The Wonder of Endings…And Beginnings
A couple of weeks ago, when we were looking over the Gospel texts, we
had considered NOT having this particular passage from Luke—in fact,
my assignment was to find an alternative text to this one because…well,
it’s obvious why, isn’t it? The church, for some reason, thought it would
be best to start this season of waiting we call Advent, these four Sundays
before Christmas Day, with this vivid picture of the sun, the stars, the
moon itself becoming signs of the coming of the end of time, the coming
of the Christ at the end of the world. It doesn’t seem to make much
sense, because we’re waiting on the beginning, the beginning of the
story of Jesus, the beginning of Jesus being born in Bethlehem. But I
was curious why the ancient church thought it would be best if we
listened to and sat with this text, for a moment at least, to sit with these
words that Jesus says near the end of his ministry. Why? Why do we
have a passage about end of time, when we, the church, are trying to
prepare ourselves, emotionally, spiritually, for a beginning, the beginning
of our faith that comes with Jesus’ birth?
And there is also something else really odd about this passage we just
heard from Luke—something that I think probably struck even the first
ancient readers of this passage. There is a sentence or two here where
Jesus seems to imply that the people who are listening to his words at
that very moment, almost 2000 years, that these very people would
witness the coming true of the words he is speaking here—he seems to
imply that they, they will see the end of time, that they will see the signs
of the end of time, when the seas will roar, and powers of heaven will be
shaken. They will see signs of the end, and he even says, very explicitly,
these words—“truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all
things have taken place.” Now, there is something obvious here, and
that is, of course, that the end hasn’t come, and Jesus hasn’t come back,
at least not in the ways that the text implies. The other thing that makes
this odd is that by the time this Gospel was written, the Gospel of Luke,
the very people that Jesus seems to be talking to here in this text, this
generation that he speaks directly to, probably have already begun to
pass away. By the time these words were put on paper, I suspect these
words of Jesus were already puzzling the people that were reading and
hearing them in the ancient church…I mean, so many people had
already passed from the scene, the people of Jesus’ generation, the
apostles, disciples, the people that knew him first-hand, so many had
already gone on to be with God, and yet here Jesus was being
remembered as saying these words about the ending of the world, words
that clearly say that his hearers 2000 years ago will be the ones to be
present when he returns at the end of time.
So, what do we do with these words of Jesus, these words the ancient
church wants us to listen—how do we begin Advent, this time waiting and
wondering for our Christ to be born, with these words that tell of an
ending, and not just any ending, but the most conclusive of all endings,
the ending of time itself? I mean, how do you prepare for a beginning a
new story while staring at the ending of the story? And what do we do
these puzzling, baffling words—puzzling from almost the moment they
were put to paper by the earliest of Christians?
Well, to be honest, the more I’ve sat with this passage, the more it makes
sense, at least from the viewpoint of the ancient church, and, to be
honest, in light of the incredibly difficult year we’ve experienced here at
the Cathedral, the many endings we’ve gone through this past year.
When Jesus tells those ancient hearers that the world is about to
collapse around them, that they would witness an incredible ending,
perhaps the end to end all endings, I think I get a little bit more. I mean,
who hasn’t experienced that sort of ending in our own lives, who hasn’t
felt that our world was falling apart, that life was explodes inside and
outside of us, and who hasn’t been at a point in our lives where we are
constantly looking over our shoulder for the next ending, hoping that it
will not come because it feels like can’t endure anymore painful
endings—the end of a job, the end of a relationship, the end of the lives
of those we love, the end of our sense of security about our health, or
whatever, so many endings, tumbling towards us at one moment—who
hasn’t felt at one point in their lives that there were no pieces left to pick
up and put back together—the endings have sometimes come so fast
and furious towards us that we wondered whether can survive it, that all
these endings will be the end of us.
In the movie, Four Weddings And A Funeral, there is powerful moment
when a character recites a poem that W. H. Auden, one of the great
poets of the last 100 years, and a gay man, wrote after the death of his
long-time lover—the character in the movies speaks these words at the
funeral of his own beloved. (INSERT Four Funerals movie clip)…”pack
up the moon and dismantle the sun, pour away the ocean and sweep up
the woods, for nothing now can ever come to any good.”
I wonder, I wonder if Jesus is talking about these moments in our lives, in
the lives of his ancient listeners, as much as he may be talking anything
else—he says that words at the end of his earthly life, warning those
ancient disciples that their lives will become unhinged, that their lives will
become a mess, like the moon and stars and sun will become detached
from their solid places in the sky. “The endings will surely come,” Jesus
says to them, “what seemed solid underneath your feet will begin to melt,
and fear, fear will be your constant companion, always by your side.” We’
ve been through moments like that, haven’t we? I suspect that the early
disciples had that experience as well, and maybe Jesus’ words about the
end of time made more sense to them—sure, these words hinted at the
end of everything, but the more importantly, for them and for us, they
hint at a truth we already know deep in our hearts—the endings in our
lives, they will come, and sometimes they will overwhelm us, and
sometimes they will push us to the point of thinking that this moment,
whatever it is, this moment will be the final ending—we can’t take it
anymore, we think, surely the world, my world, will end. We can’t another
job loss, another death, another broken heart, another moment of
financial ruin—no more endings, we beg God, hoping that our prayer will
break through the clutter of our lives.
Surely, we’ve experienced so many of these endings as a congregation
these past few years, and especially this year—this has been a year of
endings, for many of us, the endings of our relationship with the our
former denomination, with those who were once among us who have
gone on to do their spiritual work in the world in a different place, the
ending of some incredible relationships we’ve had with pastors we’ve
loved and been loved by, and maybe it’s been the ending of our naivety
about what it really means to be in church with others, people who are as
human and fragile as we are—its been a rough year, I don’t think anyone
can pretend it to has been otherwise…so many endings, in such a little
time. It is something we have experienced as a church family, and it’s
also certainly something we’ve probably all experienced, at some point,
in our personal lives as well.
But you know what the amazing thing is, at least for us Christians? It is
this truth: the ending is never quite the ending; the conclusion is never
quite the conclusion. In the Gospel lesson we just heard, the end of the
world that Jesus speaks of here is actually the beginning of the new and
incredible reign of God in the universe—the coming of Christ at the end
of time, this one who will wrap it all up, so to speak, this makes way for
coming reign of God—a new Jerusalem, a new life, a new world where
our connection to God will be deeper than we ever thought imaginable.
You see, for Christians, endings are not really endings, the end of any
story, good stories, or even bad stories, the endings always give birth to
new beginnings. The end of the world as we know it, in our jobs, in our
personal lives, in our church, all of it, it gives birth to a new world, to a
new story that God is beginning in our lives.
In the most recent Matrix movies in the theatres, the Oracle says that
“Every beginning has an ending,” which is true, I think, but for us
something else is true: that every ending has a new beginning. What
was concluded with, what was taken off a cross and wrapped into burial
sheets, and put into the grave, and finished with—well, we know what
happened then, don’t we? It was an ending that gave birth to something
new, something that still keeps being born in us thousands of years
later—what came out of that grave that they had buried Christ in, was
the beginning of a new story, of new hope, of new life—it was actually the
beginning of our stories, as his disciples, each of us, so many years
later. Everyone thought the story had ended for good—the disciples,
the Romans, the temple officials—all of them that they had buried their
last piece of hope, or this troublemaker, in a grave outside the city walls
of ancient Jerusalem, and yet…it wasn’t really the end and it never is, it?
Or, I should say, this ending, buried in a grave, this ending didn’t end the
story—the story went on and resurrection, and hope came alive when all
hope was lost. We should know better, we should know the truth about
endings, since the only story that really matters ends, not in a grave, but
with resurrection, with hope, with life. The endings, they will come in our
lives, loved ones go on, jobs go away, beloved church members go on,
and yet it is not the end, not really, not when we know that there is a new
beginning, an empty grave, new life always right around the corner.
(Insert GRINCH clip here)
The old ways of being, like the Grinch’s cynical and cold way of being in
the world, after they melt way, they must give birth to new beginnings,
new ways of working for a living, new ways of loving another human
being, new ways of being in relationship with God, new ways of being of
the church together—all of it will end so something new can begin.
So, why does the ancient church want us to pay attention to the end of
the story, the story of the end of time and the universe, of our stories,
right at the moment when are asked to sit and wait in wonder, in hope,
for what will emerge from a stable in the poor, dusty town of Bethlehem?
I think it’s because our ancient mothers and fathers in the faith knew that
until we GOT our endings, until we understand the truth that all things
must end, even the universe itself one day, we will never, never
appreciate our new beginnings, or even appreciate the new beginning
we all received when Bethlehem greeted its most unlikely birth. We can’t
begin a new story in our life if we’re hanging on to a story that is about to
end, a story we falsely think is the only story we know how tell, anymore—
to know and understand that the end of something in our lives is coming,
is to then be also to recognize the birth of something new in that same
life when it does comes, something new being born in this world. To
know that end of the old ways of doing things is coming, helps us
recognize the new thing that is being born among us.
You know, we think of Christ’s birth as being the beginning of something,
the beginning of the church year, the beginning of the Christian faith—
certainly, it is the beginning of our faith, for without the birth of Christ, we
would not be gathered here in the place, waiting for what will be born to
us and in us, on Christmas morning. But Jesus’ birth was also the
ending of something—when Christ was born, the old ways of being
religious collapsed, they ended; when Christ came into this world, the old
ways of being in relationship with God forever changed, not only for us,
but for God—when God met the world through Christ thousands of years
ago, something even ended for God as well, and something new had
begun, a new way for God to know God’s own incredible and beautiful
creation, a new way for God to fall in love with us. The end of things, of
stories, of relationships, of everything, even the universe, it will surely
come… but it is not the end, is it? We are asked by the ancient church
to know our endings, to acknowledge the end of things, so that we can
greet this God who will come to us in a manger, this one who will be the
beginning of all that really matters in this world, and who, in the end,
makes all things matter in this world. We wait for the end, with the
earliest of disciples, with the ancient church, knowing that a new thing will
come to us on Christmas Day, and in whatever ending we are
experiencing in this world at this very moment. “When the end comes,”
Jesus says to his disciples, “stand up, and raise your heads, for your
redemption, your hope, your new beginning, it is drawing near.” It is so,
my friends, it is so… Amen.
