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Showing posts with label Gospel of Mark. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gospel of Mark. Show all posts

Sunday, June 26, 2022

The Parable of the Actual: some thoughts on Mark 4 and hearing God's voice in daily life

“Take the fig tree as a parable…”

--Mark 13:28

 

This invitation to “Take the fig tree as a parable…” has planted a seed in my imagination.  What I hear in this verse is Jesus telling His disciples (even today) to look at the world, at the actual and see with new eyes a parable,  a lesson, a glimpse of God’s glory revealed.  And with this in mind, I find myself contemplating the rest of Mark’s gospel through this lens—the actual.

 

First, what is a parable?  A parable is a figurative saying that draws attention to similarities between two things, often quite distinctly different things. There is often a paradox about this comparison that strikes the reader as impossible or not right.  For instance: How could the Kingdom of God be like a mustard seed? Or why would a shepherd leave 99 sheep alone and at risk while going off to search for a single stray?  It doesn’t make sense at first—but then when we let it sink into our prayer, to our soul, to our heart… it begins to reveal a kind of truth we might never have imagined.

 

Let me apply this for a moment to scripture itself: chapter 4 of Mark’s Gospel.  The main body of this chapter involves a series of parables and sayings about the Kingdom of God, interrupted by a lesson about the meaning of the parable of the Sower.  And so, one might say that this chapter seems to be a chapter about parables. Parables for Dummies, so to speak.

 

But it is also interesting to note that this chapter is framed by boats. The chapter begins with Jesus getting into a boat in order to teach the crowd that has gathered.  And ends with the famous scene of Jesus asleep in the boat during a storm.  A chapter about parables ends with a story that feels a little bit like a parable: the disciples frightened by a storm at sea, and their teacher sleeping through it. When they wake Him, Jesus commands the storm to be still, but to the disciples He only says: Do you still have no faith?  (cf. 4:40) Clearly there is a lesson to this little story about a stormy night on the water.  And it seems to have nothing to do with meteorology. 

 

But, maybe it has something to do with boats.  Jesus gets into a boat in order to teach the crowd on the shore.  And then like a farmer scattering seeds, He scatters a few lessons about; tells a story, draws a couple of comparisons between a mustard seed and the Kingdom of God, the mystery of God’s kingdom and the mystery of a sprouting seed, and then He starts emphasizing the need to see, and to hear, to look and to listen, to place your lamp on a lampstand instead of hiding it under a bed.

 

Basically, He seems to be saying: pay attention. 

 

Then, the chapter ends with that brief but very famous scene with the storm at sea; as if that storm and that boat and that sleeping Jesus were the final lesson—a kind of pop quiz, if you will.  Remember—He got into the boat so that He could teach.  And here He is in the boat—still teaching. 

In the story, it seems like the disciples have not yet learned their lesson. Jesus basically dope slaps them with his question about their lack of faith.  But—what about us?  Have we learned anything? 

 

What was the lesson? I think it has something to do with opening our eyes to the mystery of God’s presence all around us.  His grace in the storm and the struggle as well as in the tender moments of healing and joy.

 

When I feel blessed, it is easy to feel like I am in the presence of God. That I am loved. But, when I feel lonely, unwanted or unnoticed, and everything seems to be going wrong—a perfect storm of mistakes and insecurities and fear and anxiety rises up around me; in a moment like that, it is pretty hard to feel God’s love. But, I think Jesus is saying: Look. Listen. Pay attention.  Open your eyes and you will see… open your ears and you will hear—I am there. With you. Always.

 

But, how do we see God’s presence in our daily life? Through the lessons of the parables.  We have to learn how to read our daily life like it was a parable. The parable of the actual. This isn’t just about fig trees and scattered seeds.  It’s also about jammed staplers and flat tires and neighbor’s dogs that bark all night.  I hear God telling me to open my eyes and see, open my ears and listen. The neighbor with the barking dog, might need a friend. The flat tire might be God’s way of asking me to stop rushing about, stop being so independent, and to let other see me struggle, so that they will have the opportunity to stop their rushing about and offer help to an old man who doesn’t even know how to use a crowbar.  As for the jammed stapler—well, sometimes I can take these things too far.

 Take the fig tree as a parable.  Look at the real world, what is actually happening around you.  Is it possible that that is where God is revealing Himself to you? Are you the neighbor who hears the ambulance or fire truck siren and steps outside to see if someone needs help? Or are you the neighbor who notices when a sprinkler is left on and shuts it off to save someone's water bill?  Are you the one who puts bird seed out every morning for the blue jays or are you the one who carries peanuts in your pocket for the squirrels at the park? Do you notice the new people in your life? Do you notice the sadness in the eyes of a stranger? Or the smile on the face of the elderly couple who sit on their porch holding hands every morning? Look at the leaves. Look at the clouds. Look at the brown summer grass. Listen to breeze. Listen to the birds. Listen to your wife (or husband) even when they are telling you the same story for the 31st time.  Look. Listen. And really hear, really see what is really right there before you. The face of God come to meet you on your journey.

Anyway, I am trying to read my life as a kind of parable, the parable of the barking dog, the parable of the one-eyed squirrel, the parable of the lonely husband… whatever is happening, I am trying to focus less on my own reaction, and more on the actual events. And what they might tell me about God’s Kingdom.    

 

Where is God revealing Himself in your life? In a sink of dishes? In a bowl of ice cream? In a cat curled in your lap? In an uncomfortable conversation with your boss. Or in a happy hour beer with a friend. Somewhere in your day, God is calling you: Come, my beloved; come and sit with me… For myself, my hope is that I will stop looking for some mystical sign and just open my eyes to the mystery and the grace all around me.  Even in the moldy head of Romaine that I forgot in the back of the refrigerator.  I pray that for you, too.

 

Lord, open my eyes to Your Word

That I can read it more clearly;

Open my ears to Your Word,

That I can hear Your message more fully;

And open my heart to Your Word

That I will be filled with the Love

That is always found there.

 

 

Sunday, February 20, 2022

Following Jesus into the

“My heart is moved with pity…”

--Mark 8:2

 

I have been thinking about this gospel passage quite a bit lately.  It has woven itself into everything else I am reading: scripture, novels, poetry, everything. This little nugget is found in Mark’s version of the feeding of the 4000 (Mk 8:1-10).  In the past, I have always focused on the 7 loaves and the few fish, or the sudden miraculous abundance, baskets full of leftovers; but I don’t think I had ever stopped to consider that important detail revealed by Jesus.  I guess I mostly just glossed over it, as I rushed headlong into the familiarity of the miracle.

 

But, for some reason this time I was stopped by that phrase: My heart is moved with pity.  Jesus looks out at the crowd that has followed him, a mass of people who have followed him for three days.  They have come with Him so far that they cannot go back home without risk of collapsing. And, as the disciples point out: they are in a deserted place. There is no where to send for supplies, no Uber-Eats to call for take-out (for 4000).

 

In my prayer, I looked out at that crowd, hungry, tired, and yet still clinging to this strange Rabbi who spoke with such authority, and love.  The first person I saw in my mind was a woman with three children. They were huddled together.  One of the children was pulling at her robe, wanting only to be held, to be comforted, perhaps to be nursed. The other two sat at her feet drawing in the dirt, trying to entertain each other.  The mother looked at the children and back at Jesus.  She was beginning to wonder what she would do. They were too far from home to go back, but her small supply of food (perhaps bread and cheese and olives) was gone. She was beginning to doubt herself, to wonder if she’d made a horrible mistake. Why hadn’t she brought more food? Why hadn’t she just stayed home where they would be safe and secure?

 

And then I looked again and saw an old man sitting by himself on a rock.  No one spoke to him. He was staring at the ground, feeling lost, out of place.  He too was growing hungry and beginning to doubt his choice.  Always alone, ignored, even avoided by others, the old man had heard in the young preacher an invitation to come and follow; to become part of a community—he thought. But even here no one seemed to notice him. And he felt foolish, and out of place. The others were families, friends, seemed to all know someone here. But he was still alone.

 

And then I looked at Jesus and I saw him speaking to one of the disciples, telling them: My heart is moved with pity for the people.

 

And in those words I sensed something new, sensed the tenderness of God’s care for His creation.  He looks at us and feels pity for us, for our struggles, our hungers, our fears, our failings. He doesn’t look at us with judgment or even sighs of exasperation.  Even in our most desperate and dreadful moments He looks at us with love, and with mercy, and with pity.

 

But there was something else that I sensed in this passage from Mark, something from the broader context of the story.  Jesus has lead the people out into the wilderness, far from their homes and their neighbors, from their family and friends, from all their support groups (so to speak).  And I remembered the call to Abram:

“The Lord said to Abram:

Leave your country, your kindred and your father’s house,

and go to the land I will show you… And I shall bless you…

And make of you a blessing…” (Genesis 12:1-2)

 

It is a call to leave behind all those things of the world that seem to make us safe and secure and to let God lead us to a place where we may feel like strangers, but in that place, that may feel so deserted and desolate, so lonely even, we are promised that we will become a blessing. 

 

But, the key is, we have to let God lead.  In Mark’s Gospel, the people have followed Jesus for 3 days.  They have come to a place of vulnerability, a place where many of them may have looked around and felt—helpless, lost. Uncertain even which direction would take them home.  But by remaining with Jesus, they found themselves blessed, and found themselves becoming a blessing.

 

I like to imagine that the old man in my meditation was handed a basket and began walking among the people passing out bread. And that at some point he came to the woman with three children and seeing she needed help, set down his basket and took one of the children in his arms. Holding the child, he watched as the woman took bread and broke it and fed her littlest. And as he stood there, the other child took his hand and pulled him down to show him a picture she’d drawn in the dirt.And the old man smiled, because he felt needed.

 

“My heart is moved with pity…” I hear in Jesus's words a reassurance that we are never alone.  Even when we feel most vulnerable, most lost, most hungry for whatever it is we lack, we are never alone.  God is right there with us, watching over us, tenderly, and with such love, such care.  He knows our needs even before we ask, and longs to fill us with good things, blessing, even to overflowing, that we might overflow with blessings to those around us.

 

Sunday, November 15, 2020

On fear and silence and the end of Mark's Gospel

 “…and they said nothing to anyone,
for they were afraid.”

--Mark 16:8

 

 

This morning I finished the Gospel of Mark.  There is so much to say about this shortest of the gospels.  Most scholars now think of it as the earliest gospel, asserting that its conciseness is a sign of its chronological place. One theory is that the other synoptic gospels derive their basic structure from it, embellishing it with details from lost sources, including a collection of sayings attributed to Jesus. The late literary critic Harold Bloom valued Mark’s gospel for its mysterious urgency and dramatic flair.  It is often referred to as a Passion narrative with a long introduction. 

 

Like all the gospels, all of scripture—I guess—I like it for its strangeness.  With this gospel, in particular, I am drawn to the way it seems to rush along, beginning in media res, then rushing head-long into the action, with Jesus “at once…” going out, and the disciples “at once…” following Him and the demons “at once…” crying out and the sick “at once…” being healed, etc etc.  As Bloom, and others, pointed out, everything in this story happens with a strange urgency.  Some translations use the word “immediately” (cf 1:12, 1:18, 1:20, 1:42, etc etc) to express this urgent movement.  I find this element of the book compelling and strange and worth meditation.

 

But this morning I am thinking of a different element from the end of this Gospel.  In my New Jerusalem Bible there is a note on 16:8 that informs me Mark probably originally ended there with the story of the  women who witnessed some manifestation of the resurrection and, overwhelmed by it, went away in silence and fear. No “immediately,” no “at once,” but only a kind of strange quiet and stillness—as if suddenly everything stopped. Ending as it began, in media res (which is Latin for “in the middle of things”).  The scholars speculate that the next 12 verses were an addendum derived from the other gospels and added in order to harmonize Mark with Matthew and Luke.  Those kind of issues, I have no insight into.  I leave that to the historians and the scholars with their degrees and dissertations.

 

My thought today is only of that image of the women saying nothing to anyone, “because they were afraid.”  They have received the “good news” of the resurrection, of the conquering of death, of the return to life of their beloved friend… Why wouldn’t they rush off to share this news? Why wouldn’t they be blowing a trumpet and crying from the hilltops to anyone and everyone?  Yet they “said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.” 

 

Why? What were they afraid of? Looking foolish?  Being ridiculed? Rejection? I think quite often I remain silent out of fear of how someone will react. What they might say to me. How they will treat me… Or worse, that they might question me, challenge me, make me begin to doubt what I know is true.

 

I fear that they won’t really hear what I am saying, but only the weakness of my words, my failure to express myself adequately.  Often, when I am overwhelmed by an experience, my words fail me. Too often, some might say, I flounder a bit and then suddenly (at once, and with a strange kind of immediacy) I melt into tears. And feel like a fool. 

 

What was it that made the women leave the tomb of Jesus and go away in silence and fear?  What was the author (Mark) trying to say about their experience? About the experience of the early church? Why that fearful silence?

 

It forces me to remember the many times I too remained silent for fear of how people might react.  But it also makes me aware of the importance of another kind of silence. Of the willingness to listen when someone comes to you with something to say. The willingness to hear them out and even to let them have the last word.  The willingness to listen, openly and completely; the willingness to listen without feeling a need to correct, or challenge or show my own intelligence.  To just listen to the message that the other person brings, their experience, their perception, their desire to share, and their witness to the wideness of the world.

 

There are so many lessons to be found in the Gospels, and even a few to be found in the footnotes.

Saturday, October 24, 2020

Making God’s word effective: The Syro-Phoenician Woman & the theology of inclusion

“In this way you make God’s word

ineffective for the sake of your own tradition.”

--Mark 7:13

 

I have always had trouble with the way Jesus speaks to the Syro-Phoenician woman.  She comes to Him seeking help for her daughter who is possessed by a demon.  This is a classic situation for Jesus to reveal His power, and His Father’s healing love.  But instead Jesus responds to the woman’s plea with a kind of parable or koan-like statement about taking food away from children and feeding dogs.

“The children should be fed first, because
it is not fair to take the children’s food
and throw it to little dogs.”
(Mk 5:27)

Upon first reading, it sounds not only like Jesus is being dismissive of her pain (and her daughter’s suffering), but also a little insulting. Why?  This is not the Jesus we expect. He doesn’t seem to be the same guy who just  walked on water, fed 5000, healed Jairus’s daughter (as well as the woman with her bleeding), and anyone the crowds brought to Him, the guy who ate with sinners, calmed the sea and taught that the Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath. Clearly, he’s not someone who seems wrapped up in rules and regulations. And, prior to this, has shown no hesitance when asked for help.  And yet, what He says to the Syro-Phoenician woman sounds like a dismissal and a veiled reference to a rule is the only explanation He offers.  To me, this strangeness is a theological speed-bump. It slows me down, in fact--stops me in my tracks—and demands my attention.  I don’t like it.  It makes me uncomfortable. Why is Jesus acting like this?  What does it mean?

 

Often when this story is discussed, the emphasis is put on the fact that the woman is Syro-Phoenician (a Gentile; non-Jew). There is a tradition of Jews referring to Gentiles as dogs, and so this makes some sense.  Yet, Jesus has just cured another Gentile of demonic possession back in chapter 5 (cf. Mk 5.1-20 the Gerasane demoniac & the 2000 pigs). So, why is He suddenly hesitant to cast out another demon from another Gentile?  Why this sudden change? Again—a theological speed-bump, encouraging us to slow down and take a moment (or a life-time) and pay attention. Contemplate this.  Let the Word of God open itself to you and see where it leads.

 

And so, here is where it lead me—backwards.  I remembered that in Matthew’s version of this story, the disciples complain to Jesus about the woman.  They want Him to do something so she will stop following them.  And so, in Matthew’s Gospel it makes sense to read this story as a lesson for those same disciples.  They have come from a world where people like this woman are often referred to as dogs. So, when Jesus refers to throwing food to the dogs (Mt. 15:21ff) it seems quite plausible that He is making a point specifically for His disciples. He is demanding that they confront their own language and prejudices against the Gentiles.  But here in Mark there is no mention of the disciples.  We have only the woman and Jesus.  Within that context, we must ask ourselves, what is Mark saying here?  And a trick I learned from N.T. Wright (an Anglican theologian) is to look at the surrounding text. What has just happened prior to the troubling verse, and what comes after.  Well, just prior to this, Jesus has been having a discussion with the Pharisees and scribes about the rules.  They want to know why the disciples eat with unclean hands. Why don’t the disciples follow the rules about washing their arms up to the elbow before they eat?  These rules come not from the Torah, but from tradition; in effect, they are an interpretation of scripture, a reading of God’s law; they arise out of theologizing –thinking about God and God’s law.  But here’s the problem. Jesus points out to the Pharisees and Scribes that their form of theologizing ends up being very exclusive. It tends to “rule” people out.  Just as it does here with this question about clean hands, the way they read God’s law ends up excluding people for a variety of reasons. In fact, it seems that the lens they use for reading God’s law is a lens of exclusion. It tends to read God’s law (God’s love) as being only for an exclusive group—those who meet certain qualifications.  And so it is constantly looking at the rules to measure out who meets those qualifications.  It is as if they have a telescope turned round the wrong way and are looking at everything through the wrong end. Everything looks smaller, looks tighter, looks narrower through this lens.  Harder to attain, and much less open for discussion (or inclusion).

 

Jesus tells them point blank:  In this way, you make God’s word ineffective for the sake of your tradition. They put their tradition, their interpretation, above everything; including the effectiveness of God’s word.  And with that in mind, let us return to this Syro-Phoenician woman and those dogs under the table.

 

I wonder if this vignette, this very brief miracle story, is actually a lesson in interpretation.  A kind of lesson in theologizing. Think about it this way: who is she talking to? The Word made Flesh.  What is she doing? Humbly coming to the Word seeking healing, seeking comfort, seeking guidance.  But what does she find?  She is confronted by an unpleasant truth (or what seems like an unpleasant version of the Truth, the Way, and the Life). But, how does she react? Does she go away in search of another religion? Another miracle healer? Another way, truth or life? No. She accepts the terms that Jesus puts forward, accept the truth of what He says and then she offers a theological reading of that truth.  She offers an interpretation based on His terms, His words, His Truth. She says:

“Ah yes, sir… but little dogs under the table eat the scraps from the children.” (Mk 7:28)

 

And with that response, becomes, it seems to me, an icon of the Christian theologian. Unlike the Pharisees who seem only to see the law as a way to exclude others, she--without contradicting the truth of God’s word, accepting it completely under its own terms-- discovers in it an effectiveness that resounds with the love of the God that has been revealed to us, a God of love and grace and mercy. She discovers even in this unpleasant saying, a broadness and a grace that at first was not apparent.  It is as if in her words here, in this brief response, she teaches us a theological approach: how to read the Word of God through a lens of inclusiveness, how to discover in even the most difficult sayings and unpleasant passages a love that transcends human understanding. 

 

Is that not the true work of theology: to discover and reveal the truth of God’s love? And should that not be the tradition that guides us?  A tradition of love, of mercy, of compassion, a tradition that opens doors, lights lamps, makes pathways straight; a tradition that proclaims always the loving message of a loving God: Come unto me, all you who are weary, and I will give you rest. A tradition that proclaims: At this table, all are welcome.  

Saturday, October 17, 2020

Recognizing Jesus

 

“What do you want with me, Jesus…”

Mark 5:7

 

Chapter 5 of Mark’s Gospel is packed so tightly with narrative, there seems no room for teaching; no sermonizing. From beginning to end it tells in simple and laconic language three fascinating and odd miracle stories.  It begins with one of the weirdest miracle stories in scripture: the Gerasene demoniac and the pigs.  Jesus drives the demons out of a man and (at the request of the demons) He sends them into some pigs who rush off a cliff into the sea and die.  When the people of the town hear about this, they go to Jesus and plead with Him to leave their town. And He does.

 

This story is followed by the story of the president of the synagogue who comes to Jesus pleading for help for his daughter. To my ear this story echoes the story of the Roman centurion who asks Jesus to heal his servant (MT 8:5-13).  In both stories there is an official who shouldn’t have anything to do with Jesus, who should be opposed to this itinerant preacher and His magical cures and His rule-breaking and trouble-making ways. But, in both cases the official humbles himself to come begging for help. 

 

And then there is that third miracle story which so artfully interrupts the second, so that we have a story within a story.  This interlude story is that of the woman who has been bleeding for 12 years.  Here is how Mark sets it up:  As Jesus is following the official back to heal his daughter, a woman comes up behind them and touches the robe of Jesus and is healed.  When Jesus turns to see who touched Him, the crowd is pressed around so tightly that no one can tell who touched whom.  And yet the woman comes forward and confesses that it was her—and that she has been healed. As Jesus is talking with her, people from the official’s house come and tell him that his daughter has died, there is no reason to bother Jesus anymore.  Of course, that isn’t the end of that story either.  

 

Though there is no preaching in this chapter, there is a lot of teaching going on.  Kind of a show, don’t tell, chapter—I guess.  And though there is much to be gleaned here, the message that I heard this morning was not about the miracles as much as it was about the people who sought them (or didn’t).  What I heard as I read these familiar stories this morning, was a lesson about recognizing Jesus.  And how we react when we do.

 

In the first story, it is the demoniac (or the demons within him) who recognizes Jesus. He is the one who comes to Jesus and demands: What do you want with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God?

 

And what does Jesus want, but to make him whole. To cure him of his demons.  Of course, after the man is cured, the people of the town aren’t so sure it was worth it.  Sure, the guy was possessed with demons and haunted the mountains and the caves and broke every chain they tried to lock him up with, but what about all their pigs?  They come out to see this miracle, to get a glimpse of the “show” so to speak.  But instead of sharing the joy of a man’s healing, they focus on the cost and implore Jesus to leave their shore.  Like the demons, they recognize something special in Jesus, but don’t want to have anything to do with Him.  It costs too much.

 

And then there is the official from the synagogue.  He comes from a community that has already rejected Jesus, is already looking for ways to get rid of Him.  But, this man sees something in this stranger that makes him step away from the security of his community (his peers—the Pharisees and Sadducees), to risk ridicule and rejection, by coming to Jesus and begging for help.  He recognizes in Jesus something he can’t find anywhere else: hope.

 

And like him, the woman with the bleeding comes because she has heard talk of Jesus and His healing powers. For twelve years she has sought a cure from doctors and healers and has “spent all she had” without finding any help (5:26) and so she turns to Jesus out of desperation.  She is willing to risk everything just for a chance to touch the hem of His robe.  And after she is cured, what does Jesus tell her:  “…your faith has restored you to health…”(5:34). In other words, she recognized Him. She recognized that He held the power of healing. In fact, that is the story of all these characters—they recognize something in Jesus. 

 

The demoniac recognizes in Jesus (a stranger just arrived on his shore), an authority that sets him free from the evils that plague him.  The people from the town recognize that same authority in this stranger but want nothing to do with it.  It asks too much of them.  

 

For the synagogue official, Jesus is a man spurned by the religious authorities. He is an outcast, a problem, possibly even a criminal.  Coming to Jesus must cost this man more than we can imagine.  His reputation, his position in society, his place in the synagogue… all of it is at risk simply by him seeking out jesus.  And yet he does. Because he sees in Him hope and healing. In fact he pleads with Jesus to come to his house. 

 

And the woman, who has already given up everything she has. She has not only spent everything she has searching for healing, but by her constant bleeding, she has become unclean—a person to be avoided. She has nothing left to lose, and in her emptiness she sees in this poor humble carpenter a radiance that brings her to her knees and brings her back to health.

 

Jesus comes to all three of these scenes as a stranger, an outcast, someone who by his very presence makes a demand upon us.  How will we receive Him? Who will we see when we look at Him? At this stranger? The rejected? The outcast? Or the Son of the Most High God? Jesus? Who do we see when we meet a stranger? Do we see someone who is part of the body of Christ?  Do we welcome the stranger, even reach out to her or him because we recognize they too are children of God? They too are made in the image of God… Or do we turn away because see only a burden? An expense we are unwilling to pay?

Sunday, November 18, 2018

He is near


18 Nov 18
Some thoughts on the Gospel for the 33rd Sunday in Ordinary Time

“...when you see these things happening:
know that He is near.”  --Mark 13:24-32

The Mass readings this Sunday were full of apocalyptic language, imagery.  The reading from Daniel (12:1-3) contained distress and resurrection imagery and the Gospel tells of Jesus warning his disciples of a coming time when “the sun will be darkened, and the moon will give no light, and the stars will be falling from the sky...”  And then, using a lesson from the fig tree, the Lord tells them:

When you see these things happening: know that He is near.

During the homily our priest reminded us that apocalyptic is often mistaken for prophecy –i.e. telling us what will happen in the future—but that it was actually more like a form of commentary --telling the reader about things that were actually happening; commenting on the situation at hand.  For instance, we were taught in seminary that the Book of Revelation isn’t actually about some future cataclysm and judgment, but was actually about the Roman persecution the early Christians.  Though we commonly use it to speak of the end of the world (movies like World War Z, Snowpiercer, Mad Max, Soylent Green, The Day After Tomorrow are commonly referred to as apocalyptic), the word itself is from the Greek and means to reveal or uncover.  The Latin version of this same word—revelation—means to disclose or uncover; to remove the veil.  As Father was saying this morning; these types of writings were not intended to predict the future, but to comment on the present –to uncover or reveal some truth about the present.  And that got me thinking:  in His lesson to His disciples the Lord says:

Learn a lesson from the fig tree.  When its branch becomes tender and sprouts leaves, you know that summer is near.  In the same way, when you see these things happening, know that He is near, at the gates.

But what are these things? What are these signs?  The sun grows dark, and the moon no longer gives light, and the stars are falling from the sky.  If these signs are not meant to be signs of some universal cataclysm, signs of the end of the world, of the sun literally going dark and the stars literally falling from the heavens-- then what are they?

First—I don’t think God speaks in code. I don’t think we have to be scholars to understand His word.  But, we do have to be willing to think.  Think about a time in your own life when the sun seemed to have stopped shining and the darkness seemed to only grow darker.  The stars, the things that seemed constant and unchanging, people or situations you depended on for guidance and to help you steer your life, seemed to be falling from the sky –no longer dependable or trustworthy...  How did you feel? Afraid? Alone? Helpless? As if your world were coming to an end?

On a personal level we all experience times like that.  Times of trial and distress.  Times when our mentors and heroes fail us, or we fail ourselves.  Lost job. Sickness. Death. Even emotional disappointments can seem like the end of the world.

However, on a larger scale, something like this is happening in the Church today.  Scandal after scandal seem to rock the very foundations of the Church. Around the world. Not only priests, but bishops and cardinals (and possibly the Pope) are falling from the sky.  Once these men were stars of a kind, held up as models of holiness and piety; celebrated for their selflessness and charity, now they are suspected of being predators and hypocrites; guilty of criminal behavior of enabling and covering up horrors in order to protect the reputation of the Church.  Whatever light they seemed to offer the world has grown dark and those who trusted them, who looked to them for guidance and example, now feel lost. Afraid. Angry. Alone. Betrayed and bewildered they don’t know where to turn; where to go; and many may be asking: where is God?

In the time when the Gospel was being written, the early church was experiencing great trials and persecutions.  And so, these apocalyptic words were written not to predict distant troubles, but to help those suffering persecutions to understand that trials and tribulations were to be expected; to remind them that they were not alone; they were not forgotten; God had not abandoned them.  They were still part of the Master’s plan.

Look around today and it can seem like everywhere you gaze the world is experiencing cataclysms of a kind.  The news is full of stories about what a terrible and divisive mess our government and society have become.  During the final weeks of the elections, it seemed like everyone running for office was corrupt or criminal or both. Violence and cruelty, greed and aggression seem to be everywhere you look.  The economy is a roller coaster. The weather and the atmosphere are in tumult.  Wars and rumors of war fill the headlines. Even the Church, the one institution that some of us clung to as a light in the darkness, a beacon of hope, is being battered from within. Accusations and scandals abound. Some of the most luminous of her clerical stars—have fallen from grace; accused of horrible acts. But, despite all of this -- God is exactly where He always was.  He is the one unchanging eternal truth you can always depend on.  An uncorruptible North Star, one might say. Near the end of today’s Gospel, Jesus says:  Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.  Jesus (the Word made flesh) says this. And we can trust it.  We can trust Him.  Governments and man-made institutions may last for a while, but they will pass away.  Look around and see the signs and then know this, as the green leaf is a sign that summer is near; so are these trials, so are your trials, a sign that God is near.  If we look at our God, at the example of our God, we will understand more fully why He says this.  Look at any Crucifix you might have in your home and think about what it is you see in that figure of a man nailed to a cross.  It is an image of God’s love—fully alive.
So, the next time you feel like your world is coming to an end, know this, trust this:  He is near.  And if you are ever wondering how you can get closer to God... think about those signs.  Maybe it’s not you –maybe it’s a co-worker or a friend who is feeling their world falling apart. Know that God is there –somewhere near.  Maybe even at the gate.

If the bishops and cardinals and priests who covered up the sins of abusers had only remembered that.  Jesus isn’t in the high office, He isn’t in the good reputation, He isn’t in the honor... He’s always near the cross wherever it is found.  Waiting for us to join Him.