First Sunday in Advent
The Gospel of Mark is a fast-paced book. It’s the shortest of the three synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark, & Luke). It has no birth narrative. There’s no Christmas story in the Gospel of Mark. It just starts off at a run, straight out of the gate: “1 The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.” It uses the word “immediately” and the phrase “at once” more than any of the other Gospels. It just bang, bang, bang, bang, bang… I know I’ve commented before that Mark is the Gospel for people with ADD. (That’s number 3 on the list, by the way.)
If you really want to know what the core of the Gospel of Mark is, there are two places you have to look. The first is just a bit later in chapter one, starting with verse nine: “9 In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. 10 And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. 11 And a voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.’”
The other is at the other end of Jesus’ life and ministry: “33 When it was noon, darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon. 34 At three o’clock Jesus cried out with a loud voice, ‘Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?’ which means, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ 35 When some of the bystanders heard it, they said, ‘Listen, he is calling for Elijah.’ 36 And someone ran, filled a sponge with sour wine, put it on a stick, and gave it to him to drink, saying, ‘Wait, let us see whether Elijah will come to take him down.’ 37 Then Jesus gave a loud cry and breathed his last. 38 And the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. 39 Now when the centurion, who stood facing him, saw that in this way he breathed his last, he said, ‘Truly this man was God’s Son!’”
These are Jesus’ first and last public acts. Reading those accounts back-to-back, the parallels between the two are quite striking. In the first the heavens are “torn apart”, and a voice announces that Jesus is God’s son. That which separates God from humankind is ripped apart and then it is clearly announced who Jesus is. In the second the curtain of the temple is “torn in two”, and another voice pronounces that Jesus was God’s son. The curtain of the temple was the curtain that separated what was called “the Holy of Holies” from the rest of the temple. The Holy of Holies contained the Ark of the Covenant and could only be entered once a year on Yom Kippur, the day of atonement, and then only by the High Priest who would bring a blood offering. It was the place within the Temple where God symbolically dwelt. So, just as in the beginning, that which separates God from humankind is again torn apart, and it is clearly announced who Jesus is. In the first instance, the boundary that’s destroyed is the one established by God at creation. In the second instance, the boundary that’s destroyed is the one that was created by humankind. But in both instances the message is the same: Nothing, either in heaven or on earth; Nothing, be it human or divine, can contain God or God’s power. And thank God for that, because it also means that God’s love and grace cannot be contained.
I love this poem from Isaiah because it reminds us of two important things. 1- We can’t control or contain God because we’re barely able to control or contain our own lives are, let alone God. And 2 – Our relationship with God stands in constant need of healing.
And although the reminders of this second thing are pretty stark, it still manages to end on a note of hope. The final verse re-affirms our identity as belonging to God, but it is the next-to-last verse that really jumps out at you. We are clay, God is the potter. Without God, we’re just an inanimate lump with no purpose. God wants to mold us into the divine image and likeness. This reality is made all the more clear when God molds the divine self on Christmas day as an impoverished, displaced infant. God becomes the clay. The recognition of how powerless we actually are is actually quite freeing. It frees us for wonder and gratitude. It frees us to be the kind of watchers Jesus wants us to be.
The reading from Mark, for today, is often referred to as the “small apocalypse” of Mark. We recognize that it’s this apocalyptic style of literature because of the nature of the symbolism and language. 24“In those days, after that suffering, the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, 25and the stars will be falling from heaven, and the powers in the heavens will be shaken. 26Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in clouds’ with great power and glory.”
IT’S THE END OF THE WORLD!!! Except that it’s not. And in nearly thirty years of ministry, I’d never noticed that until reading about this text for Today. There is no, “the earth will be torn apart” or “the moon will fall from the sky”. There are no boiling seas or mountains being rent asunder. So, what does happen? ‘[The] Son of Man [arrives] in clouds’ with great power and glory… [and sends] out the angels, and [gathers] his elect from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven. The returning Messiah gathers together those who have remained faithful.
As opposed to more typical apocalyptic literature, there’s is no mention in here of the end of the world, no indication of final judgment, no call to flee the day-to-day realities and obligations and responsibilities of life, only the promise that “he (the Son of Man) is near”. In fact, there is a convincing argument to be made that what Jesus is actually doing here is foreshadowing his approaching passion. Notice how the key markers of the parable that concludes this passage – evening, midnight, cockcrow, and dawn – are identical to the markers of the passion story about to commence. All of a sudden, we realize that much if not all of what comes before – darkening of the sun, the powers being shaken, etc. – also correspond with key elements of the passion narrative (Mark 15:33, 38, etc.). Mark, in other words, is not pointing us to a future apocalypse (a word which means “revealing”, by the way) but rather a present one! Because Christ’s death and resurrection change absolutely everything. Once Jesus suffers all that the world and empire and death have to throw at him and is raised to new life, then nothing will ever be the same again, including our present lives and whatever situations may stand before us.
We’re not called to wait for a God who is to come. We’re called to look around for the God who’s already here! “33Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come. 34It is like a man going on a journey, when he leaves home and puts his slaves in charge, each with his work, and commands the doorkeeper to be on the watch. 35Therefore, keep awake…” You’ll notice that Jesus doesn’t say, “It is like a person who decides to disappear…” The owner of the home is still very much alive, just not immediately apparent. You simply don’t know when they’re going to show up again.
As a season, Advent is about waiting and preparing. The question for us is, how do we wait? How do we prepare? Is our waiting comprised of heading for the hills and separating ourselves from the world that seems to be crumbling around us? Does our waiting consist of confronting that world and all of its perceived evils, ala The Westboro Baptist Church? Or maybe, just maybe, our waiting has more to do with being like Jesus.
We need to remember that our life is not our own. We like to pretend that it is. That we can manage it efficiently and plan accordingly. That by our sheer determination we can force reality to bend to our needs and desires. Waiting and our preparing means practicing seeing where God is still entering into our lives. Not in big bombastic, shaking the earth to its core kinds of ways, in ways that align with God’s appearing in the vulnerability of the manger and the cross. God comes to us as we are. Not as the people we are trying to be or have promised to be or so very badly want to be, but the people we are. The families we are. The congregation we are. The community we are. The nation and world that we are.
Is there room for improvement? Of course! But the best way to create energy to change is to offer the powerful word of blessing that who we are right now, however imperfect, is still beloved of God. Still beloved enough that God deemed us worthy of God’s taking on human form to dwell among us. To be born in a stable. To die upon a cross. That’s love. Deep, passionate, costly love.
More than any of the other Gospels, Mark offers an apocalyptic view of not only Jesus but of our lives as followers of Jesus. Not apocalyptic in the Nostradamus-National Enquirer “end of the world” sense. But more in the sense of pulling back the curtain of false hopes and artificial realities; revealing God’s commitment to enter into and redeem our lives and world just as they are.
Look around at the people who are near you – in the pew, in your family, in your school and where you work and volunteering… Look at these people with new eyes. These people around you, whether they’re similar or different, are gifts of God. And they are as imperfect as you are. And they are meant to be loved and treasured by you, just as God loves and treasures them.
God arrives, regardless of our readiness. God shows up, despite our determination to create our own destiny. God will come, no matter what kind of stipulations or conditions or provisions we make in order to try and contain God. Our life is oriented by God’s life, by the life of Jesus. God enters into our life, forever changing it. God lives life with us, forever altering what life really means. Ultimately, God’s entering into our lives disrupts, displaces, and disorients us. Not always comfortably. Not always helpfully. Not always desirably. And never how or when expected. But always with the deepest love, the most tender compassion, and the most profound hope. What, after all, is more hopeful than the birth of a child? What, after all, is more hopeful than life after death? What, after all, is more powerful than God’s love?
AMEN