Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
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Yesterday, I returned to Holy Cross Monastery from five days of retreat in a little hermitage. This self-contained monastery-for-one, thoughtfully equipped with a small kitchen, table, chair, bed, bath, and deck, had everything a hermit (even a temporary one) could possibly need, and – thankfully – not a bit more. Perched on a Pennsylvania hillside, its large windows opened onto a densely wooded valley that, though now mostly devoid of leaves, was nevertheless alive – brimming, even – with deer, foxes, squirrels, and hundreds of birds of all kinds.
I spent hours sitting in the corner window nook, coffee mug in hand, surrounded by the sights and songs of these birds as they fluttered from branch to branch and tree to tree. Every now and then, the cardinals especially would alight onto the little deck, where they’d drop whatever bit of food they’d found and quickly gobble it up. I suppose the deck provided a momentary bit of solitude where they could eat in peace, without having to balance on a branch or fend off other hungry diners.
These birds became my unexpected retreat companions. In fact, in a very real sense, they became my retreat directors. They were fully aware of – if completely unphased by – my presence (after all, they couldn’t possibly have been oblivious to my awkward attempts at conversation from the deck). But whatever they may have lacked in interspecies communications skills, they more than compensated through their steady example of mindfulness and presence – an example I’ve been sorely in need of lately.
Unconcerned about anything aside from the present moment, they simply, yet perfectly, existed as birds, with no thought – and certainly no worry – for either yesterday or tomorrow. I couldn’t help recalling these words of Jesus from the Gospel of Matthew: “Therefore I tell you, do not worry … Look at the birds in the sky; they do not sow or reap, they gather nothing into barns, yet your heavenly Father feeds them … Can any of you by worrying add a single moment to your life-span?”
These are beautifully reassuring words, but, as we know, they’re not taken from the Gospel reading assigned for today. Instead, the lectionary has given us a noticeably more somber – some might even say apocryphal – reading selection, particularly in the Book of Daniel and in the Gospel of Mark. These are not very comfortable readings. They are, in many ways, quite dire. They abound with warnings of trouble ahead.
It’s fitting reading for this last regular Sunday after Pentecost. I say ‘regular’ because next Sunday – the Feast of Christ the King – is the last actual Sunday after Pentecost, the official crowning of Ordinary Time. But for this week at least we’re still basically in familiar Pentecostal territory, with green vestments and a focus on living into the Reign of God. But unlike most of the previous twenty-six Sundays, whose themes have mainly been the day-to-day teachings and ministry of Jesus, this Sunday’s readings are more of a frantic, last-minute check to make sure we really understand what we’re signing up for.
Probably it was just projection brought on by a case of hermitage-brain, but in reflecting on the Gospel reading I was struck particularly by what I perceived to be Jesus’ markedly troubled mood. (One becomes very aware of moods during extended periods of solitude.) He doesn’t quite seem himself today. His responses to the disciples’ observations about the Temple buildings and their questions about the complex’s impending destruction strike me as a bit distracted. He’s not completely present to the moment. He seems a bit “in his head” and fixated on what’s to come rather than on what’s happening right now.
That’s relatable, don’t you think? For any number of personal and societal reasons, we’re all living lives increasingly marked by anxiety and distraction, weighed down by our pasts and worried about our futures. As a result, there no longer seems to be much of a present. And that’s a big problem, because of the three tenses – past, present, and future – the present is the only place that can truly be said to exist (in the usual human experience of time, anyway) and, therefore, it's the only place where we can truly live our lives.
Of course, unlike Matthew’s birds of the air – or even the birds of the hermitage – we humans do have to occasionally reflect on the past and plan for the future. Otherwise, how can we possibly hope to learn the lessons of our experiences or make provision for legitimate needs that require planning? It’s in a space similar to this where I think we find Jesus today. He and the disciples have just exited the Temple, where he’s pointed out the hypocrisy of the of the powerful and shown them what true generosity looks like through the parable of the poor widow’s contribution. And now, back outside in the light of day, he ponders how best to make the disciples see that these lessons are about to have very real implications for them. Especially since, at this point in Mark’s gospel, his time with them is running short.
“Aren’t the buildings impressive!” the disciples say. “Hmm? Oh, yes, they are,” responds Jesus. “But they won’t be here forever. In fact, there isn’t a single stone of them that isn’t going to be thrown down.” This surely wasn’t a response the disciples were expecting. I can imagine Peter, James, John, and Andrew exchanging questioning glances as Jesus walks on, up to the Mount of Olives. When they arrive, they ask him about what he said back at the Temple. But rather than explaining, “Oh, well, you see, in another forty years or so, the Romans are going to tear the place down,” he begins pouring out what I sense has been weighing heavily on his mind – and heart – for a while now.
“Look,” he says, “you all have to be careful! There are going to be people who will try to deceive you, they’re even going to tell you that I sent them, or that they’re actually me! People are actually going to believe them and be led astray. Don’t let them trick you! And bad things are certain to happen – wars, national crises, political unrest, earthquakes, even famines. But whatever you do, remember what I’ve told you. These kinds of things are inevitable, but they’re going to lead to the future God has promised!”
The sections immediately following this passage, but not included in today’s Gospel reading, sound even less encouraging, including “The Coming Persecution,” and “The Great Tribulation.” We can only imagine the disciples’ reactions to all these things. But Jesus has to tell them what to expect. He’s concerned about his friends and doesn’t want them caught off-guard and unprepared. Continuing his ministry after he’s gone in spite of the dangers surrounding them is going to come at a cost. Defying the prevailing culture by refusing to collaborate with systems of oppression; insisting on speaking out against injustice; demanding mercy be shown to the foreigner and the marginalized; resisting violence and threats of violence for boldly proclaiming God’s love for everyone, especially the people who are targeted and vilified by those claiming to be acting in Christ’s name; and, perhaps most of all, calling-out the complacency, indifference, and hypocrisy of those benefiting from such blasphemy, is going to get them into trouble. Jesus is clear this is not a hypothetical. The disciples – and each of us – must be ready to proclaim the Gospel and bear the costs, the “birth pangs.” Like it or not, it’s our only way of reaching the future God has in store for us.
But to be clear, the warnings of doom and gloom – as essential as they are – aren’t themselves the point. The actual point is the same one that’s been prophesized, promised, and longed-for since the beginning: namely, the ultimate reunion of all creation with its Creator, the Wedding Feast of the Lamb.
Daniel tells us about it first: After speaking of a time of “great anguish, such as has never occurred since nations first came into existence,” he declares that “Those who are wise shall shine like the brightness of the sky, and those who lead many to righteousness, like the stars forever and ever.” Then, in the Letter to the Hebrews, we hear about the fruits already borne to us through the suffering endured by Jesus, namely confidence, hearts full of true faith, and – above all – hope.
With these assurances in mind, we can take the warnings of trouble for what they really are: way-markers on the road to everlasting life. While not always easy to endure, they are for us a sure sign that we’re living into the Way of Jesus, who has not only endured these same worries and sufferings, but who continues to be with us in own our trials as well. This promise is written in our hearts and in the beauty of God’s world all around us, including in the birds of the air, and in each other.
Grounded
in the gift of the present moment, and letting tomorrow’s worries take care of
themselves, may we walk confidently with one another into the future where God
is already waiting for us, and may peace and all that is good be with us, and
all whom we love, today and always. Amen.
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