Holding on to Hope: A message for dear P. on this occasion of your baptism

Mark 13:1-8 

Our story today begins in the midst of desolation.  

In the year 70, the Romans torched the temple in Jerusalem. Really, it’s staggering how they pulled off such a level of destruction. Herod the great (father of Herod Antipas—the one who features in the Passion story) had started extensive renovations on the temple before Jesus was born. Herod envisioned that the temple would be both a house of prayer for folks from all over and also a tourist attraction. Mission accomplished as the temple was spectacular. The outside of it was covered in gold plates and it was said that at sunrise, the gleaming reflection was like the very sun itself.  

The temple was built of massive stone blocks that weighed many tons each.  The prophet Haggi recorded that stone upon stone the temple had once been rebuilt after the exiled Jews returned from Babylonia.  Generations later, Jesus prophesied that not a stone upon a stone would remain. By the time St. Mark would record Jesus’ words a lifetime later, the beautiful city, and temple with it, would be destroyed.  

The gospel of Mark was written after this destruction—or maybe even during it.  It may have been that Mark himself lived in Rome. Several decades after the death of Jesus, the emperor Nero had assumed the throne of the Roman empire. History remembers the Nero as a maniac and as a selfish and tyrannical ruler. Roman senators described him as greedy and debaucherous. Under his rule, chaos was rampant with massacrers, violence and destruction.

When the city of Jerusalem was overtaken by the Roman armies around the year 70, the temple was looted, ignited, and destroyed.  On the other side of the sea, Rome itself was on fire. The stench of death was in the air; and, in the middle of all of this, Christians recorded the story of Jesus in the gospel of Mark. 

When Mark wrote this gospel, it must have been as if the old, steady and trusted world was vanishing before everyone’s very eyes and as they squinted into the future, they couldn’t quite see the shape of what was coming at them. Whatever it was, seemed like a threat. (1)

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Have you ever felt like you can’t wrap your head around what is unfolding? It’s as though reality doesn’t match your expectations.  “Things,” you say to yourself, “were not supposed to be this way.“

Maybe it’s meta—like we see in the gospel of Mark—and as you watch the story of a people, a culture, and a nation unfolding, it makes you gasp for air.

Or, maybe it’s personal: How could your family struggle like this? Or, you weren’t supposed to feel so alone or blindsided. Or, how could you have been rejected like that or have failed before you even got your foot in the door? 

Things weren’t supposed to turn out this way. As you try to wrap your head around it all, it’s like you’re grasping at sand.

Six hundred years before Christ, the prophet Jeremiah wrote:

I looked on the earth, and it was complete chaos,
    and to the heavens, and they had no light.
I looked on the mountains, and they were quaking,
    and all the hills moved to and fro.
I looked, and there was no one at all,
    and all the birds of the air had fled.
I looked, and the fruitful land was a desert,
    and all its cities were laid in ruins before the Lord

The gospel of Mark feels these words of Jeremiah deep in its’ bones and takes us right into the unsteady middle of it. In Mark, we’re plopped right into the rubble and the pain where we find ourselves sitting with our head in our hands. The community that wrote this gospel story down tells it from the bleakest of places and we have to transport ourselves there and listen from a place of our own bleakness. Or, if we’re not desperate ourselves, we must listen to the story right alongside the one who is barely hanging on.

Listening carefully, we recognize that old story of Jesus. It is a spark that glows deep down in the fractures of our hearts, the watery shadows of our souls, and in the ripped social fabric around us.  

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I wish I knew more about those early Christian communities that recorded this gospel. What were those people like? You know, the ones that kindled that spark in the shadowiest of times? We have the letters that Paul wrote to some of them which offer some clues about the type lives they tried to lead. In one of those letters, Paul counseled them: “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you look to the interests of the others.

The letters and gospel stories of these very, very early Christians survive them. We know that these folks were tenacious people and imperfect. We know that they weren’t so powerful by worldly standards, but we know that they tried to walk in the way of love.

How did that spark burn, in such times of desolation?

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In June of 2020, a colleague of mine, Ingrid, who pastors a church in North Minneapolis told a story of a man named Brian Dragonfly.  Brian approached her in the days of unrest in North Minneapolis after the murder of George Floyd.  He was an employee of the indigenous organization MIGIZI that had a building across the alley from the church and the day he came to her, he carried a lantern that was lit with fire.  MIGIZI, had recently finished constructing their new building. Luckily, it survived the first night of unrest in North Minneapolis. But, the second night, in spite of so much goodwill and effort, no one could stop the fire from spreading to MIGIZI’s building and it burned. The structure--and much of what was inside--was destroyed.  

When Brian had arrived that morning at the site he found the fire still smoldering. Standing there, he told Pastor Ingrid, “I decided to capture the fire,” and he held up his flickering lantern.  He asked her if the congregation might help them tend the fire and keep it until they could rebuild.  He thought that the fire might bring some comfort to his community.  Ingrid dipped a candle into the lantern and later wrote of the conversation and hope they shared: that out of this ashy moment there might someday be an opportunity for new life. 

It was as if the old world, the one they trusted was vanishing before their very eyes. And they couldn’t quite see the shape of what was coming at them, It seemed like a threat. How could they hold out hope for new life?

“We will tend the fire with you,” Pastor Ingrid said.

The prophet Isaiah wrote:

“do not remember the former things 
nor consider the things of old. 
I am about to do a new thing; 
now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?” 

Then Jesus said,  
nation will rise against nation, 
and kingdom against kingdom; 
there will be earthquakes in various places; 
there will be famines. 
This is but the beginning of the birth pangs.”

Where there is loss, there is a promise of restoration. Where there is death, there are birth pangs, and the promise of new life. And as we walk towards life and salvation, we tend the flame that sparks in even the shadowiest corners; and somehow in that shadow, God is mysteriously with us. Tending the flame and holding on to hope, albeit with our laments and griefs and struggles on our lips, is part of who we are as people of faith.

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Ancient baptism, and baptism today, was the initiation into a community that proclaims the way (John 14:6), and the path to a better world. Something about this way seems unexpected and reversed. While it might seem like force or domination should win, in this way of Jesus, love has the final say.  It is a way that is characterized not by power over, but power alongside.

Hannah sang of reversal in her song we heard today when she proclaimed that the bows of the mighty might be broken to pieces, that those who have stumbled might be now strong. 

Mary riffed on Hannah’s song generations later and sang of this God who cast the mighty down from their thrones, who filled the bellies of the hungry with good things. 

Baptism brought folks and brings folks formally into a community that proclaims this Way characterized by mercy, generosity, companionship and love. The way can be tough and when the night seems endless, we keep our eyes set on the long view of God’s shalom.  We witness with hope to love that struggles to be born in our midst and, you better believe we hold the flame close.

To P., and all our youth that are gathered here around you on this very special day:  I wish I could promise you that everything in your life is going to be okay.  I wish I could tell you that the good and honorable people will always win, and that hatred and division will cease to be. I wish I could soften hardened hearts and eliminate all the bombs and machines of war and greed and selfishness with the snap of my fingers. I wish I could tell you that life with your family will always be easy and that our society will always work together to seek out the collective good.  I wish I could tell you that all of your friends, especially the nerd kids, the queer kids, the awkward kids, and the worried kids, that they’re all going to be okay. I wish I could snuff out anything that might cause you despair or hopelessness or anguish. I wish I could make sure your hearts will never break on this mysterious journey of life that we are on.  

But I can’t.  

The truth is that in this life, P., and all of you, there will be moments that unfold that make you feel unsteady. There will be times of profound disappointment. At times, you’ll feel afraid.  There will be durations where it feels like the world as you know it is vanishing  and the future before you is unclear. 

But just like the prophets before us, just like Jesus and the ancestors of our faith who wrestled for that blessing, we will hold onto that promise that God will make all things new and that God will wipe every tear from our eyes (Rev.21:4). That God will be with us, just as sure as the morning sun rises and just as true as God is here with us right now.

The path and the pattern of Jesus is never promised to be easy, but it is true. And as we walk—whether in the wilderness or the promised land--we will practice the way of generosity, forgiveness, compassion and love and we will reach for a world where all people are cherished—in fact, we will create it.

Our story begins in the midst of desolation.
Our story begins when we turn towards each other.
Our story begins as we step out together in God’s love.

(1) I have heard Walter Bruggeman speak about this idea. He also explores it in his book "The Prophetic Imagination."