Welp, we’re still here. Despite dire declarations from doomsday disciples, Tuesday trudged along like every other Tuesday. No trumpet, no cloud-chariot, not even a polite postcard from Heaven. The only mysterious vanishing act at my house was my laundry, which I briefly mistook for divine intervention before realizing my children had raided the dresser again.
In case you’re completely in the dark about what I’m talking about — we had ourselves another predicted rapture fall through. This was supposed to be a two day event, straddling September 23 and 24th.
If you had your heart set on hovering above the current havoc, I am sorry. I know the world is weary and escape is enticing. But perhaps it’s time for a little rapture reality check.
First, the rapture as popularly preached is a fairly fresh phenomenon. Nobody in the first 1,800 years of Christianity was clutching charts and scanning the skies. It didn’t really get traction until about 1830—in Scotland, of all places. (You’d think they’d have had enough on their hands with the bagpipes.)
Second, even if you do buy into it, your own scriptures say no one knows the day or the hour. So why were you treating Tuesday like it had a cosmic “reserved” sign? That’s like scheduling a surprise party for yourself and getting mad when nobody jumps out from behind the sofa.
Third—and here’s the clincher—the real rescue already happened. Redemption is done. Salvation is sealed. What’s left is not waiting for Heaven’s helicopter but walking into the world’s wreckage with work gloves on.
See, Jesus never told us to treat this planet like a bus stop. He told us to treat it like a blueprint. The church isn’t supposed to be gazing at the clouds; it’s supposed to be grinding in the gutters. Loving the neighbor. Feeding the famished. Clothing the cold. Welcoming the wanderer. Giving to the poor. He gave us a checklist, not a calendar.
And yet—the Venn diagram of those who eagerly expected to be airlifted this week and those who skip those very commands is a perfect circle. Instead of practicing compassion, they’re perfecting countdowns. Instead of doing the hard, holy labor of loving, they’re doodling timelines and hoping the world burns.
I get it. I once walked those same shores. I devoured the Left Behind books, I trembled at the Antichrist, I fell for a rapture hoax when I was eight. But the Jesus of Scripture is not the God of the easy out. He doesn’t hand out cloud tickets. He hands out callings.
There is no rescue. There is only responsibility. And, if we take Him seriously, there is also relentless, redemptive, roll-up-your-sleeves work that makes this broken world a little more like Heaven.
So hang up the prophecy charts. Put away the cloud-gazing binoculars. Pick up a casserole dish, a coat, a kind word. Heaven isn’t hovering in the distance—it’s supposed to be leaking out of us right here, right now. You know, that whole find the workers in the fields bit.
If you’re expecting a rapture while hoping for havoc on those left behind, you missed the whole message. Maybe go back to Sunday School — and this time, read the red letters.
B.T. Clark
B.T. Clark is an award-winning journalist and the Publisher of The Georgia Sun. He has 25 years of experience in journalism and served as Managing Editor of Neighbor Newspapers in metro Atlanta for 15 years and Digital Director at Times-Journal Inc. for 8 years. His work has appeared in several newspapers throughout the state including Neighbor Newspapers, The Cherokee Tribune and The Marietta Daily Journal. He is a Georgia native and a fifth-generation Georgian.
