For in the time we know not of
did fate begin
weaving the web of days….“ (Faustine, 1866, st. 24)
Time in its passage is gone before we blink and we are in the present that becomes the past. In various times of our lives we live more in the past, or in the present, or look to the future. Do we live in our past with sorrow, or with gratitude? Do we live in the present not thinking about yesterday nor planning for tomorrow, because either the one is too terrible or the other is too confused or too bleak? And what about the future? As we age, and live longer and longer, what are our tasks, what is our calling, our vocation in these latter days of our living? Or are we merely enduring the passage of time?
However much one wants to use the scripture passages we read this morning as predictors, that is not their purpose. Jesus knew that the shape of human experience was not likely to change a whole lot, so he wasn’t outlining in precise order what was going to happen in the future before God’s rule in our world could be fulfilled.
There has not been a period in human history when such cataclysmic events have not been unfolding somewhere. At the time that Luke’s Gospel was written, about 80 A.D. the readers surely understood: The temple, about which Jesus’ disciples had been marveling, was, in fact destroyed in 70 AD. Less than a decade later, and still prior to the writing of the Gospel of Luke, on August 23, 79 AD, Pompeii, a major cultural city in Italy, looked like any other busy, prosperous city. People were moving about, trading goods, news, and friendly talk. Three days later, on August 26, all of these sounds had fallen silent, and the place itself had vanished. Luke was addressing those questions, those fears about the future, that his readers had, and that continue to be the questions that are, perhaps, the deepest revelation of our common humanity.
It helps our understanding of theses texts, I think, if we look at what had put Jesus in the mood to talk about destruction in the first place. In chapter 19 of Luke’s Gospel, Jesus has condemned the Temple establishment for turning what should be a house of prayer for all people into a den of thieves. At the end of the 20th chapter and the beginning of the 21st chapter, Luke provides a specific example of what Jesus had been condemning: Jesus warns the disciples to “beware of those who ‘devour widows’ houses, and then sees it happening before his eyes as a poor widow puts her last two cents—all she had to live on—in the Temple treasury.
I think that the important words here are those that Jesus speaks to us about those who will lead us astray, saying, “I come in the name of Jesus” and “the time is near. Do not,” Jesus says, “go after them.” They will try to capitalize on fears, they will try to capture absolute loyalty. Of such illusory proclamations are cults born.
The message to the people of Jesus’ own time who were alarmed that he would suggest that something as magnificent as the Temple might not endure, or those for whom Luke wrote who knew of the Temple’s destruction, of the demise of the state of Israel, of the death of a vibrant city like Pompeii under lava and ash, or to us today who may hear religious or political gurus warning us about end times, is simple: “Do not go after them.” Don’t panic…about the future of the world, or even your own future, for that matter.
The crucial thing for us to remember, Jesus says, is that when all these terrible things are happening, as they have happened across the centuries, is that this is a time to make your witness. Now is the time for Christians to be on the witness stand to testify to a different conviction. The whole point of these times is that they offer disciples the opportunity to witness to those things in our civilization with which we ought to be clashing, those things that devour widows houses, that make a mockery of religion by turning it into a den of thieves, and not a house of prayer.
There is a marvelous statement from the poet Rainer Maria Rilke: “We have no reason to harbor any mistrust against our world, for it is not against us. If it has terrors, they are our terrors; if it has abysses, these abysses belong to us; if there are dangers, we must try to love them…How could we forget those ancient myths that stand at the beginning of all races, the myths about dragons that at the last moment are transformed into princesses? Perhaps,” he wrote so beautifully, “all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage. Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love.”
If we are frightened by terrorists, could it be that they feel helpless, and might respond differently if they felt their cause, their issues were heard with respect and they were treated with dignity? If we are frightened by something more personal, say our own aging, could it be that the process itself is calling out for us to love it, to find in our diminishing abilities and powers a new place for testifying, taking the witness stand for patience, for kindness, for caring, for giving? If we are frightened by a past that we think will rise up to haunt us and corrupt our present or our futures, could it not be that we are called to embrace it, confess it, admit to brokenness so that we might find healing at last?
Jesus wasn’t being clairvoyant in talking about the eventual destruction of the temple. Every temple, even the temple of our own body, is a doomed house. Every structure and system for housing the holy will wear out its use, will disappoint and die. Sometimes we have to have the courage to leave the ruins of old systems—be they of institutional religious life, or of political strategies, or of personal habits—and bear witness with new faith.
And yes, nobody said it would be easy. There may be persecutions as we stand up for that which needs our defense: that decent housing and educational opportunity may have more to do with “preserving the sanctity of family” than legislation about who may marry and who may form civil contracts to protect the people they love; testimony that war is not “pro-life”; witness that passive acceptance of perpetual war and conflict is antithetical to the full flowering of human persons; witness that the death penalty is rarely fair or just in its application; that children need health care to grow.
Jesus says, do not lose heart. And in echoes of Isaiah who promised that God would not lead us around the trouble, but did promise to lead us through the chaos of the waters and fires. Hold on, he says. And ultimately, not a hair of your head shall perish. By your endurance, you will gain your souls. But we must be clear that the endurance, is never passive waiting, letting time trickle down. Rather, it is the endurance to continue to witness to the God that we know wants a world of peace with justice, of humanity caring for and reconciled to one another.
What will you do, Brother Martin, should the world come to an end tomorrow? Plant trees, replied Luther. Plant trees and go on with life as usual, being prepared, he said, to meet God in any circumstances.
