A response for even the darkest of times
Proper 28B | Mark 13:1-8
Many years ago, I moved in with my Aunt and Uncle in Milton, Massachusetts to go to grad school in the city. I got out there about a week before school was set to start so I could go looking for a job, which was what I did that very first full day. There was a bus stop about a block away that could take me to the T, but I wanted to walk. It gave me greater control of my timing.
The T station was about a mile away, which is an easy enough walk. I wore a dress shirt and tie, slacks, and tennis shoes. It was precisely the kind of commuter wear I assumed was normal—and this was confirmed when I got to the station, where all sorts and conditions of people queued to ride the lightrail to link up with Boston’s subway system.
I was not surprised by the speed of things, I could match it easily, nor by the volume, because I had experience in cities before, and I considered that I best get used to it.
As I came up the steps from underground at the stop next to the Public Gardens and Downtown Crossing, my eyes were drawn up to the sky as the tallest buildings I had ever seen were surrounded by more of the tallest buildings I had ever seen. It was mesmerizing and confounding next to an enormous public park, and among them were curious, old breaks from enormity, like a tiny cemetery and Old North Church, holding space sacred, like sentries from the past ordered to hold back the passage of time.
My first thought was to figure out what was actually in all of these buildings. These skyscrapers didn’t have corporate names where I could see them, and there were so many. But the answers, of course, are as ubiquitous as they are obvious. Finance. Or corporate headquarters. But mostly businesses whose work is money. Investing it, trading it, protecting it, and most likely, all three. Primarily, though, the business of making money from money.
The Temple’s Exposed Secret
When the disciples remark about the grandeur of the Temple in our gospel this week, they do so after Jesus has warned them of the people inside the Temple. After he has made an act of civil disobedience to expose the greed and sin of the people inside the Temple. And after representatives of those people inside the Temple came at him to trap him, to get him to incriminate himself so they could try to get him executed by Rome.
Jesus has said that the work inside the Temple isn’t holy. Not all of it. Not the parts where people impoverish their neighbors and devour the homes of widows. And that contrast—of the disciples looking at the sight of the big buildings, the high walls, the incredible footprint of the Temple, the biggest thing any of them had seen, and looking at it with awe, without thinking about what all of that power could do and what it does do—to render it a collection of mere feelings of awe, surprise, spectacle, is to Jesus, a sign they aren’t really seeing it.
The Temple is supposed to make you feel that awe, because it wants you to see it as powerful. They used to build banks with columns and big cement blocks because they wanted to project to customers that their money is safe. Big business spends big money to project success to its investors. Jesus wants the disciples to see past the facade, to what lies behind. Corruption, exploitation, sin.
And it won’t last.
Jesus tells of the coming destruction of the Temple. That it will be destroyed. An idea that seems incomprehensible to the people. It is so big, fortified, protected. Who could destroy it and why? Who would have reason to? It has stood and will stand forever.
Several decades later, it will lie in ruins.
That perpetual certainty would be shaken when armed resistance used the Temple to centralize and fortify the Hebrew army against those Roman occupiers in an effort to restore their greatness. And Rome crushed them and everything they cared about. They lived and died by the sword.
This story isn’t particularly cheery.
But it also isn’t supposed to be threatening.
We most often approach the apocalyptic like it’s a horror movie. But it’s not supposed to be. Really, what it most has in common with it is that the reader spends most of the time yelling at the people in the story Don’t open that door! And then guess what? They open the door.
This section of the gospel of Mark is the beginning of what we call The Little Apocalypse, and it really seems to read these days like that. With Jesus telling people, hey, don’t be a jerk, be good neighbors, and we’ll have joyful neighborhoods. And then people choose to be jerks, to be terrible neighbors, and then complain about how frightening the neighborhood is. And here, he has warned them multiple times about the people in the Temple. Not because they are inherently bad people, as if there is something about their constitution as humans, but because they are wielding power to exploit the powerless. He keeps naming the problem and the solution—don’t go through that door! Later in this section he will encourage his people to not join the armed resistance, to not go down to Jerusalem to go through the door of the Temple. And we know why. That is the way of death. Violence promotes violence.
Bringing Joy
The throughline of the second half of Jesus’s earthly ministry remains the same as the first. But the context has changed. He is still preaching love through repentance. Through service and devotion. Through living a changed life and offering that same joy to any neighbor hungry for joy. The only difference for them is how joyful the circumstances around them are.
Jesus gave them the basic rules ages ago. They haven’t changed at all. And they healed and proclaimed and found people eager to know their joy. But then, when Jesus started talking about dying and they started talking about the power that would come to them in following the Messiah, things started to change, right? They weren’t thinking about the joy anymore. And now, here, when Temple authorities are seeking to arrest and kill Jesus and he’s talking about the Temple being obliterated, it is easy to let the joy go.
But the joy hasn’t changed. The mission hasn’t changed. Just the opposition to it. People who want power, to control the message, the people, the systems; who want to centralize authority or enrich themselves; encouraging systems of every-person-for-themselves which always turn into a race to the bottom—that has changed. They’ve all just gotten louder.
The joy hasn’t gone anywhere.
Our mission remains the same, even as our own circumstances change. Even as our own sense of purpose gets tangled up in power, esteem, and tradition. Or as nostalgia or a sense of doing things “better” takes control of our thoughts.
The joy remains.
Our joy. The joy that we are given with such abundance that we are called to share it with others. Joy for the beauty of creation, of community, of love. Joy for the music that stirs the heart and makes us sing along so loudly we go hoarse. Joy for sharing in food and frivolity, helping others eat and enjoy the life we share together.
The joy remains.
In the struggles and confusions; obstacles and rejections. It remains in the darkest of times and when we feel most hopeless and the way seems impossible.
Do not let your experience of joy be dependent upon officeholders, where it can be so easily bought, corrupted, or manipulated. Or beholden to the halls of power and the sinful exploiters of the poor. Because, in spite of their best efforts, joy remains.
It remains the greatest fear of power.
Joy makes sun when there is impenetrable cloud cover. Hope when we have failed a hundred times before. It soothes our wounds and buttons up our anxiety, offers life when all we see is decay and newness when dust covers everything.
The joy remains. And it is alive. Alive in our hearts, in our faith, in our community. It remains in our church, in our creation, and in our Christ. Our joy is here. It is always here. Drink from it. Take as much as you need. And come back for more when you thirst again. For this joy knows no bounds and can never be destroyed.
And there is no greater joy than when we love. Learning to love, not just in good times or bad, but in all times. Like right now.