I'm standing in a very spacious, brilliantly-white building that doesn't seem to have a roof. Millions are gathered, and I sense that my loved ones are with me--somewhere--though I can't actually see them. Somehow, even though we're there, together, we're also there just as individuals, waiting. Waiting for the last laborers to join us. There's a sense of urgency for those last few people to come. Time is running out and I'm anxious to see if anyone else I know will come through a set of doors, over in one of the corners. I notice, though, that the once steady-stream of people coming through those doors has now turned into a trickle and I wonder, and hope, there will be more.
I begin to sense there are only a few minutes left and then God will have gathered in the last of His sheep. Such an exciting time! So many people I know have fought the good fight and finished the race. They have overcome incredible personal challenges and with faith in their Savior, they have finally made it home. My joy, though, is not yet complete as I keep looking at the doors. I get the strong impression there is someone I know and love who is not yet with us. And I can tell from the music playing that only a minute or so remains. The chorus of voices, the swelling of the strings, the crescendos of sound are now retreating--becoming less and less. The voices are calling upon all of us to rejoice, but how can I completely rejoice when there's someone else who needs to come through that door?
I slowly move closer towards the doors. Perhaps only 15 seconds remain in the song. Tears spring to my eyes as I'm forced to confront the possibility of someone I love not joining in the invitation to rejoice. Then it happens. As the last "rejoice" is sung, the doors quietly open one last time and the last laborer walks through. It is him. He has come! My tears turn to those of happiness and of wonder, mercy, and grace. My soul fills with immense gratitude as I give him a big hug of love and relief. And though the song has ended and we wait quietly for Christ to appear, my soul inwardly continues to sing that one word. The word I can now wholeheartedly endorse: Rejoice!
This emotionally draining narrative above is what goes on in my head and heart every time we sing All People That on Earth Do Dwell. I don't know why, but it does. I don't even know who the last laborer truly is in this story, strangely enough. I never get to see his face. But after the song is over, I'm left to ponder the reality that we're all laborers. We're all on this journey. Some started a long time ago, while others joined just recently or have yet to join. But wherever we all are, I hope we can live with a sense of urgency to love and allow others to love us. After all, that last laborer may very well choose to walk through those doors because of us--because the love we showed them helped them become the person they wanted to be, and the person God wanted them to be.
Until next time, God be with you.
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