The Day Everything Falls Apart
Isaiah 24:1-13; 25:6-9
After Ann Widdecombe’s death last month, an old interview resurfaced online in which Graham Norton asked her how she would feel if younger generations remembered her more for Strictly than for politics.
What she said was striking. She replied:
“We get one go this side of eternity, one go. It’s not a dress rehearsal. It’s one go.”
Life is not a dress rehearsal.
We get one go this side of eternity.
Which means every minute matters. Time is fixed. A clock is ticking.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Now, how you approach that depends on your worldview—on what you believe life is ultimately about.
If you believe this life is all there is, you’ll either despair or spend your life trying to create heaven here and now.
But if eternity is real, every minute must be lived in its light.
"We get one go this side of eternity."
So what does your life say about what you really believe?
If we're honest, most of us are desperately inconsistent.
We claim to believe in eternity but live as though this life is all we have.
Which is why these chapters in Isaiah are so important for us today.
We're continuing our journey through the mountain peaks of Isaiah’s prophecy.
Last week we finished the first major section of the book, chapters 1-12, where God's saving purposes for Judah were in view.
This week Isaiah widens the horizon to God's purposes for the whole world.
And what we see is:
Two words.
About two cities.
And two eternities.
The first word is in chapter 24, verse 3:
"The earth will be completely laid waste and totally plundered. The LORD has spoken."
The second is in chapter 25, verse 8:
"The Sovereign LORD will wipe away the tears from their faces... The LORD has spoken."
The two cities are the ruined city of chapter 24 and the city on God's mountain in chapter 25.
And the two eternities are the desolation of chapter 24 and the joy of chapter 25.
So I've got two points for us today:
The end is coming—that's chapter 24.
And the beginning will be just the beginning—that's chapter 25.
- The End is coming – 24:1-13
Look at chapter 24 with me.
Isaiah doesn't ease us in. He doesn't soften the blow.
Verse 1:
"See, the LORD is going to lay waste the earth and devastate it."
Then verse 3:
"The earth will be completely laid waste and totally plundered. The LORD has spoken."
Hear the repetition.
Laid waste.
Totally plundered.
The LORD has spoken.
Isaiah wants us to feel the certainty of it.
This is not the language of possibility. It's the language of inevitability.
Notice first who is acting.
The LORD.
The God who lovingly created the world will one day judge it. The God who is infinitely good must also be infinitely just.
Then notice how comprehensive his judgment is.
Completely.
Totally.
Not one corner of creation escapes. Verse 4 - even the heavens languish with the earth.
And not one person escapes either.
Verse 2:
The priest and the people.
The master and the servant.
The seller and the buyer.
The lender and the borrower.
Every rank.
Every class.
Every nation.
No exemptions.
No "get out of jail free" card.
No one will stand before God and say, "But surely I'm excluded."
But why?
Well Isaiah tells us.
Verse 6 says the whole earth is under a curse because the people are guilty.
Verse 5 explains that guilt.
"The earth has been defiled by its people."
Polluted.
Made filthy.
How?
"They have disobeyed the laws, violated the statutes and broken the everlasting covenant."
Notice "laws" is plural.
This isn't just about the nation of Israel breaking the law given through Moses.
No, God gave laws to the whole of humanity in creation.
In Genesis 2, he gave us everything we need to grow and flourish but said: “only trust me; don’t try to be God yourselves”.
In Romans 2 we’re told that the requirements of the law are written on every human heart.
Our consciences testify that we know right from wrong.
And yet we have knowingly, willingly turned away.
Now let me pause there.
Because some of us are uncomfortable.
If you're looking into Christianity, you're probably thinking, "This is exactly what I expected—judgment, hellfire and brimstone."
If you're already a Christian, you may be shifting in your seat thinking, "I wish this passage wasn't here."
But it is.
And if God has spoken, we need to listen.
The truth is, talk of judgment isn't popular today.
In fact, we live in a culture that increasingly struggles even to say that people are morally responsible for what they do. We are quick to look for explanations — our genes, our upbringing, our environment, our circumstances.
And those things matter. They shape us.
But deep down we all know that evil exists.
But here is where Isaiah challenges us.
Our instinct is to divide the world into two groups:
The good people.
And the bad people.
But Isaiah won’t allow that.
The Bible teaches that there is one group: sinful humanity.
As someone has put it: “It’s like there’s a cocktail of glory and garbage shaken up together inside each one of us”.
And the Bible tells us where that garbage comes from.
Underneath every expression of sin — whether it is speeding on the motorway, losing our temper with our children, or committing the most horrific acts imaginable — lies the same fundamental rebellion.
A decision to reject the God who lovingly made us and keeps us alive every second of every day.
That is the deepest sin of all.
Now you might say, "Really? Worse than Murder?"
Yes.
Not because murder isn't horrific. It is.
But because the seriousness of an offence is measured not only by what we've done, but by who we've done it to.
God is infinitely good.
Infinitely loving.
Infinitely just.
Every breath we take is his gift.
And yet, every time we choose our own way over his, we are not simply breaking a rule.
We are staging our own little coup against the One who gave us everything.
That is why, verse 5 says, the earth is defiled.
So what does judgment look like?
Verse 10:
"The ruined city lies desolate."
That word "desolate" is the Hebrew word tohu.
It's the same word used back in Genesis 1:2 to describe the world before God brought order out of chaos—formless, empty, void.
Do you see the point?
Humanity says, "We don't want God's rule."
And one day God says, "Very well."
The people who reject God's order are given exactly what they have chosen.
Chaos.
Disorder.
Emptiness.
Fear.
Notice the end of verse 10: "The entrance to every house is barred."
Everyone becomes a threat.
Everything becomes unsafe.
Without God's good rule, society begins to unravel.
We catch glimpses of that even now—in crime, violence, injustice, oppression and abuse.
But on that day there will be no restraint.
God will hand people over completely to the world they have chosen, the world they long for.
And it will eat them alive.
GK Chesterton put it memorably:
"Hell is God's great complement to the reality of human freedom and the dignity of human choice."
That is why all joy turns to gloom – verse 11.
That is why the city ends in ruins.
So how should we respond?
Perhaps you're here today and you're not yet a Christian. If this has unsettled you, I'm not surprised. We don't naturally think about God—or about what we've done with the life he's given us.
Look at verses 6–9.
Isaiah talks about wine, but he could just as easily be talking about anything we look to for ultimate satisfaction.
Drink.
Sex.
Sport.
Success.
At first they satisfy.
They dull the ache.
They promise happiness.
But they never deliver what they promise.
So we need more. Wine turns to whisky. One partner turns to many. Supporting a team turns into obsession.
Until eventually, as verse 9 says, what was once sweet becomes bitter.
Have you found that?
You were made for something greater.
Don't let God's gifts distract you from the glory of the Giver.
Turn now and put your trust in Jesus.
You get one go this side of eternity.
One go.
And if you're already a Christian, have you really taken on board that Judgment Day is coming?
It's an absolute certainty.
I was nine years old when the King's Cross fire happened. I can still remember the pictures of badly burned people stumbling out of the station.
It began with a small fire beneath a wooden escalator.
People saw the smoke.
They assumed it would burn itself out.
So nobody evacuated.
Then came the flashover.
Thirty-one people died.
The tragedy wasn't that nobody saw the danger.
They did.
The tragedy was that nobody sounded the alarm.
Friends, as things stand, 2.8 million people in Greater Manchester are heading towards the judgment described in chapter 24. They are the ruined city.
How can we stay silent?
Why aren't we spending our time, our money, our energy warning people—and calling them to run into the arms of the God who made them?
We get one go this side of eternity.
One go.
How are we using it?
Because verse 13 tells us that after the harvest of judgment there will be gleanings.
Some will remain.
And they will belong to a very different city.
- The beginning will just be the beginning – 25:6-9
Which brings us to chapter 25.
Now it’s not described as a city here in chapter 25, but it is described that way in chapter 26.
And verse 7 tells us what is in mind. “This mountain” is describing Mount Zion — the hill in Jerusalem where the temple stood.
Bishop Augustine, writing in the early fifth century, said that ultimately the world consists of two groups of people — two cities.
There is the city of man.
It is built by human hands. Filled with human achievements, human ambitions, human ideas, human pleasures.
It is made up of countless nations and cultures and businesses and movements and philosophies. On the surface they seem completely different.
They argue about politics, morality, identity, power and progress.
But underneath it all, Augustine says, there is a deep unity.
A refusal to bow before God.
A desire to build life without him.
That is the city of chapter 24. The city that looks powerful, impressive and permanent — but in the end is brought down in judgment.
But then there is another city.
A city that is not built by human pride but by divine grace.
A city not founded on our achievements but on God’s promise.
A city that cannot fail because it is built by God himself.
The city of God.
And the astonishing thing is this: God is not standing at a distance saying, “Look what I have built.”
He is inviting us in.
He is saying, “Come and make your home here.”
Look at how this city is described.
First, it will be for all peoples.
Not just for one nation.
Not just for one ethnicity.
Not just for the religious elite.
Not just for the people who seem to have everything together.
“All peoples.”
The gates of this city are wide open.
And what will they find when they enter?
A feast.
Not a snack. Not a bland meal to keep us going. A feast.
Verse 6 says God will prepare “a feast of rich food” and “the finest of wines.”
Mountains of food.
The kind of meal where you don’t rush because you don’t want it to end.
The kind of table where every dish tells you: you are welcome here.
The finest chateaubriand steak, bluefin tuna, beef brisket smoked for 14 hours.
And there will be fast-flowing wine.
Don’t let chapter 24 make you think God is against wine. He is against wine being used to numb us, escape reality and destroy us.
But creation itself is good, and God loves giving good gifts and having us enjoy them.
The new city will be overflowing with celebration — with the finest Chateau Lafite Rothschild and Montrachet (mon-ra-SHAY).
This is not heaven as a dull, colourless existence.
The pictures of people sitting on clouds playing harps could not be further from the reality.
The future God promises is not less human.
It is more human.
More joy.
More beauty.
More laughter.
More friendship.
More life than we have ever experienced.
Because the Christian life can be brutally hard.
If you have followed Jesus for any length of time, you know that.
You carry scars.
Some scars were inflicted on you because you are a Christian.
Some scars were inflicted by Christians.
There are disappointments. There are prayers that seem unanswered. There are losses we carry that no one else sees.
But there is no room for despair or self-pity because the future God has promised is unimaginably generous.
The feast is so wonderful.
The company is so precious.
The joy is so complete.
That even Jesus himself looked forward to it.
Hebrews 12:2 tells us that it was “for the joy set before him” that Jesus endured the cross, scorning its shame.
Jesus endured the worst suffering in history because he could see the feast on the other side.
And here is the astonishing thing:
The feast is not the end.
It is just the beginning of the beginning.
At the end of the final book in the Narnia Chronicles, The Last Battle, C.S. Lewis gives us a picture of this.
Aslan, the picture of Jesus, has defeated evil. And Lewis writes:
“The things that began to happen after that were so great and beautiful that I cannot write them... All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read: which goes on forever: in which every chapter is better than the one before.”
That is the future God promises.
Not an ending.
A beginning.
A beginning that gets better forever.
But notice secondly what is missing.
Verse 8.
Tears.
Now God could have said this differently.
He could have said, “All suffering will end.”
And that would be wonderfully true.
But it would remain abstract.
Instead, God gives us a picture.
He says, “I will wipe away every tear from their eyes.”
He does not outsource our pain.
He does not send someone else.
He comes himself.
He stoops down.
He takes our face in his hands.
And he wipes away every tear.
Listen to Tim Keller:
“Who does that? Mothers do that, especially, to kids. Here’s God saying, ‘I am going to become so intimate with you, my love is going to so envelop you, there will be no desire of your heart, no matter how deep, that will be unfulfilled, and there will be no hope in your heart, no matter how lofty, that will go disappointed.’”
That is the city of God.
A place where every wound is healed.
Every longing satisfied.
Every tear remembered — and removed.
And there will be no more death.
Isaiah says God will destroy “the shroud that enfolds all peoples.”
That’s talking about graveclothes.
Every generation, every nation, every person has lived under this shroud.
Death has covered humanity like a heavy blanket.
Death swallows everything.
But now the swallower is swallowed up.
The Sovereign Lord has swallowed up death itself.
And how did he do it?
This is why the bad news of chapter 24 matters.
Jesus went into the city of man so that we could live forever in the city of God.
What do I mean?
At the cross, Jesus was completely laid waste.
He was totally plundered as the soldiers stripped him and gambled for his clothes.
At the cross, Jesus came under a curse, being nailed to a tree.
On the cross, Jesus was offered wine vinegar. The drink given to him became bitter.
On the cross, the Creator of the universe — the one who brought order to the chaos of creation became undone, lost his form as his broken body hung limp.
On the cross, every door was barred to him as even his closest friends abandoned him.
Jesus swallowed up death by being swallowed up by death.
And then, on the third day, what did Peter see when he looked inside the tomb?
Luke 24:12:
“The strips of linen lying by themselves.”
Jesus destroyed the shroud that enfolds humanity by passing through his own shroud.
And now he welcomes us:
“Come. Feast. Rejoice. Be glad in my salvation.”
Verse 9:
“Trust in him and come to his city.”
As we close, what are we to do with this?
In light of that eternity, how do we make the most of our “one go” at this life?
Let me tell you the story of Babette’s Feast.
Written by Karen Blixen, it tells the story of a tiny, austere Christian community on the coast of Norway in the nineteenth century.
Two elderly sisters had devoted their lives to leading their father’s aging congregation in lives of prayer and self-denial.
But over the years something had gone wrong.
The congregation was still religious, but it had become cold.
There were old wounds that had never healed, arguments that had never been resolved, and a joyless commitment to duty.
Then Babette arrives.
She’s a French refugee fleeing the violence of Paris. The sisters take her in as a servant, and for fourteen years she quietly serves this little community.
Then one day everything changes.
Babette wins 10,000 francs in the French lottery.
The sisters assume she will finally return to France and build a new life. But instead, she spends every penny of her winnings preparing a feast for the congregation.
At first the guests are suspicious. They even agree beforehand not to comment on the food, determined not to be corrupted by worldly pleasures.
But as the meal unfolds — turtle soup, caviar, vintage champagne and sherry, quail in puff pastry — something begins to happen.
The food does not simply fill their stomachs.
It opens their hearts.
Old grudges begin to melt. Broken friendships are restored. Suspicion gives way to joy.
At the end of the meal, General Lorens raises his glass and says:
“Mercy and truth have met together. Righteousness and bliss shall kiss one another.”
And suddenly the guests realised “the infinite grace” that had been given to them.
At the end of the story, Babette is penniless.
But the community has been transformed.
Grace accomplished what rules and duty never could.
Friends, Jesus has poured himself out for us.
And now a banquet awaits that makes even Babette’s feast look small.
A feast that will not end.
A feast that will only be the beginning of the beginning.
So will you let that grace transform you?
Will you let it heal broken relationships?
Will you let it enable you to forgive what you once thought was unforgivable?
Will you let it change the question from “How much must I give?” to “How much can I give?”
Will you let it make you people of abundance rather than scarcity?
Because in Christ, we are waiting for a feast that is the ultimate expression of his extravagant generosity.
We get one go this side of eternity.
So let’s live as people of the feast.
Shall we pray.
