There is no end

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.

You have a lovely building here, I must say, but let me tell you: Anyone who comes away this morning experiencing joy—anybody whose anxiety is calmed, whose purpose and direction is found—anybody who comes away better from coming to worship will feel this way not because of the building but because of you! You are the church. Which is great, because this building cannot move very fast out into the world—but you can!

            And the world needs you, because many people are out there sitting around like Peter, James, John, and Andrew, asking Jesus “So, buddy, when’s that whole apocalypse thing starting up? I bet it’s now!” Don’t be them. Instead, use the freedom won through Christ, who took up his cross on our behalf, knowing that, yes, wars will come and new diseases, too, but none of that is the end. Christ died for more.

            I find it so incredibly sad that so many Christians spend their time and energy fixating on the end when the whole point of this faith as far as I can tell is that in Christ, there is none! There is no end! Death turns to resurrection. Living water overflows to eternal life. If you are worried about the end, stop! The end is taken care of—care for the here and now. Never let the abstractions of the future cloud the needs of the present. Here and now, people are hurting. Here and now, you can live your faith by caring for those in need. Lutherans are so allergic to talking about this doing good stuff, as if promoting doing good means we are trying to earn our salvation, because again, we are obsessed with the end when we should remember that Christ has all that taken care of. The longer I am around Lutherans, the more I have come to see that Lutherans have this amazing ethic of service—a fact which we are almost apologetic about—as if we believe that those other Christians are doing it better than us with their loud and proud worship and their loud and proud opinions. I don’t know what Jesus thinks of any of this whole American experiment, honestly, but one thing I do know is that the humble service of this church is always going to be undervalued and underplayed in a political environment that seeks after power.

            When you feed a hungry family or provide a coat for a child, you are serving Jesus—he tells us this in the Gospels. That is what it means to be a disciple—not saying the right words, not figuring out what the end will be like, as if you could. No, care for real people right now. I find those who are concerned about apocalypse to be some of the last to follow after Jesus, concerned as they are with stars and portents and things outside of our control. None of us can do a thing about the end, but secondly—and more importantly—there also is no end. And third—and most important of all—all of this talking about ends has served no purpose but to distract from loving people right now.

            I believe the great idol of the American Christian Church in 2024 is the idol of abstraction. Every issue is complicated and systemic and nuanced. That may well be true, but it is also absolutely of no use to us. The work of Christ-followers is foot-washing and clothing and visiting and loving—and that requires not an understanding of any issue. Also, crucially, that requires you doing nothing to change anybody, because I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but all of our bickering is not changing anybody. That is another thing I love about the Lutheran faith, which I am not sure many of you would even know that Lutherans believe, but according to Luther, sanctification—the process by which you are made holy before God—is accomplished solely through the work of the Holy Spirit, which means that you have absolutely no responsibility for changing anybody else’s heart. In fact, you cannot even change your own heart. Only the Holy Spirit can do that. You can’t do make yourself a better person, which at first sounds like really bad news, because if you are like me, you like to tell yourself that story about how good and self-sufficient you are, but the thing is, when you are really honest with yourself, you know the truth. It is a truth laid bare when we understand we cannot fully protect those we love—we are mortal and we are temporary. Yet, through Christ, it all turns upside down. We cannot save ourselves, but Christ already has. We cannot change peoples’ hearts, but the Holy Spirit is working that magic right now.

            Our job, as ever, is to go and be the hands and feet of Christ. Just go love on people—even those who don’t deserve it—even those we are tempted to hate. As my teacher, David O’Hara, recently said, “The return on love is higher than any other investment you can make. It has a long, fat tail, so the returns might be slow, but they’ll be good.”

            Lastly, I want to say, as an outsider, that I believe you are doing this good work already—and I suspect you may need to hear both as individuals and as a community that your good work of loving your neighbors is absolutely worth it! It might not seem like it in a world of abstractions where big opinions drown out little acts of love, but you are being the hands and feet of Christ. I hope you can slow down enough to see that. I hope you can look at one another long enough to see that work in each other. I hope you can understand all the ways that we are in this together when the powers-that-be are so deeply invested in dividing us. You can’t change that, but you can use some of that freedom that comes from Christ—taking up that cross, dying, and rising on Easter morning—to show the world what true freedom means. It is the freedom of knowing that this is not the end.