World without end

Recently I listened to a friend’s choral ensemble sing the ancient words of the vespers, the texts of the psalms, and I remembered a day years ago, when as a teenager I listened to a choir sing in the sanctuary of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London. Then, as now, I was moved by the final phrases of each psalm, by the words of what is known as the “Gloria Patri,” the lesser doxology.

Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto.
Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen.

Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit.
As it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever. Amen.

This short hymn of praise is has been used for over a century, and variations of the text exist in Greek, Syriac, Arabic, Roman Latin, Mozarabic Latin, and English. The variation used in the Anglican tradition—and the one I first heard in the vaulted glory of St. Paul’s Cathedral—ends this way: “As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be: world without end. Amen.” In this version, the phrase in saecula saeculorum is translated “world without end.” It is likely not the best translation; phrases like “forever and ever” or “to the ages of ages” capture the literal meaning more accurately. But “world without end” has long captivated me.





I wonder now if the idea of a world without end was especially appealing because I was young when I first heard it. My children certainly live as though the world were without end. I watch my older two kids whizzing by the house on their bicycles, my son’s eyes gleaming with joy at this recent mastery of his big bike. They climb trees without thought of falling, run down hills without thought of tripping, and I wonder: when did I become so afraid?



My children live in the creative possibilities of the present, and somehow I have grown weary, stuck in an adult perspective on time and space. They see a field of dandelions to pick—I see a lawn that needs to be mowed. They see a fort, a hospital, a sandwich shop—I see a giant mess in the middle of the living room floor. I remember G.K. Chesterton’s words from Orthodoxy, when he says that God “has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.” And I wonder: when did I become so old?



I recognize that there are practical reasons for my weariness. It is the end of the college semester, the end of the school year, the last, grueling stretch of the race, when all we really want is to throw up our hands and walk off the track. I know that a summer break is coming, and with it a reprieve from the academic stresses. But I feel it deeper in my bones: the weariness of life, the inescapable pain of it. In the days leading up to Easter, we grieved with dear friends over the loss of their baby and grieved with family members over the death of my cousin. I shed tears at two memorial services only 16 hours apart, and I felt keenly the sharpness of the separation of death. We do not grieve as those who have no hope, but we grieve for the way death rips us apart. We ache for the loss of presence.

We long for a world without end.

   


My small daughter and I sang it loudly this morning, blasted the music as a balm and a battle cry:

You placed eternity in our hearts
We were Yours from the very start
All we’ve known has been torn apart
And now we have forever

And you can’t take away what the world didn’t give
We were made for more, we were made for more
At the end of the day, this will remain
Forever we are Yours, forever we are Yours

(I Am They,“We Are Yours”)

I laugh to hear my small daughter's big voice belt out, “Forever we are yours, forever we are yours!” But I also fervently pray that she will always know the joy of a deep, unshakeable belonging. “I am convinced,” the apostle Paul once wrote to the fledgling church in Rome, “that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Romans 8:38-39).



At the end of the day, this will remain: the kingdom of God is our world without end. We are torn apart, and we are mended. We are weary, and we are at rest. We long for more, and we are satisfied. We live in the already-but-not-yet, and we dance on the edge of a great and glorious love.

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