Sermon preached at Holy Trinity Lutheran Church, North Liberty, IA
Scripture: Mark 13:1-8
The last time I preached on this
scripture it was March 29, 2020. I was a pastor in Northwestern Minnesota, and
I was just figuring out how to livestream worship in an empty sanctuary for a
physically distant congregation. I know time flies and all that, but I just
want to pause a moment and give thanks that I am here with you in person—and to
note how quickly we forget that that is not a given. The poignancy of
apocalypse was palpable when I read this four years ago at the onset of the
pandemic. Today, over four years later, some things have changed but not
everything. It was the end of one way—but not the end of the end. In the end,
there was a beginning.
We
don’t like this—we, human beings. We are wired with the belief that life should
progress uniformly and linearly. We have an innate sense that as we move
forward things should get better—life should improve—and it should get better
and better and better. We don’t like that we are mortal, but mortality is OK if
the world that lies ahead for our children and grandchildren is a better one. The
problem is that sometimes the world does go backwards.
I
am torn about what to say about this, because in the span of human existence,
life has generally gotten better. People in the world are living longer; we
have found cures to many diseases and effective treatments to others; we have
wealth and technology that our forebears even a hundred years ago could hardly
have dreamed of, and, yet, we are also saddled with depression and anxiety; we
are addicted to screens, fueled by angry people telling us who to blame for all
of our problems. We are disconnected, even as we can more quickly talk with a
human being across the planet than a person two hundred years ago could talk to
a neighbor down the street. We are so, so, so busy—and afraid that if we ever
step off the race track, we will fall behind and our children will fall behind.
So, we don’t—and we move faster and faster—and we are only ever a moment from
panic.
Is
it any wonder that in a world like this—fueled by anxiety—we are fascinated by
apocalypse? We instinctively nod along with Jesus, speaking of wars and rumors
of wars, of tearing down the temple, and we think, “Yeah, that’s what we need.”
Anything to right this out-of-control ship that I’m riding through the rapids.
But here’s the big secret: The apocalypse already happened. Two thousand years
ago, it happened. Two thousand years ago, the end came, and the remarkable part
of the story—the thing we so often forget, as overwhelmed by life as we can
be—is that this end was just the beginning.
I fully believe that the devil’s best work is to set our sights on an abstract not-yet reality when we have so much in front of us to love and cherish and hold dear. The devil takes our faith that Jesus Christ died for us and twists it into an obsession with the afterlife that allows us to ignore very real people who need our care right now. The freedom of a Christian is to look at a world that is scary and is big—a world that may even kill you—and to meet that world and say, “I’ve got this, because Jesus has me.” Then, we dive in, because while Jesus was prophesying the destruction of the temple, he was talking both about a building and himself, but in both cases, death was not the end. Good Friday led to Easter Sunday. Church as building transitioned into church as people—or at least it should be that way.
