The end of what needed to end

Proper 28B

Creating God – God of life: help us put our trust in you.  Amen. 

One of the bits of lore from my family history is that, as children, my brother and I each had memorable moments, but the character and nature of our most memorable moments tended to be different.  As it was explained to me, my brother tended to do things that were memorable.  But I tended to say things that were memorable.

The thing is, I never was trying to be funny.  But people would laugh and my unintended one-liners would live on.  I’m sure if you asked Michael, he would tell you I still have that in me.  He’s always laughing at something I’ve said and most of the time I have no idea why.  But I digress… 

Now, through the shade of memory and lore, it’s hard for me to tease out what I actually remember, and what “memories” I have cobbled together from their frequent retellings.  But one of those moments that I think I remember, but definitely remember being retold a lot, was when we were on a family vacation and visited Stone Mountain, Georgia. 

Stone Mountain is a town just outside of Atlanta, but it is best known as the site of the largest memorial to the Confederacy from the Civil War.  In my mind, I sort of liken it to a Confederate version of Mount Rushmore.  A scene of Confederate soldiers is carved like a bas-relief into the side of a sheer, stone mountain side. 

Honestly, it’s the kind of memorial that I would have a hard time visiting today, but through the lens of our lives and experiences 40 years ago, I’m sure it was just an impressive site to see with your family. 

And that’s sort of what brings us to the story.  As a young child, I was definitely impressed.  There was a gondola lift that would ferry groups of tourists to the top of the mountain.  As my family and I were making our way up, along with a loaded gondola of other tourists, I exclaimed loudly, “That baby’s big!”.  I can’t hear my voice in my memory, but imagine a very young child, with what I assume must have been a pretty thick Southern accent.  The whole car erupted in laughter.  And the story is still told in my family from time to time, even today.

When I hear the story of the disciples marveling at the great stones of the Temple in Jerusalem in the first century, I sort of imagine them just as wide-eyed and impressed as I was at seeing that monument when I was little boy.  They might as well have exclaimed, “That baby’s big!” 

In our text, there’s just a paragraph break between that moment and the teaching that followed, but having been to Jerusalem, I know that it wasn’t just a breath that separated them.  The walk from the top of the Temple Mount, down through the Kidron Vally, then up the Mount of Olives to any point that would have offered both space for reflection along with the sort of vantage point described, would have taken at least around a half hour. 

So the space between the wonder and the apocalypse was more than just a moment.  I imagine Jesus walking along in silence.  Maybe some of the disciples were chattering amongst themselves, but Jesus was considering the way they had been so impressed.  And Peter, James, John, and Andrew were also lost in their thoughts about how he had responded.  He said, “Do you see these great buildings?  Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.”

When there was sufficient time and privacy, they wanted to know more.  The Temple was impressive.  It was assumed to be permanent and immovable.  “Look, teacher, what large stones, and what large buildings!”  And they probably trusted in its permanence even more because of the building’s role in supporting the people in worshiping God.  Surely nothing could impede or encumber a building such as that! 

So the disciples wanted to know more.  When will this be?  How will we know it’s coming?  How can we prepare? 

His prediction had shocked them into silence, but the silence had made space for the bigger message: every thing that you trust and depend on is vulnerable.  Even your faith in me will be tested by those seeking to pervert my message.  Even your sense of peace will be threatened.  Even the very ground on which you stand will feel unsure – unreliable. 

But hold your faith.  Don’t hold onto the comfortable routines and expectations of the world because you can’t depend on them.  Hold onto your faith.  Hold onto your relationship with God.  Hold onto the promise I’m telling you now – this isn’t the end, but a new beginning.  This isn’t death, but new life. 

I think one of the hardest genres of biblical literature that we face is the writings like what we’ve read today – the apocalyptic literature.  They make us nervous, because they’re always about predictions of coming insecurity and turmoil.  But the thing is, that’s not really what they’re about. 

When we hear “apocalypse” we tend to focus on the scary parts.  I bet if we polled the congregation this morning about the meaning of the word “apocalypse” most people would say that it’s about the end of the world.  And, in Hollywood, that is what it tends to be about, I guess.  But in biblical literature, that’s never what it’s actually about.  It certainly involves the end of a world – a certain way of being.  It’s about the end of systems and structures that obscure our true focus. 

The point of apocalypse in biblical literature is never about the end of the world.  It’s about the end of what needed to end.  It’s about making space for what needs to be brought into being.  The point is always about those birth pangs Jesus mentions.  The point of apocalypse is always about cleaning the slate to make way for something better. 

For us, these writings serve as a reminder that when the world feels like it’s falling apart, God is calling us to trust that something better is being born.  God is calling us to trust that God is on it.  God is calling us to take a hand in building this new world that God is dreaming into existence. 

Now, I know that’s thin comfort when it feels like your world is the one that’s falling apart.  I think it always has been.  But we have to keep clinging to it.  Because, when the earth shakes; when the temples crumble; when everything that we thought we could trust is falling out of reach; our faith and our hope that God is working with us is the only thing that stands a chance at holding up.  It’s the only thing that stands a chance at holding us up. 

Hope is the fuel that feeds the next step.  Without hope, the earth will fall out from under us.  But as long as we can find hope, and hold it, there will still be steps left to take.  And, as long as we can find hope, and share it with others, the community will always keep walking together; pulling each other along; supporting the ones who have yet to see that hope for themselves. 

Jesus doesn’t promise that we won’t hurt.  He doesn’t promise that anything will be easy.  But he does promise that God is laboring – giving birth, even now, to a world that is still being dreamed and loved into existence. 

It’s hard to remember that even the most impressive structure – even the tallest mountain – can’t be trusted.  But when we do remember that, we have to remember what can be trusted. 

Dame Julian of Norwich prayed, “All shall be well.  All shall be well.  All manner of things shall be well.  All shall be well.”  I’d bet she prayed that to remind herself.  That’s when I pray it – when I need to remind myself.  But we can trust that God is working toward “well”.  Even as the things of this life crumble and decay, it is but the birth pangs of a new creation.  Birth hurts.  But it is the only path to life.  Amen.