Luke 21:25-36
Rev. Dr. Deborah L. Clark
November 28, 2021
Every year, on the first Sunday in Advent, I struggle with the recommended scripture reading, often called The Little Apocalypse. On the heels of Thanksgiving gratitude, as we shift focus to the tender story of a baby’s birth, we read harsh words warning of destruction and judgment. Why read these difficult words on the Sunday we light the candle of hope? How might they have brought hope to the people who first heard them?
As I read them, I invite you to imagine that you are a member of the early Christian community for whom Luke was writing. It’s been at least fifty years since Jesus’ crucifixion, so you probably never met Jesus in person. Instead, someone told you the story of his life in a way that drew you in. You were captivated by Jesus’ promise of the power of God’s love, greater than hatred and fear, empire and greed. You longed to be part of the Kingdom of God—the kin-dom, the realm of God’s love—that Jesus proclaimed. So you joined this small, struggling community, and now you try to live that realm into being.
Everything around you, though, threatens your faith in the power of God’s love. A few decades after Jesus’ resurrection, which was supposed to defeat death forever, there was an uprising against the Roman occupation. The Roman army swept through Galilee with brutality, slashing and burning, crucifying rebels on street corners. They laid siege to Jerusalem. The years of suffering and desperation culminated in the destruction of the temple, the place where you understood the power of God was present most fully.
On top of that, during the rebellion and in the years since, the early Christian community struggled with its relationship with its neighbors. Following Jesus’ example, the early church chose non-violence. Neighbors who sacrificed so much in armed rebellion resented their pacifism. Families were torn apart.
You are feeling powerless. You are wondering whether this Realm of God will ever come to fruition. You are doubting the promise that God’s love is more powerful, for it certainly appears that hate is winning. You can’t figure out how to make sense of the destructive forces around you.
Take a moment. Close your eyes if you like. Let yourself be a member of Luke’s community. Imagine what it might be like to hear these words:
There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in a cloud’ with power and great glory. Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.”
Then he told them a parable: “Look at the fig tree and all the trees; as soon as they sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near. So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near. Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all things have taken place. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.
Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life, and that day catch you unexpectedly, like a trap. For it will come upon all who live on the face of the whole earth. Be alert at all times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will take place, and to stand before the Son of Man.” May God bless this reading from God’s holy word.
In that time of distress, for a community struggling with powerlessness and a creeping sense of despair, Luke wrote his gospel, to offer guidance, encouragement, comfort and hope. He drew upon oral and written sources of Jesus’s life and shaped them to speak to his community’s needs. In this passage, he interpreted Jesus’ promise of the coming realm of God through the lens of the ancient tradition of apocalypticism. In times of despair, ancient writers periodically imagined God breaking in with might, violently destroying evil and ushering in a new world. Luke sought to help his people find hope by imagining Jesus returning with a similar kind of might.
Was it really comforting to the people in Luke’s community? I don’t know. I know I don’t find it a helpful way to make sense of the destructive divisiveness we see around us. I’m not inclined to believe that Jesus is coming back in might to fix the mess we are in. Still, I believe there is wisdom in this passage for us.
This morning, I want to focus on two lines from this reading. The first one: “Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life.” These words speak to me, for there are so many things that weigh heavily on my heart. Luke identifies three: dissipation, drunkenness and worry.
I don’t know what Luke means by dissipation, but I do know some of the things that dissipate my energy, leaving me exhausted. Like when I take a break from working and start scrolling through social media, even though it always gives me a headache. Or when I am overwhelmed by all that needs to be done but am not yet ready to do it, so I become frantically busy doing something that doesn’t really matter. What if, the next time I rush to my computer to supposedly take a break, I think of Luke’s words and choose a walk instead? What if I pause the next time I am caught in frantic busyness and wait until I gain clarity about what might actually help?
What about for you? What dissipates your energy, leaving you exhausted and unsatisfied? How might you respond to Luke’s challenge to choose a different way?
When Luke warns us about drunkenness, I suspect he is talking about more than too much wine. I imagine he is cautioning us about all sorts of substances and practices we use to try to cover up our pain and ignore the pain of the world. Alcohol, drugs, binge watching of cable news or 70’s sitcoms, meaningless screen time, reckless thrill-seeking—the list of ways we hide from reality is long. We know they don’t really work, for the things we do to try to lighten our hearts often leave us even more heavy-laden. Luke challenges us to make a different choice—to get the support we need, to find courage to face ourselves and our world.
What are the unhelpful ways you hide from reality? What would enable you to face it instead?
The third in his trio of weights is worry. For many of us, it’s the heaviest one of all. How do we let go of worry? One of my favorite ways to start a yoga class is to invite yogis to imagine a basket beside their mat—not a trash can but a beautiful basket worthy of holding things of value. I ask them to notice the worries that are weighing them down, and to imagine gently removing them from their shoulders and placing them in the basket. Not forever, I say, just for this hour. At the end of class, I invite them to look in the basket and make some choices. They might decide they no longer need some of the worries they placed in that basket; they can leave them there. Other worries may feel important, but are simply too heavy, and those can stay in the basket until the yogi finds friends to help carry the load. Still other worries may feel more manageable after an hour of yoga has helped them claim their strength and flexibility.
If you were to imagine that basket beside you, what worries might you place in it? Can you imagine leaving some of them in the basket, or finding new ways to carry them so they no longer weigh down your heart?
“Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life.” There are lots of reasons for our hearts to be heavy; Luke points to three we can do something about. He calls us to examine the things that weigh down our hearts and try to let them go, not just so we can feel lighter but so we can recognize and participate in the realm of God’s love breaking in.
The second line I want to lift up is this one: “Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.” Apocalyptic literature like this passage sees destruction and distress as a sign that God is coming with might. I don’t believe that. I do believe that wherever there is destruction and distress, God is breaking in—not with might but in love. Jesus comes again—and again and again–, choosing to appear among those the world has rejected, calling us to join him in bringing food and water, compassion and hope.
When we let go of the dissipation and drunkenness and worry that weigh down our hearts, when we stand up and raise our heads, we will face the pain of our lives and our world head on. If we hold each other up and keep our heads raised, we will begin to see a deeper vision of reality. In and among and beneath the pain, we will discover God’s love breaking in. We will see Jesus at work, listening, sharing a meal, bringing people together, beckoning us to join in. We will awaken to what we can do, how we can be part of this realm of God’s love, which is already here and still coming to fruition.
If we stand up and raise our heads, we will face the history of how indigenous people have been treated in our nation. We will hear stories that are painful beyond comprehension, and we will discover that listening deeply is an act of hope. We will hear the call to stand with our neighbors, to show up, to learn and march and build friendship.
If we raise our heads, we will feel the pain of our children, expressed in schools all over our nation—including Framingham—in horrible words scrawled on bathroom walls, in fights in the hallways, in emotional distress. If we refuse to lower our heads, if we keep looking and listening, we will hear the voices of community leaders—of all ages and backgrounds—crying out for change. We will see teachers and administrators, parents and peer leaders trying to make a difference, making mistakes and learning from them, refusing to give up. We might find an opening where our skills, our compassion, our presence, can make a difference.
If we stand up and raise our heads, we will see a global mental health crisis, a tsunami of isolation, a society broken by misinformation and rage. If we do not turn away, we will see Jesus—in many shapes and sizes—reaching out his hand, inviting strangers to a table, speaking the truth in love. We will hear him call out to us to reach out our hands, to accept an invitation from a stranger, to speak the truth we know, incomplete as it is, always in love.
Luke wrote these words in a painful time. We read these words in a painful time. May we hear their challenge to us: Do not let your hearts be weighed down. Stand up and raise your heads, for God’s love is at work, for Jesus is calling us to join in. Amen.