“When you hear of wars and insurrections, do not be terrified; for these things must take place… “Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be great earthquakes, and in various places famines and plagues; and there will be dreadful portents and great signs from heaven.”
These things must take place, but, um, remember… “do not be terrified”. This is one of those many Gospels where I find myself wanting to have a sit-down with our Lord, who would have been the current age of my sons when he gave this instruction. “Child,” I’d want to say. “You have no idea of the terrors that keep a parent up at night. Go easy on us.”
This section of Luke’s Gospel, which closely parallels Mark 13 and Matthew 24-25 is sometimes called the “little apocalypse.” That is to distinguish it from the longer apocalyptic writings like Daniel or Malachi, from which we got our first reading, or from the Book of Revelation, whose name is an English translation of the Greek word “apocalypse.” And I want to pause there for a moment. From a Biblical perspective, the word apocalypse means not so much a disaster as a disclosure. A revelation, that is: maybe not so much of the future but of the way things actually are.
People living in Gaza and struggling after the hurricanes in Jamaica or typhoons in the Philippines already know this. Insurrections, natural disasters and plagues are not so much a threat as they are current news. For immigrants and brown people terrorized by the prospect of ICE raids, hearing Jesus tell them that they will be betrayed is not a surprise so much as their daily reality. When disaster is already your context, the assurance that “not a hair of your head will perish… by your endurance you will gain your souls” comes as good news.
And those who suffer will know what to say, Jesus promised. That’s true, isn’t it? Even in the ordinary suffering of our lives, of which there is plenty: death, divorce, loneliness, addiction… name your own human tragedy. Those who have lived through similar trials are usually the ones with the words and wisdom that the rest of us need to hear. People in recovery know this well. My younger son, who wrestled with an autism spectrum learning disorder, has grown up to be an extraordinarily compassionate teacher as a result.
We don’t have to wait in fear of great devastation in order to receive the wisdom of the apocalypse. We can just open our eyes to the suffering already painfully present in this fragile earth, our island home. We can practice every day with our ordinary grief and disappointment; we can bravely ask where God was in our divorce or job loss or betrayal. We can share our stories with other people who’ve suffered and be surprised by the wisdom that may emerge. We can look back on shared experiences of trauma—which is exactly what the New Testament writers did with the death of Jesus and the destruction of the temple—and allow God to show us a hopeful way through.
We can, as the Psalmist taught, “shout with joy to the Lord… lift up our voices, rejoice, and sing.” Which is actually exactly what we come here to St. Paul’s to do, whether we happen to be feeling it or not. Because our grief and frustration in a given moment does not constrain God’s revelation in history. Next Sunday we celebrate the feast of Christ the King, and then comes Advent. Which, despite the seemingly festive anticipation of Christmas, is a pretty apocalyptic season in its own right. In terms of the lectionary—the readings we hear on Sundays—we’ll be diving right into Matthew’s version of the little apocalypse, so get ready for more readings like the one you heard today.
But notice also the rhythms of grace that our scripture and traditions offer to us. We are assured of God’s sovereignty one Sunday, then reminded of the certainty of human betrayal for several Sundays, and then handed—Biblically-speaking—an utterly vulnerable baby who will transform history. That’s the way the God of our new songs operates, and we’d miss the revolution of love if we let the specter of apocalyptic disaster cloud our vision.
“This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed,” observed the blessed elder Simeon when the infant Jesus was presented in the temple. The Greek for “will be revealed” in this case being apokalyphthōsin, reminding us that apocalypse—both the disastrous and the hopefulness of it—runs right through the inner thoughts of each one of us.
Elders know these things. You’ve probably heard the parable of the Cherokee chief teaching his grandson. “A fight is going on inside me,” he told the boy, “a fight between two wolves. One is evil: he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.” He continued, “One is good: he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you grandson…and inside of every other person on the face of this earth.” The grandson pondered this for a moment and then asked, “Grandfather, which wolf will win?” The elder smiled and simply said, “The one you feed“.
So what do we do in the face of apocalypse? Come to the table and be fed, people of St. Paul’s. Be fed with joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. Keep coming back, even when the outside portents are dreadful. Your own heart is still a home for hope. So come back when the stones of the East Wing are thrown down, come back when false teachers preach hate in the name of Jesus, come back when your values are betrayed. Come back even when fear and sorrow seem overwhelming. Because someone else may need to hear your survival story.
Heartbreak and hope… they dwell together like two sides of a coin in our faith tradition. I’d like to say that this revelation—this apocalypse—will not kill us, but that’s not really true, is it? It might: Jesus said as much in the Gospel we just heard. But as Christians, we already know that death itself opens the door for resurrection, and to the heavenly banquet that is our eternal invitation. So let’s live without fear, listen to each other, and come to this table with lifted voices: rejoicing, and singing to the Lord a new song.
