The End of the World… As We Know It

Sermon

There is a lot of humor to be found in the end of world—just ask cartoonists or writers of sitcoms. Maybe we find humor because it’s so ridiculous to think that anyone can predict when the world will end. Or maybe it’s more of a gallows humor—so much is crashing down around us that we laugh rather than cry.

Because the end of the world is a horrible thing. It doesn’t have to be the literal end of the world, a meteor taking us all out. But it could mean the sort of thing that happens to us and we end up feeling as though our world has ended.

Now Mark also tells this story, but Luke tells it with his own twist. In Mark, Jesus foretells the end of the world. Luke’s version is a little more immediate. Jesus foretells the sacking of Jerusalem and more specifically, the destruction of the great temple there. And for the Jewish people, the destruction of the temple was the end of their religious world.

Herod spent a lot of money building that temple, an edifice said to glorify God that also glorified Herod a bit, what with its gold-plated walls and immensity. It was believed that the literal presence of God dwelled in the temple, in the sacred holiest of holy spaces. So when the temple was destroyed, the pragmatist in me wonders about all that money, all that labor, all that gold that was wasted. More importantly, faithful Jews were now faced with the questions of where could God’s presence be found and where would the people gather to worship and offer sacrifices.

We might sympathize with those first century Jews when their temple was destroyed. For some here this morning, the destruction of this building, this sanctuary, would feel like a death. For some, results from Tuesday’s elections were the end of a world. The pandemic did end the world as we knew it, and never again will we take for granted the effectiveness of a face mask or the potential disaster found in a germ we cannot see or the ability to hug someone without worry.

For the Genzies, those in Generation Z, born between 1995 and 2010, climate change is the literal end of the world. Our daughter and her friends and their peers live every day with what we might call existential dread—the grim truth that the planet is getting hotter, natural disasters are more destructive and more common, and the earth will not be able to sustain life as it once did. Add to that their anger that it was previous generations that allowed that to happen and did not take the prophets seriously, and add to that the looming specter of the year 2028, when scientists say climate change will be irreversible.

Now it might be said that every generation, since this first century and even before it, has suffered and has worried about the end of the world or the end of their world. The horror of 9/11 was an ending. So was the Vietnam War. We escaped a nuclear war by the skin of our teeth during the Cuban Missile Crisis. For the Jewish people, the Holocaust was yet one more world ended, anti-Semitism as presented in the early 20^th century. Slavery, droughts, plagues, wars—every generation can say it feels like the end of the world.

And yet, we are still here. I’m not sure what to do with that.

I mean, of course I’m glad we are here. But I wonder if still being here gives our generation a responsibility to do what we can for the generations that follow us. And I wonder where God fits into all of this, all these predictions of the end and our continuing presence.

What do we learn in today’s lesson? Jesus tells his disciples that this impending destruction provides them with an opportunity to live out their faith by testifying to God. That feels a bit like adding insult to injury. We’re used to sharing the good news of God’s provision, of blessings granted and prayers answered, our experiences of healing and reconciliation. But how on earth do we testify in the midst of suffering?

One commentator suggests that “Suffering provides an opportunity for those who have been changed to tell of their hope.” (Nancy Lynn Westfield, Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 4, p. 310) Jesus tells his disciples, including us, that “By your endurance you will gain your souls.” Both imply that suffering is inevitable; what is not inevitable is what we do in the face of suffering.

Not long after World War II ended, a Swiss journalist posted a story from an anonymous correspondent writing from Cologne, a German city that had been bombed to pieces. The anonymous correspondent wrote, “Catholic Scouts had discovered underground passageways which had been unused for many years under old buildings, and these could now serve as refuges from the Gestapo. At one point, nine Jewish fugitives hid here for four months without ever being caught.

“When I visited the shelter, I had the opportunity to see the emergency housing, fully equipped with a kitchen, bedroom, living room, radio, a small library, and oil lamps—evidence of a stunning experience. Meals could only be prepared at night so as not to attract the Gestapo’s attention, who would have noticed the smoke during the day. Food had to be supplied by friends who willingly gave up a portion of their rations to help those unfortunate people living for weeks in utter darkness. The following inscription is written on the wall of one of these underground rooms, which in some ways resemble the Roman catacombs: ‘I believe in the sun, though it be dark; I believe in God, though He be silent; I believe in neighborly love, though it be unable to reveal itself.’” (https://humanistseminarian.com/2021/04/04/i-believe-in-the-sun-part-v-the-source/)

You may have heard echoes of the choir’s anthem last week in these words. For some, in the face of suffering, acknowledging belief in God and the kindness of strangers is a sort of testimony.

The German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who was hanged in 1945 because of his involvement to assassinate Hitler, offered this perspective on the human response in the face of suffering. In a 1943 essay he wrote, “It is wiser to be pessimistic; it is a way of avoiding disappointment and ridicule, and so wise people condemn optimism. The essence of optimism is not its view of the present, but the fact that it is the inspiration of life and hope when others give in; it enables a man to hold his head high when everything seems to be going wrong; it gives him strength to sustain reverses and yet to claim the future for himself instead of abandoning it to his opponent.”

Bonhoeffer concluded: “It is true that there is a silly, cowardly kind of optimism, which we must condemn. But the optimism that is will for the future should never be despised, even if it is proven wrong a hundred times; it is health and vitality, and the sick (individual) has no business to impugn it … . It may be that the day of judgment will dawn tomorrow; and in that case, though not before, we shall gladly stop working for a better future.”

The point is this: all of us will suffer in our life, and depending on what is happening, it may feel like the end of the world. In the presence of that pain, in the face of despair, we have a choice about what we do, about how we respond. We can respond with bitterness or violence; we can respond with resignation or apathy; we can respond with kindness and hope.

Or perhaps, in the face of great suffering, when our world as we know it ends, we make music. Here’s one last story.

I imagine that most of you are familiar with the hymn, “Precious Lord, Take My Hand.” It was written in the 1930s by a man named Thomas Dorsey, not to be confused with the trombonist big band guy Tommy Dorsey.

Thomas Dorsey was born in a small town in Georgia and became both a celebrated blues musician and gospel song writer. His biography is fascinating, but the story of this particular hymn hits home. Dorsey tells it in his own words

“Back in 1932 I was 32 years old and a fairly new husband. My wife, Nettie, and I were living in a little apartment on Chicago’s Southside. One hot August afternoon I had to go to St. Louis, where I was to be the featured soloist at a large revival meeting. I didn’t want to go. Nettie was in the last month of pregnancy with our first child. But a lot of people were expecting me in St. Louis. . . .

“. . . In the steaming St. Louis heat, the crowd called on me to sing again and again. When I finally sat down, a messenger boy ran up with a Western Union telegram. I ripped open the envelope. Pasted on the yellow sheet were the words: YOUR WIFE JUST DIED. . . .

“When I got back, I learned that Nettie had given birth to a boy. I swung between grief and joy. Yet that night, the baby died. I buried Nettie and our little boy together, in the same casket. Then I fell apart. For days I closeted myself. I felt that God had done me an injustice. I didn’t want to serve Him anymore or write gospel songs. I just wanted to go back to that jazz world I once knew so well. . .

“But still I was lost in grief. Everyone was kind to me, especially a friend, Professor Frye, who seemed to know what I needed. On the following Saturday evening he took me up to Malone’s Poro College, a neighborhood music school. It was quiet; the late evening sun crept through the curtained windows. I sat down at the piano, and my hands began to browse over the keys.” https://www.umcdiscipleship.org/resources/history-of-hymns-precious-lord-take-my-hand

In the face of suffering, we may be able to offer our testimony—a testimony that we still believe; a testimony that we can still sing. Perhaps all we will be able to do is reach out our hand, a testimony to the hope that someone will be there to clasp it.

Precious Lord, take my hand
Lead me on, let me stand
I’m tired, I’m weak, I’m lone
Through the storm, through the night
Lead me on to the light
Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home.