdom of the Lamb. And though empire pulled the trigger, heaven opened its scroll. That’s what it looks like when the church believes that Christ—not Caesar—is Lord.
[8] G. K. Beale, The Book of Revelation: A Commentary on the Greek Text, New International Greek Testament Commentary (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999), 194–200. In the cited section, Beale unpacks how “coming with the clouds” draws directly from Daniel 7:13 and Zechariah 12:10, both of which speak of God’s judgment, vindication, and visible glory. Revelation fuses these texts to affirm that Jesus shares in the divine identity and is returning in glory to reveal God’s justice. Beale argues that this verse underscores the universal and public character of Christ’s return. The coming of the Son of Man is not hidden or symbolic—it is meant to be a revelation to “every eye.” Beale explains that “those who pierced him” refers not just to the Roman soldiers, but symbolically to all who have rejected or crucified Christ’s reign—a theme that holds both warning and promise. Beale places this passage at the center of Revelation’s theological arc: the public disclosure that Christ, not Caesar, is Lord, and that God’s justice will be made visible and complete.
[9] J. Louis Martyn, Theological Issues in the Letters of Paul (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1997), 103–106. In the cited section, Martyn critiques views of salvation that reduce Christianity to private, interior, or merely moral experience. Instead, he asserts that the apocalyptic witness of early Christianity—particularly in Paul and Revelation—declares that God intervenes decisively in history to reclaim and renew the created order. Martyn shows how early Christians understood the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus not as isolated spiritual moments, but as events that disarm the “powers and principalities” and initiate the inbreaking of a new creation. Martyn writes that what apocalyptic literature unveils is not simply the future, but what has already been inaugurated by God’s act in Christ. That unveiling is about God reclaiming the whole of time, space, and human history—not just souls or inner lives. Martyn critiques theological traditions that spiritualize salvation while leaving worldly structures untouched. He argues instead for a theology of divine intrusion, where God’s action overturns oppressive powers in real time.
[10] Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, Revelation: Vision of a Just World (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1991), 54–56. In the cited pages, she unpacks Revelation 1:8—“I am the Alpha and the Omega”—as a powerful theological counterclaim to Roman imperial propaganda, which portrayed the emperor as the source and guarantor of cosmic order. Fiorenza shows that calling God the Alpha and Omega reassures persecuted Christians that God’s presence spans the fullness of time—before empires, amid suffering, and in the promised future. Fiorenza consistently reads Revelation as a book rooted in the hope for divine justice. The “Alpha and Omega” title, she argues, positions God as the beginning and goal of a just world—one where the marginalized are vindicated and the powerful are held accountable. Fiorenza maintains that Revelation was written to sustain the faith and courage of persecuted communities. The phrase “Alpha and Omega” is not abstract doctrine—it’s a word of hope and assurance that God has the first and final word, not empire.
[11] Adela Yarbro Collins, Crisis and Catharsis: The Power of the Apocalypse (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1984), 70–74. She explains that apocalyptic literature is not obsessed with end-times terror, but with revealing what is hidden—God’s purposes, the true nature of power, and the coming of divine justice. Collins reads Revelation as a pastoral response to communal suffering, offering a reframing of reality: what looks like imperial triumph is, in fact, temporary; what seems invisible—God’s reign—is breaking in. Collins underscores that Revelation’s wild imagery and dramatic scenes are not literal predictions, but symbolic visions meant to engage imagination and reorient perception. Collins underscores that Revelation’s wild imagery and dramatic scenes are not literal predictions, but symbolic visions meant to engage imagination and reorient perception.
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