The horizon before us is looking a bit apocalyptic.
I suppose that could refer to the apocalyptic character of current events, but I have especially in mind the tone of the lectionary; it likely works for both.
As the liturgical year winds down, the lectionary starts assigning dramatic readings about the so-called “end” of the world. When the new year starts on the first Sunday of Advent—on December 1 this year—these apocalyptic glimpses become full-blown visions of scary times to come.
Now would be a good time to recall what that powerful word “apocalypse” means. It comes from a pretty ordinary Greek verb, actually; it means something like removing the lid from a jar. Doing that reveals or discloses what’s inside.
Eventually, this otherwise simple Greek verb wandered into religious texts where it came to mean “divine revelation,” or making hidden things visible and known.
At this time of year, the lectionary always gives us a series of biblical texts with apocalyptic themes, with moments of disclosure, and of unveiling, and often rather vivid if not also disorienting revelations.
It is of course very common to suppose that apocalyptic texts are by definition oriented toward disaster; Hollywood loves that approach for blockbuster movies. And we still use it in ordinary speech when trying to name a moment that seems particularly catastrophic.
Usually overlooked or mostly forgotten in these cultural appropriations is the energy of hope that nearly always accompanies an apocalyptic text.
“Hopeful apocalypse” now seems like a contradiction in terms, even though these ancient texts were written to be a source of comfort for communities in trouble. These communities needed to be reassured that their own moment of anxiety, even fearfulness, perhaps also threats of violence or depravation, maybe even signs of war on the horizon, that such a moment belongs to a larger and still meaningful story.
That reassurance, that sense of “meaningfulness,” might be anchored in a notion of divine design, or attached to an enduring sense of providence, or more generally the reminder of God’s own faithfulness to God’s own creation. This could easily be the very key to the whole letter to the Hebrews. In the passage assigned for yesterday, many of us heard a wonderful declaration about God: “the one who has promised is faithful” (10:23).
Apocalyptic writers want to reveal that faithfulness, to offer signs of that divine presence even in the midst of seemingly random events and figures—no, it’s not just chaos; God is still present even in the most unlikely circumstances.
Yesterday’s Gospel reading came from what is often called the “mini-apocalypse” in Mark (13:1-8). This chapter usually grabs our attention when Mark’s Jesus refers to the darkened sun and moon and the stars all falling from the sky. But first-century hearers would have been just as startled (and dismayed) by the fate of the temple.
Jesus describes the coming destruction of that holy place—not just how it will be damaged, but how it will be utterly demolished, without one single stone remaining on another.
To appreciate the level of shock this caused, we need to understand something about what was one of the wonders of the ancient world, this temple built during the reign of King Herod.
It was built on the top of a small mountain with a plaza of roughly 350,000 square feet. The walls supporting this plaza were made of enormous stones, some of them weighing as much as 400 tons each. No mortar was used between these stones, and yet no daylight passes between them. Modern engineers are baffled by how ancient builders pulled this off; even modern machines can’t move stones that big with that kind of precision.
The plaza and the temple itself could be seen from a long distance away; it would shine brightly in the sun as many parts of it were overladen with gold and the rest built with bright white granite. (Herod himself, by the way, undertook this project with over 10,000 laborers because he wanted to secure his own “eternal remembrance—it apparently worked since we still refer to it as “The Herodian Temple.”)
The destruction of such a massive structure dedicated to the very presence of God was literally unimaginable.
Whatever Jesus thought he was doing by describing the temple’s destruction, let’s be clear that he was not rejecting Judaism, the religion of his own people. He was urging instead a kind of reorientation, to remember that toward which the temple was originally meant to point—a divine purpose that had been corrupted by social and economic injustice.
We might recall in that regard the story that comes immediately before this passage in Mark: the story about the determined and defiant widow in the temple’s outer court. Her poverty put the corruption of that system on display. Jesus calls it out, denounces the religious leaders, and then bewails the failure of the temple to embody its God-given mission.
The temple was never supposed to be an end in itself; religion is never itself the point but rather what it points toward, what it evokes, what it inspires, and especially the community it’s supposed to shape and form as God’s people in the world.
Most scholars believe Mark wrote his account of the Gospel right around the year 70, shortly after the Roman Empire crushed a Jewish rebellion and then did indeed destroy the Herodian temple—which was never rebuilt.
That unthinkable disaster shapes how Mark tells the story of Jesus: the story of what truly counts and what finally matters, the story of what is worthy of our trust.
In that sense, Mark’s entire account of the Gospel and not just this one chapter is thoroughly apocalyptic—he wants to reveal and disclose genuine reasons for hope.
Do not despair, Mark’s Jesus says, even when events seem grim and dire. Even when traditional structures crumble and heroic monuments fade—especially when this happens—God will, even then, and especially then, bring something new to light, as if the turmoil were the labor pains of childbirth.
At those very moments, God is calling God’s people to the work that matters and which will not fade—God always calls God’s people to this world-changing work, of course, but it seems most important to remember this when it the work is most needed, like right now.
Hold fast to that calling, and especially to the God who calls us to do the work of repairing the world, and healing the rifts, and making peace with justice, and loving the stranger, and caring for the orphan and widow. We do that work confident that God will be with us in that work.
“Hold fast to that confession of hope”—that’s the wonderful phrase that also comes from yesterday’s passage in the letter to the Hebrews, and it has roots in nautical culture.
“Hold fast” was the command given to sailors on deck as a storm approached. Historically, more than a few sailors tattooed that command across their knuckles, a kind of lucky charm for safety, but also as a way to remember the command while they gripped the rigging as the ship was tossed about by the wind and the waves.
It’s also important to know which parts of a sailing vessel are suitable for holding fast—some of the ropes are “working lines,” the ones that move and operate the sails and spars, and you don’t hold on to those! You hold fast instead to the “standing rigging,” which is firmly attached to the deck and the mast, and which will support you as the ship heels and rocks.
“Hold fast” was usually paired with a command to the helm: stay true. Storms can quickly blow a ship off course, and it’s not always possible to discern your course by looking at the sea, or when the horizon disappears behind banks of clouds. “Stay true” is the reminder to use the compass and to keep your heading true through the storm—precisely because the only way out is to go through, whether the storm is meteorological or political.
Whatever the weeks and months ahead might bring, now is the time to embrace an apocalyptic posture: what is being revealed and disclosed?
Now is also the time to embrace once more a traditional image of the Church as a ship and the life of faith as a journey on the sea: the standing rigging—that which will keep us steady and stable—our standing rigging in the church is our worship at the Eucharistic Table; our heavenly course is set by the Gospel, and it takes us into a world longing for hope and healing.
Let us then hold fast and stay true; God is with us even on turbulent seas.
