23rd Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 21:5-19, Malachi 4:1-2a, 2 Thessalonians 3:6-13
What is it about end-of-the-world stories that is so captivating to us? Whether it is the children’s story, Chicken Little, where a chicken runs through the kingdom yelling “the sky is falling, the sky is falling!” or the more recent epic saga of the Avengers, there’s something about these ‘apocalyptic’ stories that hooks us and draws us in. There’s something about these end-of-the-world scenarios that get our heart pumping harder and our blood flowing stronger. In fact, There’s a genre for these kinds of stories…apocalyptic literature. According to the Encyclopedia Brittanica, apocalyptic literature is a “literary genre that foretells supernaturally inspired cataclysmic events that will transpire at the end of the world.” The definition goes on to explain that this type of literature usually takes narrative form, uses vague or obscure language, expresses a pessimistic view of the present, and treats the final events as inevitable or unavoidable. If you read the book of Daniel or the book of Revelation, you will notice some similarities to this definition—supernaturally inspired cataclysmic events. For the church, apocalyptic writing focuses not just on the end of the world, but more specifically on the ‘return of Christ,’ or the ‘second coming.’
In the liturgical calendar, we are coming around the corner of the season after Pentecost and moving towards Christ the King Sunday, which is the last Sunday in the liturgical year before the season of Advent begins the liturgical year again. In good Lutheran fashion—where both the ‘now and not yet’ realities are held together–Christ the King Sunday is a Sunday where we celebrate how Christ has both come and will come again, which leads us into the season of Advent where we prepare our hearts for both the first coming of Christ in the nativity story but also and at the same time cry out for Christ to come again for the reconciliation and redemption of creation. So, in terms of the larger narrative of our faith, we are preparing to shift our focus towards the chaos and darkness into which Jesus first came as the incarnated presence of God in the world, while at the same time acknowledging the darkness and chaos around us into which we pray Christ will come again. Additionally, in the overarching flow of the gospel of Luke, the momentum of Jesus’ ministry is focusing on his trip to Jerusalem, where he will be arrested and crucified. So while there is a lot of different understandings about what Jesus meant about his second coming, we do know that he talked about coming again, that the early church understood that second coming to be imminent (within their lifetime), and that most Christian churches still profess this summary as a ‘mystery of our faith’: Christ has died. Christ has risen. Christ will come again. We live in this space of waiting for “Christ will come again.”
We don’t experience the changing of the seasons so much here in Florida, but if you have spent any time in another part of the country, you are familiar with the gradual—and sometimes not so gradual—shift from summer through fall to winter. The leaves start changing colors as trees store up their energy, and then leaves fall off. Landscapes go from vibrant greens to various reds and oranges to dull grays and whites. Lights turn on earlier and earlier in the day. Sleeves and pants get longer and thicker. As the earth tilts away from the sun, we know the darkness is coming. We are in that moment in those epic dramas where time slows down and we can almost feel the tension between the season of growth and productivity and the inevitable season of conflict and struggle. In the environment, that tension is the tension between fall and winter. On a community or society level it’s that tension between what we remember or perceive as ‘what was,’ and the discontent with ‘what is’ as we long for ‘what could be.’ But on a more personal level, that tension can be the time between health and diagnosis—when you know something’s not right but you haven’t quite received the reports that explain what exactly is going on. It can be that time before a decision to end a relationship—when you know what you have isn’t working but the necessary way forward will involve pain and heartbreak. It can be that time when the stones of stability and abundance from a lifetime of employment start crumbling with the reality of age, bills, and the changing economy.
Jesus knew this tension as well. Jesus knew what it was like to stand in that space between the dove descending and the voice proclaiming, “this is my son, with whom I am well-pleased,” and the crowd yelling, “crucify him!” The writer of Luke holds this tension and seems to say that Jesus knew what was coming when he ‘set his face towards Jerusalem’ even as he chose to walk towards it. As ones who carry this story, we read, hear and live it through the lens of the crucifixion and resurrection. We’ve already seen how the movie ends, each time we turn it on and watch it again. And that is GOOD NEWS for those of us who are caught smack dab in the middle of the tension between life and death. The fact that Jesus lived there too, and that Jesus’ journey to death led also to resurrection, gives us hope and strength when all we can see feels like apocalyptic doom.
But there’s another understanding of apocalypse that I think is more helpful when reading this text in Luke. Apocalypse is a Greek word meaning “revelation”, “an unveiling or unfolding of things not previously known and which could not be known apart from the unveiling”. In this understanding of the word, to experience an apocalypse is to experience fresh insight, an honest disclosure. According to one commentator, to experience an apocalypse is to apprehend reality as we’ve never apprehended it before (www.Journeywithjesus.net).
Right before the text we read today, Jesus and his disciples are in the temple, which was the symbol of religious stability and prominence. So there the disciples and Jesus are, surrounded by this magnificent structure (think Notre Dame but bigger and more glorious). And in the midst of that grandeur, Jesus sees the woman giving everything she has as an offering. That was an apocalyptic moment, when Jesus said to the disciples, “don’t look at the fancy bricks and the magnificent structure…look at the generosity of this woman who gave everything out of her faith and commitment.” Jesus sees things differently, and when we see things the way Jesus sees them, we have a ‘revelation’—an unveiling of things not previously known. So when we look at the grandeur of cathedrals and buildings—human institutions–Jesus invites us to see the woman giving her last two coins. When we see ourselves as being persecuted for our faith, Jesus invites us to see an opportunity to witness. When we hear rumors of cataclysmic destruction and are tempted to follow shallow quick-fix false prophets, Jesus invites us to lean into a deeper and longer view of God’s action in and through creation that is moving towards redemption and reconciliation. Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ WILL come again.
This is not a guarantee of painlessness, and it’s not a cliché “God won’t give you more than you can handle” or “everything happens for a reason.” It’s not an expectation that suffering won’t hurt. Suffering hurts. Persecution hurts. Wounds hurt. Tragedies often don’t have a ‘reason’. Sometimes it IS more than we can handle. But take care of one another in the midst of those experiences, look for those ‘apocalyptic revelations,’ and keep trusting in a God who destroys death, who loves unconditionally, and who is calling all creation into redemption and reconciliation.
So the movies and stories tell us one thing about how to respond to threats and struggles. They tell us to run away, to take care of ourselves, to hide from those who appear different than us, and to protect our buildings and statues. They tell us to blame the bad guy. There’s a major fight going on between good and evil…make sure you’re on the right side of the fight when the battle dies down. Don’t get left behind. That’s one way to think about apocalyptic literature. It’s one way to live in that space of tension between the ‘now’ and ‘not yet.’ It’s one way to live in relationship to other people. But Jesus gives us a different way. Jesus gives us a different apocalyptic lens—a way of knowing that can only come from the unveiling. With that lens, structures and buildings can crumble and we are not destroyed. With that lens, false messages of doom or quick-fix salvation do not get our allegiance. With that lens, struggle is an opportunity to witness, and people matter more than product or productivity. We can walk towards the cross and even into death with and for the sake of others, because Christ is risen and Christ will come again.
Because our story isn’t one of a superhero sweeping in when things get rough and rescuing us from the disaster. Ours isn’t a story of hopelessly crying out, “the sky is falling!” and getting others caught up in that hopelessness. Our story is of a God who took on the form of a helpless baby, came and dwelt among a sinful and broken humanity, gave himself over to the power of death, and conquered death so that we can be free from the power of sin and death. The point is not that bad things are a judgment from God, or that good people will be removed from the world while bad people will be left behind for their inevitable destruction. The point is that God is present in our lives, giving us the strength we need when we need it, offering us life and reconciliation through baptism and communion, calling us into community with others, and encouraging us to see power and strength through different lenses.
Maybe the most epic apocalyptic story ever isn’t the one about the inevitable destruction of the planet until a hero can find a way to destroy the enemy. Maybe the most epic apocalyptic story ever is the one we profess every week in worship as we are called, gathered, and sent into the world for the sake of the gospel: Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.