November 14, 2010

Today, after the 10:00 service, we will hold our annual meeting. It is an opportunity to look back on the past year, make some assessment of what we have accomplished over these twelve months. It is also a time to look ahead to the New Year. We’re somewhat out of synch with our larger culture and will continue to be so for the next month or so. For it’s not just that we are planning ahead for next year with respect to our finances and planning, but our worship is also coming to the end of one year and looking forward to a new one. The liturgical year does not begin on January 1 but rather on the first Sunday of Advent, which is two weeks from today.

Our lessons, coming at the end of a year of reading the Gospel of Luke, have us looking ahead in some profound ways. The gospel and the reading from Isaiah are both are eschatological, in that both have something to say about the age to come. They are sharply different in tone, however. Isaiah’s vision is a hopeful one; while the gospel promises Jesus’ listeners that they will suffer for his sake.

Today’s gospel comes from the section of Luke where Jesus is teaching in and around the temple. It is just a few days before his arrest and execution. It also comes immediately after the story of the widow’s mite—when Jesus observes a poor woman giving an offering in the temple and praises her generosity, giving all that she had, while other rich people gave out of their abundance.

Luke is writing his gospel at least a decade, perhaps longer after the destruction of the Jerusalem temple. It was a cataclysmic event—catastrophic for the Jewish people who had to radically reconceive what it meant to be Jewish, and how to practice their faith, in the absence of the temple, the place where God dwelt and sacrifices were performed. It was cataclysmic as well for the early Christian community, most of whom came out of Judaism and still considered themselves to be profoundly Jewish, in spite of their belief that Jewish was the Messiah, the Savior of the World.

One can sense the anguish of both communities in the words Jesus says: “Not one stone will remain upon another, all will be thrown down.” He prophesies wars and insurrections, but cautions his listeners not to imagine that they are signs of his coming. He warns them that they will be persecuted for his sake. These are powerful words that are meant to evoke powerful emotions. Language like this permeates the New Testament and has contributed significantly to those strands of Christianity that look for signs of the second coming.

Of such signs there is no dearth. We live in an age of war and insurrection. Natural disasters like the earthquake in Haiti, Tsunami, and volcanic eruptions in Indonesia, hurricanes, drought and the like, seem ever more prevalent. We worry about global warming, famine and more. In our context, words like Jesus says in our gospel today contribute to a pervasive mood among many, Christians and non-Christians, that the world as we know it is coming to an end; that global catastrophe may be just around the corner.

Such language may increase our fearfulness and dread about what lies in the future. But Jesus’ words were not intended that way. Luke is using them quite differently, to reassure his readers that in spite of and in the midst of the troubles they were facing, God was acting in history. It is the same message we sang in the canticle, Isaiah’s song, “Surely it is God who saves me, trust in him and be not afraid.” Often such words seem meaningless in light of the enormous problems we face. And those problems may be intensely personal—a medical condition, grief at the loss of a loved one, unemployment. But the problems are also immense—war, climate change, a nation that doesn’t seem on the right track. It may be difficult, impossible to detect God’s working in the world.

This week, someone came to see me in desperation. Her life had fallen apart and she had lost everything. She wasn’t sure she could go on, that there was any reason for going on. It’s a story I occasionally hear; the surprising thing perhaps is that I don’t hear it more often. Feeling God’s presence in her life was impossible; all she could feel was pain and loss—the loss of friends and family, the loss of a future, her life, any hope.

While her situation was extreme, most of us have experienced at least something of that desperation, pain and loss. When we are there, words of encouragement sound empty and meaningless, even God seems to have abandoned us. But that’s not the case. The gospel reader reminds us that God is in the midst of our pain and suffering, God is present in history, and in our lives.

The reading from Isaiah offers a powerful challenge to any hopelessness we might feel, for ourselves or for the world. Isaiah’s vision is completely new—Yahweh will create new heavens and a new earth; Jerusalem will be transformed into a city in which there will be no tears; no infant will die before her time, people will live long lives. Even the natural world will be transformed into a place of peace and serenity. It’s a vision of a creation restored to what God had intended for it; a created world, at peace and harmony. The only hint of something else are the words, and the serpent, he shall eat dust. It’s a reminder of the Garden of Eden, of the curse Yahweh placed there on the serpent. But now the serpent is subjugated, excluded permanently from this new Eden.

This vision may seem far from the world in which we live, but it is a vision we see in faith, a vision of the universe as God intends it, and as God is working it out even now. Our faith proclaims that God is present in this world and in our daily lives, no matter what evidence there is to the contrary. It is a vision that should not only sustain us in our hope, but show us how we need to participate in God’s unfolding love of the world. Amen.