Proper 28: “Judgment and Grace”

19 November 2006

Mark 13.1-8, Hebrews 10.11-25

It’s a remarkable scene, this gospel lesson. These Palestinian rubes, in from the country, perhaps their first time in Jerusalem, mouths gaping at the splendor of the buildings of the Temple. It must have been like my first visit to Washington DC, seeing the Capitol, the White House, the Lincoln Memorial—these buildings I’d read about, seen in pictures, but when I saw them in reality it was mind-boggling. You’ve probably had that kind of experience too, and so you know what the disciples are feeling in this story.

“You see these buildings?” Jesus asks. “Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.” Talk about letting the air out of the balloon! His words shock them, and they should shock us.

Yet of course we need that shock, need to be reminded that all things on earth are temporary. “All flesh is grass,” wrote the prophet Isaiah. “Vanity of vanities,” chimes in Ecclesiastes, “all is vanity.” And the Psalmist adds his word: “Thou dost sweep men away; they are like a dream, like grass which is renewed in the morning: in the morning it flourishes and is renewed; in the evening it fades and withers . . . so teach us to number our days.”

Of course for you and me the walls of the Temple of Jerusalem are really only symbolic. We need to turn our attention to the walls, the structures, the monuments of our own time, our own lives, and listen to the word that Jesus speaks about them.

And first we must admit that all earthly structures will one day be thrown down, not a stone left upon another. This is true of literal, physical structures. We’re building a new Fellowship Center, thinking about the ministry that will go on in that building long after all of us are gone, and we hope and pray that will be true—and yet not too much longer after that, the building, too, will be gone, as will the ministry here. There will come a day when there is no Peace Lutheran Church. That does not stop us from piling up stones; but in our heart of hearts, we know that ultimately not one stone will be left upon another.

The same is true of other kinds of structures—congregations, synods, denominations, to be sure, but also families, businesses, nations. All those structures that we love so dearly, into which we pour our life blood—all will one day be gone.

And even our own lives fall under this same judgment. Our heads may tell us something different, but in our hearts we think we’re going to live forever. I was recently doing some research on early Lutherans in San Francisco, and I came upon the story of a Swedish clergyman, a Pastor Lindgren, who came in the early 1860’s from across the sea, ready to do the Lord’s work in a foreign land. He was terribly unnerved by the rowdy sinfulness of Gold Rush California—but even more upset when he experienced a fairly strong earthquake. This gave him nightmares. He dreamed, he said, that another quake hit, and that the entire city and all its residents were destroyed—except himself. He was, I suppose, thinking of the messenger who comes to Job: “The fire of God fell from heaven and burned them up, and I alone have escaped.” This was enough to convince him to return to Sweden!

We can chuckle at Pastor Lindgren, but we know, in the stillness of our hearts, that we human beings assume we’ll live forever, that what we do, what we accomplish will last forever. Then here comes Jesus: “Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.”

Before this sobering word of judgment—for that’s really what it is, you know—before this sobering word of judgment we stand mute and amazed, like the disciples. When they get over their shock, their first question is, “When? How?” They seem to believe that if they could just understand this—if they could just have some grasp of this shocking reality, they could then somehow put it all together and get a handle on it. Oh, I hear them, loud and clear! I’m like that! Before the mystery of things incomprehensible, I stand there and shout, “Tell me how to make sense of it! Tell me what it means!” It doesn’t matter if we’re talking about the big mysteries (Why are there wars? Why do people starve to death? Why do people hate?) or the little mysteries (Why must my loved one suffer? Why can’t I get along with my family?): We want some answers. We want to understand—because maybe, maybe if we could understand, then we could make things change.

But Jesus will have none of it. He does not really answer their question. He just tells them to be careful, warns them not to be led astray. He’s really saying to them, “You can’t know.” I don’t suppose they liked that answer. I know I don’t.

But a more positive approach comes in the second lesson this morning. It presupposes, really, what we’ve said already—that all earthly structures will be cast down, and that we can’t really understand the why’s and when’s and how’s. But it offers some advice for living in the meantime.

First, the writer says, we can put our confidence in Christ. Hebrews uses the Temple as a kind of metaphor for Christ. The physical Temple may be destroyed, but the true high priest serves not in some earthly structure but in a different realm. Our approach to God is not through the Temple, but we through Christ, our great high priest, the one who forgives our sins and writes his laws in our hearts and our minds.

The point, you see, is to recognize that in the midst of all the transitory vanity of the world, there is One who abides forever. And it is that One in whom we put our trust. That one, the Eternal God, the Rock of Ages—that is the only place we can put our confidence. In our family, there is a German song we sometimes sing: Alles ist eitel, du aber bleibst. “All is vanity; You alone remain.” We can “hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who has promised is faithful.”

And so, the writer goes on, we are to “provoke one another to love and good deeds.” When we become overwhelmed with the seeming futility of life, there is often a temptation to despair, and to think, “Oh, what’s the use!” That, of course, is precisely the wrong approach. There’s a legend about Luther—probably not true, but what the heck, it’s a good story—that says he was asked by a student what he would do if he knew the world would end tomorrow. “I’d plant an apple tree,” was the response. But if he didn’t really say that, he surely could have, because that’s just what Christians do—we face each day knowing it could the last day, and yet living as confidently as if it is just the beginning.

There is a prayer that I have always loved; I’m not sure of its origin, but it contains this phrase: “Since we know not what a day may bring forth, but only that the hour for serving thee is always present, may we wake to the instant claims of thy holy will, not waiting for tomorrow, but yielding today.” We are to provoke one another to love and good deeds, because the hour for serving God is always present.

I was struck last week with Pastor Dean’s comment about the widow, putting her two pennies in the Temple offering box. The story, as he pointed out, comes right before this morning’s gospel lesson. Jesus commends her generosity—even knowing that the Temple is soon to be destroyed. That’s how it is with Christians, you see. We give, and give, and give again—not with any expectation of honor and recognition, and not even with any pretension that we’re doing something great or changing the world. We give because that’s who we are, in Christ. We give because Christ gives. We give precisely because we know that everything we have is transitory, and we simply don’t need to hold on so tightly.

Then God takes those gifts and—wow! What happens next is incredible! Jacqueline Novogratz works for an agency that provides resources for developing nations. When she was twelve years old, her uncle gave her a sweater that became her favorite. When she had outgrown it, she gave it to the Goodwill. Twelve years later she was in Rwanda, and she saw a small boy wearing a sweater just like hers. She went up to him and asked if she could look at the collar. The label in the sweater had her name on it. Yes, we give and give again, with no expectation but that God, the first giver, can do wondrous things even in a world that is transitory!

And then that last advice from Hebrews: “Do not neglect to meet together, but encourage one another.” Left to our own devices, we often turn inward. We forget to put our trust in Christ; we feel sorry for ourselves. That’s why we have the gift of the church, you see, this community that meets together to encourage one another. What would we do without that encouragement?

And when we come here, we come as those who have given up any hope of being able to run the world or even our own lives. We come as those whose hands are empty. We come looking for mercy, acknowledging that we can’t manage by ourselves. And then we look around and see that everyone else here is in the same boat. None of us can do it. All of us come with empty hands, empty hearts, empty lives.

But here, we are filled. Here the grace of God is poured out so abundantly that our hearts our filled, our lives are filled, our hands are set to work, to serve, to give, to love. Here Christ shows us the path of life, shows us confused, despairing, discouraged disciples the path of life! And here in his presence, and in the presence of one another, here there is fullness of joy.