Beyond the Outer Limits

Way back in the 1960s, there was a television show called The Outer Limits. At the risk of asking you to date yourselves, please raise your hand if you remember watching that show. I tuned in every week, and the show always began the same way. The picture on the screen would start to flutter. The images would begin to blur. The horizontal hold would let go. The picture would tilt sideways. The vertical hold would let go. The picture would start to skip. Finally, an ominous voice would announce, “Do not attempt to adjust your picture. There is nothing wrong with your television. We are in control. This is — The Outer Limits.”

In Mark 13, Jesus points to the great temple in Jerusalem. He says to the disciples, “Do you see that huge, beautiful building? It’s all coming down. Not one stone left on top of another.” And as we know, that’s exactly what happened. In 72 AD, just 29 years after Jesus said these words, the temple was utterly destroyed by the Roman army. Today, you can stand beside those colossal stones, still lying in the exact spot where they fell two thousand years ago.

Then, says Jesus, false leaders are going to rise up. Then, says Jesus, there will be wars and rumors of wars. Then, says Jesus, there will be earthquakes, and my sister’s house sits directly on top of a fault line in California. Then, says Jesus, there will be famines. And then, says Jesus, after all this happens, then comes — The End.

Now, if all of this Outer Limits stuff seems a little sensational, a little over the top, we do know that these themes sell at the box office. I’m thinking of the movie The Stand where the entire human race dies of a virus. Or the movie On the Beach where atomic bombs wipe out all of civilization. Or the movie Armageddon where an asteroid the size of Texas is headed to the earth. It’s kind of fun to watch the end of the world while eating popcorn. But before dismissing all of these apocalyptic images, consider for a moment the Andromeda Galaxy. It contains millions of stars, and right now it is bearing down on our Milky Way Galaxy. Andromeda is racing toward us at 300,000 miles per hour. The collision is scheduled to occur in about five billion years. A long way away — but there really will be an End.

I once read about a group picture that was taken of an elementary school class. Afterward, the teacher tried to persuade each child in the class to buy a copy of the picture. The teacher said, “Just think how nice it will be when you are all grown up, and you’ll look at the picture, and you’ll be able to say, ‘There’s Jennifer, she’s a lawyer,’ or ‘There’s Michael, he’s a doctor.’” Just then a small voice from the back of the room said, “And there’s the teacher. She’s dead.” There will be an End.

And here’s the thing. More often than not, the truth is that I’m not ready for “The End.” I’m not ready for two galaxies crashing together. I’m not ready to get cancer. I’m not ready for my loved ones to die. Most of all, I’m not ready, and I’d be willing to bet that you’re not ready either, because there are too many people to whom you and I still need to say, “I’m sorry.” And there are too many people to whom you and I still need to say, “I love you.”

You know what we need? We need an extension. We need more time to get ready. But sadly, a few extra days or years or lifetimes in which to get myself ready to pass the final judgment final exam are never long enough. Instead, the gospel does a great reversal. It announces that it’s precisely in our not being ready, in our brokenness, in our failures, in our guilt, that the forgiveness and love and mercy of Jesus become real.

And this is so because it was the experience of Jesus. He also encountered The End, and it killed him. And the world said that he hadn’t been ready. The world said he needed an extension. But the world didn’t have the last word. The cross turned out to be not the end. This crucified Savior ended up alive to proclaim that there are no Outer Limits in our lives that are beyond the power of this King of Kings and Lord of Lords to touch and heal.

Some time ago, a family invited me to dinner. The parents are Ed and Lisa, and they have four young, lively, loud, energetic, wonderful children. And the dinner was amazing.

On the table there was a bowl of green beans, a platter with corn on the cob, another platter with slices of grilled steak, a bowl of summer squash, a gravy boat filled to the brim with gravy, a dish with butter, a bowl with salad, several containers of salad dressings, a pitcher of water, a pitcher of iced tea, one bottle of each of red wine and white wine, and seven plates and glasses and sets of silverware. It was Thanksgiving in August. We all sat down, said grace, and got ready to eat.

Just then, their eldest son, who was twelve, dropped his fork on the floor. He leapt off his chair, scrambled under the table, grabbed his fork and stood up – unfortunately, under the table. And this was not a standing up in which he gently bumped his head. This was the standing up of someone who thought he was not under the table — and who was really excited about starting to eat.

That table exploded. I have never seen anything like it. It was spectacular. The steak headed straight for the ceiling. Green beans shot like bullets towards the kitchen. An ear of corn missed my head by an inch. Gravy splattered on the wall. Torrents of iced tea swept across the table like a tidal wave. And then, as bits of lettuce gently floated to the ground, there was dead silence in that dining room. On the faces of the three younger children were expressions of shock and terror. And their eyes were glued on their parents. Me too.

For a long moment, Ed and Lisa didn’t move. Then they looked at each other. And then, Lisa started to cry. Or at least, I thought she was crying. Ed raised his napkin and covered his face. And both of them, with their hands to their faces, began to shake. It took me several moments to realize that they were not shaking in anger or in sorrow. They were doing everything in their power to hold back from breaking into laughter.

Ed and Lisa could so easily have been consumed with anger toward their son for ruining a magnificent meal and wiping out an entire dining room. And this was probably not the first time that their son had knocked something over on the table. It’s the kind of behavior that sends you to your room for a month.

And when that boy finally emerged from under the table, awash with fear and guilt, to face the apocalyptic second coming of his parents, when he emerged from under that table to face The End — he was met by a mother and a father with open arms, and with sweet, sweet smiles.

All of our Ends are very real. But so is the cross. And so is the empty tomb. And you and I have no Outer Limits that cannot be touched and forgiven and loved and made whole by our Lord Jesus Christ.