I make all things new
The One on the throne
Listen closely to the words from the throne, because a single syllable carries the whole hope. The One seated there does not say, behold, I make all new things, as though the old order were so much rubbish to be hauled off and replaced with strangers. He says, behold, I make all things new. The same things. The very things. Made new. And then, as if to underline that this is not a poet's flourish, He gives an instruction: write it down, for these words are faithful and true. The promise is being certified, notarized, set in the record.
This is the trajectory of every upheaval God authors. Isaiah heard it too — new heavens and a new earth, so wholly renewed that the former griefs would not even come to mind. But notice that even there the canvas is heaven and earth, this heaven, this earth, not their replacement by some other thing. The shaking is severe, and it is real, and from inside it looks a great deal like destruction. But the destination is not the scrap heap. It is renewal. The wreckage is not discarded; it is the very material the renewing hand takes up and remakes.
“Behold, I make all things new... Write, for these words are faithful and true.”
— The One on the throne — Revelation 21:5 (WEB)
“For, behold, I create new heavens and a new earth; and the former things shall not be remembered, nor come into mind.”
This is the telos and the hope that pulls every upheaval forward — the promise that draws the soul on through disorientation toward reorientation and reconnect. What it asks is faith in the direction of travel: to believe that the shaking, authored by God, is headed not toward the heap but toward all things made new.
There is a lie that whispers in the worst of an upheaval, and it is this: you are being scrapped. Not refined, not rebuilt — scrapped, written off, headed for the heap so that something else can take your place. It is a plausible lie, because the early phases of any shaking really do feel like demolition with nothing on the other side. But it cannot survive the words from the throne. He says, I make all things new. The same things, made new.
Which means the life the upheaval seems to be ruining is not being thrown away; it is being remade. The marriage, the faith, the calling, the self you fear is past saving — these are exactly the things the promise lays hold of. God is not in the business of discarding people and starting over with better stock. If He is in your shaking, its trajectory bends toward new, and the you that comes out the far side is not a stranger who replaced you.
A frightened Church, watching the old order of its life fall away, can believe it is bound for the scrap pile. But the word from the throne governs the Body's upheaval too. He does not make all new things; He makes all things new. The same Church, made new. Isaiah heard it on the largest canvas there is, new heavens and a new earth, yet even there it is this heaven, this earth, renewed, not replaced by strangers. Every rummage sale across the Church's long history serves that promise: the inherited faith purified and remade, not thrown out. What looks to a watching world like the Church's ending is, in the hand that authors it, the long work of its renewal.
The One on the throne, and His certified word: I make all things new. What cannot be shaken is the trajectory itself — that in His hands the wreckage is raw material, and the end of every upheaval He authors is renewal, faithful and true.
- Where have I believed the lie that my upheaval is scrapping me rather than remaking me?
- What in my life feels past saving that the promise actually means to make new?
- Can I trust that the same things, not different ones, are what God renews?
Lord, in the worst of this I have believed I was being scrapped. But You do not make all new things; You make all things new. Take the very life I fear is ruined and remake it. Let me trust the direction of Your shaking, faithful and true. Amen.