Tag Archives: Mark 13:1-8

Beauty in the Rubble: A sermon for Proper28B, 2024

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Proper 28B

                                          November 17, 2024

It’s more than a little ironic that every three years we hear this gospel reading on what is for us the day of our Annual Meeting. After this service, we will gather in Vilas Hall to elect lay leadership for the coming year, to discuss our operating budget, and this year to get updates on the roof project and to embark on a fundraising campaign.

It’s doubly ironic this year because Jesus’ prediction: “Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down!” is heard against the backdrop of masonry repairs taking place on our exterior to ensure the continued presence of Grace Church for future generations. Grace Church has stood on this site for 185 years now and we hope that what we are doing now and planning to do next year will preserve it for another century.

To top it all off, as I wrote these words, I could hear the sounds of demolition taking place in advance of the construction of the new History Center. Talk about not leaving one block upon another…

It may be tempting, though, in light of today’s gospel reading, to discredit the work we are doing, the money we are spending. Jesus’ prediction of the destruction of the temple; his earlier actions in overturning the tables of the moneychangers; and the attack on those who were donating to the temple treasury may led us to include that buildings like temples are misguided. And there are certainly plenty of verses in scripture that might lead one to that conclusion: “I desire mercy and not sacrifice”—for example. Protestant Christianity has often disparaged beautiful buildings; worship that includes beautiful vestments; images; even the music of organs and choirs. 

The verses we heard, the first verses of Mark 13, are an introduction to what scholars call “the little apocalypse.” It’s a genre of literature that emerged in the Hellenistic period, combining biblical symbolism and imagery with elements from other cultures and religions. While modern readers tend to assume that apocalyptic provides a guide to future events—the end times—in fact it’s coded language to help its readers understand their current historical context. 

For the gospel of Mark, that context was the Jewish revolt of 66-73 and the destruction of the temple. While scholars debate whether Mark was written just before or soon after Roman legions under the General, later Emperor Titus destroyed it, the conflict and the destruction loom over the gospel and especially this chapter. Later in the chapter come predictions that the followers of Jesus will be persecuted; that the temple will be profaned; that there will be earthquakes and signs in the heavens, and finally the Son of Man will come.

Such language both terrifies and fascinates us—to be clear, apocalyptic imagery and thinking are the ancestors of contemporary horror and fantasy literature and film. And we see how that imagery plays out in other segments of our culture, even in our political life.

In spite of the fact that apocalyptic has tended to be a fixation of conservative Protestantism in the US, it may seem like it is especially apt for the rest of us. It does seem like we are in the end times, with wars and rumors of war, collapsing cultural norms and institutions, climate catastrophe, and profound divisions in society that are often depicted in starkly oppositional terms: light v. darkness; good v. evil. It may seem like false prophets have arisen, claiming to speak in Jesus’ name, claiming “I am he” and leading many astray.

And it may feel like the stones are already crumbling around us, as the institutions we hold dear are being attacked and destroyed from inside and out. As we contemplate that destruction, both real and metaphorical, it may seem like there’s nothing we can do, that hopelessness, helplessness, impotence, despair, and acquiescence are the only options available.

In my sermon last week, I referred to small acts of defiance and hope—like the widow putting her two pennies into the temple treasury while the billionaires threw in their millions. But there are other, less confrontational things as well. 

Several recent post-service comments from visitors got me thinking. They all mentioned the beauty of our worship, our building, our music. It has occurred to me over the last couple of weeks that perhaps the most faithful, the most counter-cultural thing we can do is to create and sustain beauty. Beauty connects us to God, who created this universe and us in all our beauty and diversity. 

We might consider the place of our church in its built environment; surrounded by uninteresting buildings, opposite a state capitol built in the neo-classical style. The spire, tower, and walls of our church stand apart from other buildings; our courtyard gardens offer natural beauty in the midst of a brick, concrete, asphalt, and stone landscape. The interior of our nave lifts our eyes and hearts toward the heavens; the stained glass transforms sunlight into something ethereal, magical. Our music, the choir, organ, and hymns make our hearts soar into heavenly spheres.

In the midst of the demolition that surrounds us; the chaos in our world. In the presence of all the pain and suffering—the ongoing wars in Gaza and Ukraine; the destruction caused by Hurricane Helene; the threats to our common life and to the social safety net on which so many of us rely, to appeal to beauty may seem like a frivolous, even futile thing. 

But beauty can restore us; sustain us, strengthen us. And beauty draws us to God. Perhaps no one said it better than St. Augustine of Hippo, who wrote in his Confessions: 

Late have I loved Thee, O Beauty so ancient and so new; late have I loved Thee! For behold Thou were within me, and I outside; and I sought Thee outside and in my unloveliness fell upon those lovely things that Thou hast made. Thou were with me and I was not with Thee. Iwas kept from Thee by those things, yet had they not been in Thee, they would not have been at all. Thou didst call and cry to me and break open my deafness: and Thou didst send forth Thy beams and shine upon me and chase away my blindness: Thou didst breathe fragrance upon me, and I drew in my breath and do now pant forThee: I tasted Thee, and now hunger and thirst for Thee: Thou didst touch me, and I have burned for Thy peace.

As we plan for the coming year in the parish, and as we consider the future of our nation and the world, we may feel that Jesus’ words in Mark 13 speak directly to, and for us. The signs of apocalypse seem to be all around us. In that chaos, in the rubble, beauty still beckons to us, inspires us, draws us to God. May our desire and nurture of beauty in our building and our worship, draw others to God as well.

Not one stone will be left: A Sermon for Proper 28, Year B (Annual Meeting) 2018

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 We are nearing the end of the liturgical year. In the church, the new year begins on the first Sunday of Advent, which this year falls on December 2. But there’s a sense in which our gospel readings in the weeks leading up to that day help us prepare for Advent. Indeed some preachers and liturgists extend the season of Advent back three Sundays and advocate for a seven-week season of Advent.

There are at least two reasons for this move. The first reason for this extension of Advent is, I suspect, largely cultural. Since retailers replace their Halloween merchandise with their Holiday merchandise, and radio stations and satellite services have already started playing holiday music, extending Advent to the beginning of November is a way of offering a counter narrative to the excesses and consumerism of the Holiday season. The second reason for this longer Advent is that our gospel readings for these three Sundays are drawn from Jesus’ teachings concerning his return. They are what we call Apocalyptic literature.

Apocalyptic, which derives from a Greek word meaning revealing, emerged in the second century BCE during a period of crisis among the Jewish people. The central chapters of the book of Daniel are the earliest example of this type of literature. It is symbolic, full of strange beings. It presumes a cosmic battle between the forces of good and evil, in which ultimately, the good will prevail. While it seems to be describing events that will take place at a future time, in fact, it is describing in highly symbolic terms what is happening in the world right now. So, from time to time, after describing some event or some figure, a beast with seven horns, for example, the author will provide a clue, or a hint, and say, “let the reader understand.” Apocalyptic was also the context in which the idea of the resurrection of the dead first became popular, among the earliest clear references to the idea is in fact in the verses from Daniel in today’s first reading.

As I said, the world of apocalyptic is full of fear and danger, and we live in a context which is full of such imagery and events. Whether it’s mass shootings, terrorism, the continuous wars, or the wildfires that have transformed the landscape of California, taken lives, and changed the lives of so many people, our world seems to be collapsing around us. In such a context, Jesus’ words sound ominous indeed.

Today’s gospel, though written about two millennia ago, comes from a time and a community that were experiencing some of the same fear and uncertainty that we face as a world. As I’ve said before, it’s likely that Mark was written during the Jewish revolt against Roman occupation, and either shortly before, or after the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple. We date the gospel to this particular historical moment in part because of the very verses we heard today—the disciples marveling at the size and grandeur of the temple, and Jesus’ prediction of its destruction.

The Jewish Rebellion and the destruction of the temple constituted a cataclysmic change for Judaism. It was also of enormous significance for the tiny community of Jesus’ followers, who were caught in the midst of the conflict. As they looked around at what was happening around them, as they probably fled the violence, they were also reflecting back on Jesus himself, the hopes and faith he had instilled in them. As we have seen throughout this year, Jesus proclaimed the coming of God’s reign. It’s quite likely that many of those in this tiny community forty years later saw in the Jewish revolt and the Roman response, signs of Jesus’ imminent return.

You can almost hear the conversations of that community in Jesus’ words. He warns against false prophets—those who claim to be Jesus, those who claim to know when Jesus will return. All of the catastrophes, the wars, rumors of wars, earthquakes, and the like. There were people wondering whether these things were signs of Jesus’ return, signs of the end times. Of course, as we imagine first-century Christians wondering about these things, we know all too well that many contemporary Christians, and many in secular society, too, are fascinated with predictions of the end times.

Jesus’ words concerning his return are elicited by an observation of one of his disciples. Let me give you some background. In Mark’s chronology, this takes place of Tuesday in Holy. On Sunday, Jesus and his disciples made the triumphal entry into Jerusalem, which we reenact on Palm Sunday. After that, Jesus went to the temple and looked around.. Then he and his disciples left the city and spent the night in Bethlehem. On Monday, they returned to the temple, and overturned the moneychangers’ tables, after which they returned to Bethany. They came back to the temple on Tuesday where Jesus had a number of encounters with groups of Jews, the chief priests and scribes, some Pharisees and Herodians, some Sadducees. After the story of the widow’s mite which we heard last Sunday, they left the temple again, which is when this story takes place.

Once again, it’s as if the disciples are completely oblivious to what Jesus has just said, or has been saying all along. It’s the sort of remark we make as tourists, “Look at how big the stones are!” It’s the sort of remark I often hear when visitors come to Grace: “Wow, what a beautiful church!” Jesus’ retort may have been intended by Mark to reflect the reality that after Rome destroyed the temple, not a single stone was left standing but it’s an important reminder to us as well.

It’s not about the stones, even if it is our responsibility to make sure the stones of this building remain intact. The Jewish temple, Grace Church, are supposed to be places where people encounter God, where they experience the love of Christ and are transformed by that encounter. The beauty of our spaces, both inside and out, are meant to offer such opportunities, to invite people into relationship with God.

One way of thinking about all those encounters Jesus had with Jewish groups in the temple before this, from the moneychangers to the chief priests, Pharisees, and Sadducees, is to see them as challenges to the immediacy and accessibility of people to God. Spaces create barriers; institutions establish and maintain boundaries, communities dictate who’s in and who’s out. Jesus challenged all of those efforts to limit accessibility to God, to set boundaries. The threat he posed was part of what led to his arrest and execution.

2000 years later, those tendencies remain. We focus on the stones, not on God. Sometimes, instead of being a means of access to God, the building becomes our God, and we worship it or focus all of our energies and attention on it rather than on what it is supposed to be. Sometimes, a building can also be seen as an impediment, that it requires resources that might better be expended in other ways, in outreach to the community, for example. Striking the right balance is always a challenge, but I believe we at Grace do that.

I was reminded of the power and possibility of our spaces to connect us with God on Friday evening of this week. Corrie and I were walking on the square just as our bells began to ring at 6:00 pm. Hearing them from the other side of the square wasn’t just a distraction or noise. The sound of the bells reminded me of all that they represent: the faithful people who installed and now maintained them, their sound reminding me of God’s presence in this city, even on a Friday evening.

That is what our spaces should do—our building, our bells, our gardens, all should remind passersby of God’s presence in the world, and invite people to experience and enter into that presence more deeply, whether here at Grace or in other places or other ways in their personal lives.

We don’t know how long Grace Church will remain standing, whether for fifty, or a hundred, or five hundred years. But there will come a time, I suspect, when stone will no longer stand on stone, when there will only be rubble. But until that time comes, in God’s time, it is our responsibility, our mission, to ensure that our buildings and our congregation, are places where people encounter, experience, and share God’s love.

Birth Pangs: A Sermon for Proper 28, Year B

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How many times over the years have I come before you on a Sunday after some horrific news story has left us raw emotionally and in despair about our nation, the world, or the very core of our common humanity: Tony Robinson, Ferguson, Newtown, the Boston Marathon bombing, or now Paris. We watch these events unfold on our television screens or our social media feeds and are rendered speechless, wondering what we can do in response to the evil we see, wonder what all this means for our lives and our world.

Even as we wonder how to respond, we know how powerful the temptation to lash out in fear, hatred, and retributive violence. No sooner had the reports begun on Friday than the hate and filth began to spew forth on my twitter feed. But at the same time, I was shocked by how hollow the platitudes of universal human rights, desire for peace, and proclamations that Islam is a religion of peace seemed in the face of senseless carnage. And even the memes and images of Pray for Paris seemed empty and meaningless. Perhaps its only because we witnessed less than a year ago the attacks on Charlie Hebdo and the widespread calls for solidarity in the face of terrorist attacks on civil society. Somehow, at least to me, the whole ritual of anger, protestation of universal human rights, and the concomitant shrill debates over freedom and security, clash of civilizations, and the conflict over defining Islam, all of it seems less meaningful, an empty charade in the face of horrific violence, unimaginable suffering, and apparently insoluble problems. In addition, as several commentators have pointed out, our eyes have been fixed on Paris for the last day, horrified by the death of 129 people while a day before in Beirut, similar attacks killed many people with hardly a notice here in America. Our outrage and horror is selective.

We may want to turn off our TVs, ignore it all and go about our daily business. We may also lash out in anger and hate; we may be overwhelmed with grief and pain. We may also want to do something. Sometimes, what we need to do, all we can do is pray—to pray for the victims and those who minister to them, to pray for peace and reconciliation, to pray for the world. But we should also take time to give voice to our pain and fear, to cry out to God in anguish, to use biblical language, to lament. Doing that directs our attention to God, reminds us that many of the world’s events are outside of our control, and helps us avoid making mistakes that contribute to the pain and suffering of others. Lament also allows us to share our pain honestly with God and with others and to begin to recognize and confess the ways in which we may be complicit in the causes of that pain and suffering, and ultimately begin to work together to address those underlying causes.

We’re entering a new era in human history, perhaps we’ve been in it for some time, as terrorism has become a fearful reality world-wide, and the violent wars in the Middle East continue with no end in sight, devastating whole societies and the lives of individuals and families. With global warming continuing unabated, and thinkers increasingly linking wars in Africa, Asia and the Middle East to climate change, the future looks bleak indeed.

Today’s gospel, though written about two millennia ago, comes from a time and a community that were experiencing some of the same fear and uncertainty that we face as a world. As I’ve said before, it’s likely that Mark was written during the Jewish revolt against Roman occupation, and either shortly before, or after the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple. We date the gospel to this particular historical moment in part because of the very verses we heard today—the disciples marveling at the size and grandeur of the temple, and Jesus’ prediction of its destruction.

The Jewish Rebellion and the destruction of the temple constituted a cataclysmic change for Judaism. It was also of enormous significance for the tiny community of Jesus’ followers, who were caught in the midst of the conflict. As they looked around at what was happening around them, as they probably fled the violence, they were also reflecting back on Jesus himself, the hopes and faith he had instilled in them. As we have seen throughout this year, Jesus proclaimed the coming of God’s reign. It’s quite likely that many of those in this tiny community forty years later saw in the Jewish revolt and the Roman response, signs of Jesus’ imminent return.

You can almost hear the conversations of that community in Jesus’ words. He warns against false prophets—those who claim to be Jesus, those who claim to know when Jesus will return. All of the catastrophes, the wars, rumors of wars, earthquakes, and the like. There were people wondering whether these things were signs of Jesus’ return, signs of the end times. Of course, as we imagine first-century Christians wondering about these things, we know all too well that many contemporary Christians, and many in secular society, too, are fascinated with predictions of the end times.

To some degree, such fascination with the end times is natural. We would love to know how things turn out. We want that kind of certainty. But Jesus’ words remind us that certainty about the future is impossible, that the signs and portents we might seek do not point in a certain direction. They are signs of something else. The image Jesus uses is “birthpangs”—in fact, “the beginning of birthpangs. In other words, he is saying that all of these things he describes, wars and rumors of wars, are like the beginning of a mother’s labor pains, a long and painful process, at the end of which may come joy.

For most of us, such language and imagery may seem strange and unappealing. For all the talk in the New Testament about Jesus’ return, most of us likely are uncomfortable with the idea. There are many ways to interpret such imagery and language that attempt to make the idea of Jesus’ Second Coming more palatable to twenty-first century Christians, some of them more useful and consistent with scripture and the Christian tradition than others. We may have opportunity to explore some of them in the coming weeks as our texts for the first several Sundays of Advent are full of talk of end times.

But for now, I want us to reflect on one central theme in this language and imagery, the idea that God is in control of history. For at the heart of all of the biblical discussion of the end times is that certainty, that God will make all things new, restore all things. That may be difficult enough to get our heads around, when the world in which we live seems to be devolving into chaos, with wars, rumors of wars, even earthquakes occurring just in the past few days.

But in the midst of the chaos, in the midst of all of the pain and suffering, the fear and mourning, are also signs of hope, signs that God is at work in the midst of it all, that God is present in the chaos. Our own emotions and experiences may sometimes lead us to overlook signs of God’s presence, but God is there, in the small gestures of help, comfort, and reconciliation that are offered by strangers in the same neighborhood or city, or from places thousands of miles away. In these gestures, we should see signs of the birthpangs of which Jesus speak; and when we participate in such gestures ourselves, we are making God present, we are embodying the love of Jesus to the world around us.