Gloria Dei Lutheran Church

Dear Friends in Christ, God’s grace and peace be with you.  Amen

A few weeks ago I ran into a neighbor who doesn’t have a church home. She used to be an active member of her congregation, but became disillusioned along the way, and no longer can find a community that fits well for her.

I asked how that search was going, and she sighed. “I’ve tried plenty of churches,” she said, but none of them is based in scripture.” She says churches don’t take the bible literally anymore. We ignore the commandments. We don’t teach morality; we don’t warn people about God’s judgement.

I tried to remind her that God is love, that Jesus told us to not be afraid, but to love one another. She wasn’t having it. “All churches talk about is love, love, love,” my neighbor complained, “but the power of evil is real.”

I suspect gospel texts like the one we read this morning (Mark 13:1-8) are the type that convinces my neighbor that she’s right. “Look out,” Jesus seems to say, “because you’re headed for destruction.”

The 13^th Chapter of Mark is called “Apocalyptic literature,” a description of cataclysmic events in the future. At its root the word apocalypse doesn’t mean destruction. It refers to an unveiling, a vision, seeing something fully that has been hidden.

My neighbor sees texts like these as descriptive of God’s future punishment for us. She sees churches that minimize the destruction as the kind of false prophets of which Jesus warned his disciples. “Beware of those who will lead you astray with all their shoddy theology, with cheap grace, and ‘love, love, love.’”

Let’s be honest, Jesus is clear; this won’t be pretty. Nation will rise against nation, he predicts, and kingdom against kingdom. There will be earthquakes and famines, and that’s just the beginning. My neighbor would say Jesus is describing the real power of evil and what’s in store for us if we don’t shape up.

In one way, I think she’s right. Bad things will happen to us. When we hear people preach that as long as we’re faithful and good, nothing bad will happen to us, we know that they’re missing the obvious.

Talk to good people who live in and around Paradise, California, where massive fires have killed hundreds of people. Talk to the faithful ones who can’t locate a relative or colleague from that area. Bad things do happen. People get rotten news from their doctor, or from the HR department at their place of employment. We grow weary with things that once brought us joy. Mental health deteriorates in people we love. Life gets hard. There’s no denying it.

But look closely again at what Jesus says in the middle of this unveiling. He doesn’t say, “Look out, you’re in trouble.” But rather, “Do not be alarmed.”

In fact, Jesus seems to say, “horrific things will happen to you.” In our hymn we just sang, “Mortal pride and earthly glory, sword and crown betray our trust; what with care and toil we fashion, tow’r and temple, fall to dust.[i]”  Systems and structures, people and institutions, and things we’ve banked upon will fall down. But, Jesus continues, “When they do, don’t be alarmed. When they do, pay attention to the beginning of the birth pangs.

We find Jesus right where we left him last Sunday, where he was drawing the disciples’ gaze to the widow. You may remember how he told them to pay attention to the ones whose needs and poverty were exploited by political and economic systems favoring the wealthy and the powerful.

But in today’s reading, just as soon as they walk only a few more steps, the disciples turn away from the widow, to marvel at the beauty and splendor of the temple. “Look at how large and amazing this place is, Jesus,” they seem to say. “All those pennies from all of those widows have really been used to build something magnificent, haven’t they?”

Overlooking the ways society exploits the needs of the most vulnerable to prop up those in power, the disciples turn toward all the good that seems to come from that abuse. It’s as if they’re saying, “Well, maybe it’s not pleasant that the poor had to sacrifice a larger part of their well-being for it, but it’s pretty great that we have this nice stuff, isn’t it?” Don’t the ends justify the means?

Jesus isn’t impressed. The big structures and institutions we build to help us feel secure are not indestructible. Our pride in all of our accomplishments and accumulated treasures is fleeting. All that we have secured can be lost. Jesus particularly reminds us that civilizations built on the exploitation and cruelty toward the weakest and most defenseless cannot survive.

But I don’t believe he implies that God will be the source of the destruction, or that God is punishing us for our sense of accomplishment. I suspect he’s unveiling the natural consequences of the ways we’ve built things. Societies and structures constructed unjustly upon the broken backs and dreams of the poorest will inevitably collapse upon themselves.

In fact, Jesus warns us of anyone who would use that destruction and pretend that God is behind all of it. Beware of those who will lead the faithful astray by claiming that God causes violence and catastrophe, when we actually cause it ourselves.

Instead of having us fall for those who teach us to fear the wrath of God, Jesus tries again to focus our attention on that which brings life to the world in the midst of the despair. Jesus uses the image of birth pangs, implying that when things fall down around us, it’s not a sign that God is trying to hurt us, but that God is pushing us from the ways we destroy ourselves, to bring us into new life.

A few weeks ago, I had a fantastic conversation with a group of clergywomen who were playing with the image of the church as midwife. When the world feels dark and terrifying as it often may these days, they wanted to remember that God is constantly bringing us to life. Maybe the despair is not a tomb, they imagined, but a womb. Maybe God is in labor, birthing us into life, bringing forth a new creation.

One of the women had heard about this beautiful conversation with Brené Brown who had been playing with the same image. Brown describes how she went back to church after some time away, hoping that the community would somehow make her feel better. She expected faith would magically take away her misery and stress, and let her live peacefully again.

“I went back to church thinking that it would be like an epidural,” she says, referring to medicine sometimes used in childbirth, blocking out a woman’s pain. But it didn’t work that way. Instead of numbing her from the birth pangs, Brown says the church was “like a midwife who just stood next to me and said, ‘Push! It’s supposed to hurt.’[ii]”

Yes, it may hurt to bring new life into the world. We may be forced to make painful self-discoveries about how we’ve been in the wrong. We may need to confront people and institutions who have caused us harm. Confessions may need to be offered. We may need to sacrifice the privileges or benefits we’ve received to the detriment of others. We may need to reexamine our presumptions and the license we’ve taken to get where we are.

It may hurt when our world falls apart around us, but we don’t need to be afraid. The midwife knows that fear only slows down and inhibits the birth process. So while she may acknowledge the hurt, she will remind the woman in labor that she has what she needs, and assure her that she will not be abandoned.

Jesus warns us that when we ignore the desires and will of God, there will be pain and frustration for us. God is bringing new life into the world, and we are called to be midwives to the new life.

Jesus tells us not be to alarmed, but he may urge us to push. As we read in Hebrews (Hebrews 10:19-25), Jesus invites us to approach God’s future with confidence, to hold fast to our confession of hope without wavering, for the One who is bringing us to life is faithful.

Rather than teach each other to be afraid of some end-time destruction or punishment, the writer of Hebrews encourages us to provoke one another to love and good deeds.

Can you imagine what that would look like?

Maybe it’s reaching out to include someone who will be alone on Thanksgiving. Maybe it’s inviting someone you don’t yet know well and asking them to serve a shift at Project Home with you this December. Maybe it’s delivering a meal to someone recovering from surgery, or offering to help serve a meal after a funeral. Maybe it’s doing a favor for the neighbor on the block who had an opposing political sign in their front yard a week ago. Maybe it’s taking a risk to learn about an issue in your community you’ve been afraid to consider, or agreeing to sit with the family member who drives you crazy this weekend. Maybe it’s as simple as Hebrews describes, making it a priority to meet together with others who are also longing for the coming Day of life and hope.

I guess that looks too much like “love, love, love.” But perhaps it’s just a tiny glimpse of an unveiling of the reign of God.

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[i] “All My Hope on God is Founded,” text: Joachim Neander, 1650-1690; para. Robert Bridges, 11844-1930, alt., Evangelical Lutheran Worship, 757. Copyright © 2006 Evangelical Lutheran Church in America.

[ii] “Brené Brown on Church as Midwife,” In the Meantime (4-11-14).  http://www.preachingtoday.com/illustrations/2016/march/3032816.html