In that Holy City…

I went to prison today with a local pastor. Wednesday was the 50^th anniversary of West Africa's independence, so it was turned into a two-day holiday, and as a part of the festivities, the pastor had decided to take some gifts to the prisoners he ministers to on a frequent basis.
I've been with him to the Coco prison several times, but today found me in a very reflective mood. As I scanned the faces of the crowd that pressed in to get their soap and oranges, I was taken by the emotion of it all, blinking away tears and swallowing back the lump in my throat. So many young faces, in such a bleak and harsh place. (There are a lot of striking things in a place like W.Africa, but I must say that prisons here have to be among the most unpalatable.) Several were clearly mentally ill. Some were malnourished and I could imagine a life of poverty pushing them to desperate actions. Some were physically ill, and it was evident that their current life conditions were not treating them well. Others seemed aloof and maybe even haughty, and I wondered how long they would choose to kick against the goads.
As I looked into eyes I was just overwhelmed by the violence that has swallowed these lives. I'm not advocating their innocence, but at the same time, prison is the epitome of what is so wrong in our world. And I could not help thinking of Revelations 21 which talks about all that will not exist in the new Jerusalem, the Holy City—the personification of God's kingdom coming in all its fullness.
In that Holy City there will be no more prisons. There will be no need. There will be no more mental illness, no more desperate poverty, no more addictions, and most importantly, no more wickedness seeping up from the hearts of all of us. In that day, we will not have to make the choice to imprison another person—to violently separate them from the rest of society—because of their own violence. Until that day, prisons seem a necessary institution, but one that merits our shame.
Driving back to the hospital, I was trying to figure out what kind of interaction one should have with a prison, with prisoners. How does one best work with them and what does one do? Is there even hope in a place like that, for people like that? And by the time I even got to really just asking the questions, I was rolling into the gate of the hospital. It struck me that here again, was another institution waiting to become obsolete.
In that Holy City there will be no more hospitals. There will be no need. There will be no more illness, no more victims of trauma, violence and neglect, no more malnutrition, no more injustice, no more bodies that just wear out, and no more physical imperfections. In that day, "all will be well, and all manner of things will be well." Until that day, hospitals will be a necessary institution, but one that merits our mourning.
And there have been days lately when thinking that there will be no more hospitals is quite a joyous thought. There are days when I ask myself the same questions: How does one work here? Is there even hope? What is one to do?
But it seems that to these two institutions, which represent two antitheses of God's Kingdom—violence and illness—citizens of God's Kingdom are called to go. We are sent into places that seem dark, devoid of hope, and far from the warmth and light of the Kingdom—places of shame and mourning—in order to announce the coming of a Holy City, to proclaim boldly the end of the old order and the arrival of the here-but-not-yet-completely Kingdom.
"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." Rev. 21:4