Mark 13:24-37

Christians don’t corner the market on hope, but hope is nevertheless a hallmark of the Christian faith. The God of Exodus is revealed as the one who hears the cries of God’s people and responds with deliverance. Jesus points to the God who brings good news to the poor, proclaims release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, and sets free those who are oppressed. Christian hope says things do not have to remain as they are; God desires shalom, which encompasses not only peace but justice, healing, and well-being, for everyone, for all of creation.

Advent is the season of hope. Traditionally, Advent isn’t preparation for Christmas, but for the Second Coming of Christ. The early church assumed Christ would return at any moment, and as the centuries passed, the Church still waited for Christ’s return in glory. Many Christians still await a literal Parousia, while many others, including myself, observe Advent as a time of recognizing that Christ is always coming into our lives. What this looks like is focusing on God’s hopes for our hurting world even in the midst of the chaos and violence, the cynicism and greed, the hatred and tribalism that plague our world. God wants shalom for God’s world, and love is the way.

Advent always begins with an apocalyptic passage. When it looks as though the world is going to hell in a hand basket, that’s when apocalyptic literature shows up. Apocalyptic literature says, “Things are so bad they can’t be fixed. What we need is some sort of spectacular rescue.” This Sunday’s passage in Mark’s gospel is often called “the little apocalypse.” Jesus has just predicted that the Temple in Jerusalem will be destroyed. The disciples ask about signs, and Jesus describes utter devastation. But then, he says, after all this takes place, after everything is shaken to its core and when you can’t even count on the stars to stay in the skies, you will see the Son of Man coming in power and glory. These words were written after the destruction of the Temple. Mark’s audience would hear them and remember the horrific crushing of the First Jewish Revolt against Rome, ending in the siege of Jerusalem. The world as people knew it shattered. No wonder they hoped God would intervene.

It isn’t hard to imagine feeling like that. Maybe you feel as though things are going to hell in a hand basket. Apocalyptic literature is a wake-up call that says, “Look what’s going on! Can’t you see how far we are from God’s vision for us?” Jesus’ advice is, “stay alert,” “keep awake.” That might sound a little threatening. Like you’re watching out for the Boogey Man, maybe? Sometimes it seems as though the whole point of Advent is to keep people from having too much fun getting ready for Christmas. That is not the point. Waking up to how far we are from God’s vision for us reminds us what God wants for us. Waking up reminds us we’re called to hold onto hope for God’s ultimate plans for God’s world.

During my internship many years ago, a church member gave me a little book entitled, Dachau Sermons. The author, Martin Niemöller, was a Lutheran pastor and theologian imprisoned at the concentration camp at Dachau. He’s the source of the famous quotation, “First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out, because I was not a Socialist. Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out, because I was not a Trade Unionist. Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out, because I was not a Jew. Then they came for me – and there was no one left to speak for me.”

In the preface, Niemöller explains that for the first seven and a half years of his imprisonment, “special prisoners” like himself weren’t allowed to meet each other or to hold worship services. Then, beginning on Christmas Eve 1944, for no apparent reason, they were granted permission to come together every four weeks for worship until they departed Dachau; a total of six times. The “congregation” included a Dutch cabinet minister, two Norwegian shippers, a British major from the Indian army, a Yugoslavian diplomat, a couple of priests and a Macedonian journalist. They were Calvinists, Lutherans, Anglicans, Roman Catholics and a Greek Orthodox. In our era of growing interfaith understanding, this might seem routine. In 1944, it was practically unheard of.

What could feel darker, more hopeless, more like the end of the world, more apocalyptic than spending over seven years at Dachau? And yet, in each sermon, Niemöller preaches hope. Not optimism, not glib or false assurances that everything will turn out just fine. He says they all know from bitter experience that hope and reality are at times widely separated and often never come together. What he preaches is that God comes anyway. Then, and now, God comes. God comes to us where we are, 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 congregations we are. The communities we are. The nation and world that we are.

Jesus’ Advent call to wake up and keep alert is not a threat. It’s an invitation. He invites us to wake up, to notice, to listen for the ways that God is coming. To notice God’s overwhelming, unimaginable love, and to trust God’s desire to rescue us from ourselves, from injustice, oppression, hunger, sickness, and all the ways we hurt each other. That’s the essence of apocalypse: that God is on the way. God comes. Advent says, “Wake up to that. Notice that. Place your hope in that.”

To those afraid that nothing is ever going to change, that nothing will get better, Advent hope says, “Hold on! God is on the move, headed toward you.” We don’t know when or how and that’s why Jesus invites us to stay alert, eager, actively on the job. As the Christmas carol, “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” reminds us:
How silently, how silently,
the wondrous gift is given!
So God imparts to human hearts
the blessings of His heaven.
No ear may hear His coming,
but in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive Him, still
The dear Christ enters in.

© Joanne Whitt 2023 all rights reserved.