I.In a recent essay titled An Optimistic Quest in Apocalyptic Times1, writer Nylah Iqbal Muhammad begins with an apocalyptic tone, not too dissimilar from the apocalyptic tone in today’s gospel text. She writes:
I was born in a country called The United States. This country no longer exists. Not for me, anyway. Not for many people. And, soon, maybe not for anyone. Worldwide, there is a litany of apocalyptic signs: fascist governments; genocides in Congo, Sudan, Palestine; food insecurity and mass starvation; billionaires hoarding resources. Most pressing, there is a planet that, with every climate catastrophe, tells us our time of contrived dominion is over.
As her essay moves along, she writes about finding hope though reclaiming rootedness in the natural world… even becoming a hunter. She is aware that she does not fit the bill when you think of a hunter: being young, being female, being black, being Muslim. In learning how to hunt wild game, she forms a deeper connection to her ancestors in the deep South—before they were displaced from the land in the Great Migration—looking for a better life far away from lynchings and poverty. While her sharecropping grandmother had fled from the soil, Nylah now finds herself returningto the soil, learning to live with the land, and in some way finding freedom and hope even while the world seems to be falling apart all around her:
by returning to what [my grandmother] fled from, I am free. I have fulfilled, finally, the dream of my ancestors. I am not afraid. But I am not ignorant. As this world continues ending, it will not do so gently, and I am not sure if I will survive it. Many already have not. But I know that we will survive.
We will survive. Her choice of the inclusive WE instead of the isolated ME—tells us of a different way to endure—in times like these and in times like those.
II.For you see, these are not the first apocalyptic times, nor are they likely to be the last. While the characteristic mood of the 21st century can be described as anxious, even apocalyptic, we are not the first to face such trying times. Times when nations rage. Times when the chasm between rich and poor widens. Times when neighbors are divided against neighbor and people are suspicious of one another. Times when one group scapegoats another group who does not look like them or speak like them. Times when institutions—that once seemedto provide stability (imperfect as it was) now seemutterly incapable of providing basic stability for those in their care. Times like these and times like those. And we share the same worries. We worry about how things stand. We worry about how things will keep from falling apart.
How will we survive?
Survival—communal survival— is at the heart of this strange text in Luke 21. Strange because this whole apocalyptic discourse begins when Jesus’ disciples are simply commenting on the size and beauty of the building! I’m not so sure this would be a good text to use for our 100 year celebration of this big and beautiful building. It would be even worse to use for a capital campaign. “Look around,” Jesus says, “all these walls will soon tumble down. Do you want to give to our building fund?”
Even more strange are the words of consolation Jesus offers while painting such a bleak and terrifying picture: Do not be terrified. The original hearers of this text had good reason to be terrified. They did not read this metaphorically or allegorically. The Gospel of Luke was written shortly after 70CE, the year when the temple walls were literally destroyed by the Roman Empire. This temple was the site of pilgrimages, dedications, and festivals. The temple figured prominently in the Jewish religiousimagination and shaped their sense of religious identity.
The temple was not without politicaldimensions either. This big and beautiful temple was also built by an anxious King. Desperate to project his power and status, King Herod’s massive building projects spared no expense. This was the kind of king who built summer palaces that he never even visited. His building projects—the remnants of which still stand today—were captivating to anyone in Jerusalem —maybe even more captivating to Jesus’ disciples coming from the rural north. Mark’s version of this text has the disciples commenting on the size of the temple sounding like small town visitors to Times Square for the first time: “What large stones and what large buildings!” Eyes big and taking everything in. The Second Temple was an illustrious place, full of splendor. Second Temple—second because, yes, there was a first one—built by King Solomon and, yes, it was destroyed too.
III.The temple carried with it complex meanings that blended communal and religious life, and also political and economic life—which is to say it was messy. At the same time it served as a sacred hub for religious pilgrims and also a desecrated place to make a quick buck. Jesus saw clearly the ways a temple dedicated to God could also be a place of injustice. A couple chapters earlier in Luke, Jesus was turning over tables in the temple and driving out money changers who were cheating people. Earlier in this chapter Jesus celebrates the poor widow who offered her 2 coins; she was an example of abundant faithfulness. He then critiques what he sees as insincere religious performance—in the case of rich folks who flaunted their gifts as emblems of personal righteousness.
The temple wasn’t just one thing, it was many things: architectural beauty and sincere religious devotion and economic injustice and collusion with empire. In this messy space, Jesus offers clarity and critique. As Walter Brueggemann notes, “Jesus’ attitude toward the temple was finally the most ominous threat [to religious and political authorities] because there he spoke directly about destruction.”2 In critiquing the temple and telling of its destruction—Jesus cuts to the heart of what society values: the political and religious structures that justify an unjust social order—that keeps people down instead of lifting people up. Jesus stands in this space and says all these walls you see, they will soon tumble down.
Now the disciples in the story naturally want to know when this will be and whatsigns to look for. If disaster is coming, it’s best to be prepared! But the early Christians who heard this story of the temple’s destruction knew all too well—when is now. The walls had already tumbled down. Things had already fallen apart. This text reads more as a way to understand and to make meaning of a world that was already collapsing all around them. His words gave voice to their suffering and grief.
When symbols of religious and cultural life are destroyed, things can go a manner of directions. It can go from unifying people in shared purpose to unleashing violent revenge. Our nation’s own response to the horrific events of 9/11 may give us a glimpse toward the range of feelings and responses in the face of terror. One response: people came together to pray, to serve, to rescue, to feed, to mourn, to heal. Another response: decades long wars, increased government surveillance, scapegoating those who look or believe differently, or simply shutting down from fear.
What do we do with our pain? With our suffering? With our grief? Does it tear us apart? Does it invite us to mend what is frayed? Does destruction blind us? Or, does it invite to see more clearly?
IV.In the book Telling Secrets, Frederick Buechner shares of the suffering in his own family—related to his daughter’s anorexia—a suffering that affects not only the suffering individual, but a suffering that affects the entire family system:
I choose the term hell with some care. Hell is where there is no light but only darkness, and I was so caught up in my fear for her life, which had become in a way my life too, that none of the usual sources of light worked any more, and light was what I was starving for. . . .I remained so locked inside myself that I was not really present with them at all…“Perfect love casteth out fear,” John writes (1 John 4:18), and the other side of that is that fear like mine casteth out love, even God’s love. The love I had for my daughter was lost in the anxiety I had for my daughter.3
Jesus offers the promise of a love greater than any destruction—a love that is not lost in anxiety or fear, but a deep and abiding love that holds us in the midst of it. When you hear of wars and insurrections, when you hear about nation rising against nation, and kingdom against kingdom, when you hear about earthquakes and floods and various famines and pandemics, when you hear about democracies on the verge of authoritarian rule, when you hear about AI and wonder if there’s a future for humanity, Jesus offers a way of love—not as a way of escape, but as a way of survival.
If you are looking a step-by-step plan for survival—a 12 Rules for Life in the End Times—then this text has little to offer. Jesus says strange things like “make up your minds not to prepare your defense in advance.” Jesus offers something far more radical, far more real—he offers his very hand, inviting a beloved community to reach out and hold on. When he says, “I will give you words and wisdom that none of your opponents will be able to withstand or contradict,” the Greek here is plural—“I will give y’all words and wisdom.” We do not have to hold on alone—for others are holding on too! Despite all the winds of change, all that is bad, all that could get worse—we are not alone. Thank God, because I’m not sure any of us could hold on by ourselves.
If the church—God’s beloved community—holds on to the hands of Christ, the wisdom and words of Christ—then church will continue to do what Christ came to do: bring good news to the poor, to proclaim release to the captives, recovery of sight to the blind, and to let the oppressed go free.4 There are times when you need hold others and times when you need others to hold you. And we cannot do this alone. Those who hold on Christ’s hands—in such turbulent times like these and times like those—they will gain their souls.
We will survive.
May it be so. Amen.