Sunday, 7 December 2014

'Good news' story, or good 'news story'?

Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church
11.00am, 7th December 2014 – Advent #2




Mark 1:1-8  The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.  2 As it is written in the prophet Isaiah, "See, I am sending my messenger ahead of you, who will prepare your way;  3 the voice of one crying out in the wilderness: 'Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight,'"  4 John the baptizer appeared in the wilderness, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.  5 And people from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem were going out to him, and were baptized by him in the river Jordan, confessing their sins.  6 Now John was clothed with camel's hair, with a leather belt around his waist, and he ate locusts and wild honey.  7 He proclaimed, "The one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to stoop down and untie the thong of his sandals.  8 I have baptized you with water; but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit."

Isaiah 40:1-11  Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God.  2 Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and cry to her that she has served her term, that her penalty is paid, that she has received from the LORD's hand double for all her sins.  3 A voice cries out: "In the wilderness prepare the way of the LORD, make straight in the desert a highway for our God.  4 Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low; the uneven ground shall become level, and the rough places a plain.  5 Then the glory of the LORD shall be revealed, and all people shall see it together, for the mouth of the LORD has spoken."  6 A voice says, "Cry out!" And I said, "What shall I cry?" All people are grass, their constancy is like the flower of the field.  7 The grass withers, the flower fades, when the breath of the LORD blows upon it; surely the people are grass.  8 The grass withers, the flower fades; but the word of our God will stand forever.  9 Get you up to a high mountain, O Zion, herald of good tidings; lift up your voice with strength, O Jerusalem, herald of good tidings, lift it up, do not fear; say to the cities of Judah, "Here is your God!"  10 See, the Lord GOD comes with might, and his arm rules for him; his reward is with him, and his recompense before him.  11 He will feed his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms, and carry them in his bosom, and gently lead the mother sheep.


A Labour Party spin doctor infamously remarked,
            on the day of the 9/11 terrorist attacks in 2001,
            that that day was a ‘very good day’ to bury ‘bad news’.[1]

Whilst she was, with some justification,
            vilified by the press at the time,
I think that in many ways her reaction to news management in the wake of tragedy
            was the product of a far wider and longstanding culture of cynicism and opportunism
            in the world of news, media, spin, and propaganda.

The question of ‘good news days’, and ‘bad news days’,
            and indeed of ‘good news’ and ‘bad news’
is not a straightforward question
            of the moral difference between ‘good’ and ‘bad’.

The thing is, a ‘good-news’ story, is rarely a good ‘news-story’.
            Stories of ‘good news’ are often confined to the final item on the local news,
                        and typically take the ‘lost puppy found’ style.
It is very rare for the headline news to be ‘good news’,
            rather, the stories we want to hear are stories of tragedy and trauma,
                        of wars and rumours of wars,
                        stories of money, power, and politics.
These are the good ‘news-stories’,
            and they are rarely ‘good news’.

On the rare occasion that a headlining story is presented as ‘good news’,
            the cynic in me is always looking beneath the surface of the story
            for the spin, the propaganda, the vested interest.

Take the birth of a royal baby,
            news of which will once again be dominating the media in coming months…
Whilst this might be good news in and of itself,
            as indeed would be tidings of the safe arrival of any child,
it is only headline good news because the father will one day be king,
            and as the birth of the power, wealth, and privilege of the family
            that the child will be born into.

And so the birth of a child
            becomes a legitimation narrative to reinforce
            the ideology of inherited monarchy and entrenched privilege.
And in due course the Christening of that child,
            by the head of the established church,
will in similarly reinforce the symbiotic relationship
            between political power and established religion.

And it was ever thus.

In the Roman world, the birth of a royal child
            was trumpeted throughout the empire as ‘good news’.
The Roman propaganda machine would go into overdrive,
            to eulogise the emperor as the ‘divine man’
            and the birth of their child as the birth of a god.
There is an ancient inscription, which reads,
            ‘The birthday of the god was, for the world, the beginning
            of the joyful messages which have gone forth because of him.’

‘Glad tidings of comfort and joy’, indeed.

The birth of the emperor’s god-child was hailed as ‘good news’
            because it ensured the perpetuation of the royal dynasty.

And so we come to the first verse of Mark’s gospel,
            written to a culture familiar with the carefully managed ‘good news’
                        of the emperor cult:

The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.’[2]

Here, right at the beginning of the gospel, in the very first line of text,
            we find Mark setting up a conflict that will dominate everything that follows.
He serves notice to his readers, from the offset,
            that this story of Jesus will be one which challenges
            the apparatus of imperial propagation.

Like John’s gospel, Mark doesn’t offer us a ‘birth narrative’;
            we have to turn to Matthew and Luke
            for our singing shepherds, angelic choirs, and visiting magi.
Rather, he gives us a dramatic introduction
            to the arrival of the son of God in the course of human history.

Mark presents the coming of Jesus as the advent of the ‘anointed’ leader,
            who is confirmed by God himself,
and who bursts onto the scene of history
            proclaiming a ‘kingdom’ to challenge the might
            of the Roman Kingdom.

In other words, Mark’s version of the advent of Jesus
            is cast in such a way as to take dead aim at Caesar,
            and at the legitimating myths that supported his power.
From its very first line, Mark’s gospel is subversive.

‘Good news’ in Roman times, as in our own time,
            was usually news of victory on the battlefield
            as the imperial armies marched their way across the known world,
giving the gift of Roman Peace, the pax Romana,
            to a world that had no choice but to accept the gift,
            or to pay the price for refusing to comply.

In direct contrast to this, the ‘good news’ with which Mark’s Gospel begins,
            is a declaration of war upon the very heart of the violent empire,
                        as Jesus does battle with the political culture
                        of imperial domination.

We live in a world that is addicted to news,
            but as we have seen, ‘good news’ does not usually make good news.
A good, or effective, news story,
            is one that hooks the viewer or the reader into wanting to know more.
News of battles won, terror threats foiled, economic victories, and political standoffs,
            are the staple diet of our news media.

And they do for us what the Roman propaganda machine
            did for the Roman plebeians:
They sell us the narratives by which we then frame our lives,
            and they invite us to rejoice in the ‘good news’ of their protectionism,
                        as it comes to us through the secular deities of militarism and monarchy,
                        and the miracle of free market economics.

And it is to us, as it was to the world of the Romans,
            that the Christ-child comes.
And Mark would have us believe that he comes
            in a way that subverts the good parochial news stories of our time
            with a transcendent message of ‘good news’ for all time, and all people.

And so Mark takes us on a journey from the world of global domination,
            to the world of those who see history from the other side.
He invites us to step with him into the world of the under-dog,
            the world of the dominated,
                        the world of the refugee, the alienated, and the exiled.
And so he invokes the prophet Isaiah,
            and we hear a voice reading quotes from the prophet of the Jewish exile.

Interestingly, if you actually turn to Isaiah in the Old Testament, to find this quote,
            it’s not there quite as Mark has it,
not only because he was quoting from a Greek translation of the Hebrew Scriptures,
            (whereas our modern Old Testament is a translation of a tenth century Hebrew text);
but also because the first half of the quote isn’t from Isaiah at all,
            it’s from Exodus and Malachi (Exod. 23.20; Mal. 3.1).

The second part of Mark’s quote is, however, from Isaiah,
            and is found in our Old Testament reading for today (Isa. 40.3).

As an aside here, for a moment,
            the fact that Mark can take three quotes, from three different places,
            and edit them together to form what he presents
                        as a unified quotation from Isaiah,
            tells us a lot about the way in which the early followers of Jesus
                        thought about their scriptures.
Not for them some restrictive doctrine of scriptural inerrancy,
            or any idea that the text is immutable
            and universally applicable in all times and all places.
Not for them any statement of faith
            that regards scripture as the sole and absolute authority
            in all matters of faith and practice.
Rather, Mark, and the other Gospel writers,
            regarded the Hebrew Scriptures as holy stories,
            that explored how and why God was at work in the world,
                        drawing people to himself
                        and reshaping human history away from oppression and towards liberation.
For them, scripture was more of an inspiration,
            than it was itself inspired.
It was there to engage with, to hear from, and to argue with,
            not to settle arguments and close down conversation!

Anyway, the way in which Mark edits these three quotes together is significant,
            because it tells us a lot about his subversive intent.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed it, but the word ‘redaction’
            is suddenly in fashion at the moment.
Just in case you’ve missed this, it means, ‘to edit for publication’,
            and it’s a word that Biblical Scholars are very familiar with
as we look at the ways the gospel writers edited their source material together,
            in order to bring their different versions of the Jesus story into being.

So the scholarly discipline of ‘redaction criticism’, as it is known, looks at the motives
            for why things have been edited together in certain ways.

However, the word ‘redaction’ has come into more popular use
            through the way in which government departments have responded
                        to requests made under the Freedom of Information Act,
            where documents are released, but in so-called ‘redacted’ form,
                        with section obliterated where that particular content
                        is deemed unsuitable for public consumption.

The association with concealed statistics and government cover up
            has lent the word an air of mystery and intrigue;
                        it speaks of the mystique of subversion.
Which is exactly where Mark is taking us
            in his redaction of Exodus, Malachi, and Isaiah.

The Exodus reference, and its equivalent passage in Malachi,
            are combined and translated by Mark to read:
See, I am sending my messenger ahead of you, who will prepare your way.’

And here, Mark takes us into the world of the Jewish slaves in Egypt,
            making their journey through the wilderness of Sinai
            on their way to the promised land.

The messenger who goes ahead through the wilderness
            is heralding the way for the people of God to make their own journey of liberation;
the Lord himself blazes the trail.

This is a story of emancipation, of freedom from slavery.
            And as such it is an inherently revolutionary story.
For any empire dependent on the enslavement of humans,
            the release of those slaves from bondage
            is an act of treason against the system that requires their servitude.

Whether it’s the Egyptians of the time of the exodus,
            or the Romans of the time of Mark’s gospel,
            or the American plantation owners of a byegone century,
            or those who currently serve in the sweatshops and brothels of our own time,
            held in economic slavery to the empire of global capital
                        that dominates our own world.
The release of slaves is an act of subversion.

What Mark leaves open for interpretation, though,
            is who the messenger of freedom is in the context of his gospel.
Is it John the Baptist, heralding the arrival of Jesus?
            Or is the messenger Jesus himself,
                        preparing the way for those who will follow him?
            Or is the messenger none other than God,
                        sending the gospel writer to proclaim to readers down the centuries
                        the good news of the advent of Jesus.

The answer to this conundrum may well be that all three are intended,
            because the advent of God is not a once-for-all event,
                        fixed in time and space.

            The God who comes to us in the infant Jesus,
                        a sign of hope in a world of oppression and darkness,
            is the same God who comes to us in the adult Jesus,
                        opening before all of humanity a way of being,
                        that is not dominated by death and enthralled by empire.
            And this is yet again the same God
                        who comes to us by the Spirit of Christ,
                                    as the stories of Good News that we encounter
                                    through the pages of the gospel
                        inspire new ways of engaging our humanity before God.

Sometimes, the coming of God into the world
            is full of ambiguity and uncertainty,
because this is the God who comes in the wilderness,
            to those who are lost,
offering a way through the desert to the new world of love and acceptance
            that he is bringing into being.

And so Mark introduces us to John the Baptist,
            the herald in the wilderness,
            living a marginal existence, surviving on locusts and honey.

John is found in the place where the exodus people fled
            as they left their slavery in Egypt.
He is found in the place where Jesus faces his own temptations,
            the place where Elijah sought sanctuary when hunted by the political authorities,
                        the place of solitude, loneliness, and liminality.

And it is from this peripheral place
            that the challenge to the centre emerges.
The voice of the one proclaiming the advent of the good news of the coming of Jesus
            is heard echoing from the hills.
If earthly power takes the centre ground,
            whether that be Rome, Jerusalem, or Westminster;
the prophetic voice of challenge comes from the margins.

Mark’s gospel deliberately sets up a spatial tension
            between two places that are symbolically and archetypically opposite.

The disparity between the margin and the centre,
            between the wilderness and the temple,
is something that Mark’s gospel returns to time and again.

According to the dominant Jewish nationalistic ideology of salvation history,
            Jerusalem was considered the hub
            to which all nations would one day come.
Mark turns this on its head;
            and far from beginning his story of good news with a triumphal march on Zion,
rather, he tells of crowds fleeing to the margins,
            to be baptised with the baptism of repentance.

Mark is setting the scene for the conflict
            that will only resolve itself at the crucifixion,
as the new kingdom of Jesus comes from the margins,
            to challenge the powers that dominate the centre.

The priestly and scribal establishment of the temple,
            whose social power was derived
                        from systems of religiously legitimates social control,
            finds itself in the same category as the emperor of Rome:
such power is deemed illegitimate by the coming Christ.

And the good news of the coming of Jesus
            is that all expressions of illegitimate power,
                        whether secular, sacred, or some fusion of the two,
            are called to account by the voice of repentance from the wilderness.

And so John the Baptist calls people to repentance,
            he invites them to confess the sin of their complicity
                        in the idolatrous powers of Rome and Jerusalem,
            and he baptises them in the Jordan as they, like the exodus people of old,
                        pass through the waters of the river
            as they make their journey from the old world to the new,
                        as they complete their pilgrimage
                                    from enslavement to the powers that be
                                    to freedom in the new kingdom
                                                that they are being called to bring into being.

The water-baptism of John, the baptism of repentance,
            heralds the baptism offered by Jesus,
who will, says John, baptise with the Holy Spirit.

If the baptism of water in the wilderness sets up a challenge
            to the dominant powers in the world,
the baptism of the Holy Spirit
            inaugurates a confrontation on a spiritual level
            with the underlying forces of idolatry
            that give rise to earthly expressions of centralised authority.

There is no darkness so dark
            as that which lurks in the human soul,
and we have such endless capacity to wreak havoc in creation.

The baptism of the Holy Spirit
            shines the light of the Spirit of Christ
                        into the darkest places of our souls and imaginings,
            bringing to the light all that would otherwise eat away at our humanity,
                        destroying us one day at a time until all that is left
                        are the false gods of our own devising.

Baptism is not simply about being sorry to God
            for all the wrong things we have done.
It is about opening ourselves to the transformative power of the Spirit of Christ
            that takes us away from the centre,
                        away from our dreams of power and our fantasies of success,
            into the wilderness where dreams are transformed
                        and fantasies redeemed.

It is only as we are baptised to be a marginal people
            that we find we can effect true change in the world.
The challenge here, at the beginning of Mark’s gospel, is clear:
            It asks us to consider in what way we will regard
                        the coming of Jesus to the world as good news?

If we see the coming of Jesus as the advent of power,
            to transform society from the centre
                        by forceful application of Christian values,
            then we side with Rome and Jerusalem,
                        not with John the Baptist.

If, however, we hear the one who comes to us,
            calling us to the wilderness to repent of our sins,
            calling us to baptism of water and the Holy Spirit,
then we hear the voice of the one crying in the desert.

Next week, in our evening service,
            we will be having a service of baptism,
as we bear witness to the transformative work of Christ,
            in the life of one of his followers.

But the waters of Baptism speak to all of us,
            maybe reminding us of the promises we ourselves have made in years long past,
            maybe challenging us to consider baptism for ourselves,
but above all, calling us to the margins,
            calling us to the wilderness, to the land beyond the Jordan,
            calling us to repentance of our worshipping of other gods,
            and calling us to receive afresh the baptism of the Holy Spirit,
                        who opens within us the stream of living water
                        which leads to eternal life.





[1] http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/1385043/A-good-day-for-No10-to-bury-Jo-Moores-career.html
[2] The following sermon draws on Ched Myers, Binding the Strong Man.

Sunday, 30 November 2014

The Sign of the Time

'The Sign of the Time'
- a poem for Advent


Divine Time is not a line,
from Earth to Heaven,
from Hell to redemption.
from here to there,
Divine Time is a circle;
a spiral of turning.
As the seasons turn the year,
the hands of Divine Time
proscribe their journey
from start to start,
and from end to end.
Now is the start,
and now is the end.
'Eternity in each present moment.'


This poem was inspired by tonight's excellent Advent Sermon by Lindsay Meader at St James' Piccadilly.

The last days



Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church
Advent 1 – 30th November 2014

Mark 13.24-37   "But in those days, after that suffering, the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light,  25 and the stars will be falling from heaven, and the powers in the heavens will be shaken.  26 Then they will see 'the Son of Man coming in clouds' with great power and glory.  27 Then he will send out the angels, and gather his elect from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven. 
28 "From the fig tree learn its lesson: as soon as its branch becomes tender and puts forth its leaves, you know that summer is near.  29 So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that he is near, at the very gates.  30 Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all these things have taken place.  31 Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away. 
32 "But about that day or hour no one knows, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.  33 Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come.  34 It is like a man going on a journey, when he leaves home and puts his slaves in charge, each with his work, and commands the doorkeeper to be on the watch.  35 Therefore, keep awake-- for you do not know when the master of the house will come, in the evening, or at midnight, or at cockcrow, or at dawn,  36 or else he may find you asleep when he comes suddenly.  37 And what I say to you I say to all: Keep awake."

Isaiah 64.1-9   O that you would tear open the heavens and come down, so that the mountains would quake at your presence--  2 as when fire kindles brushwood and the fire causes water to boil-- to make your name known to your adversaries, so that the nations might tremble at your presence!  3 When you did awesome deeds that we did not expect, you came down, the mountains quaked at your presence.  4 From ages past no one has heard, no ear has perceived, no eye has seen any God besides you, who works for those who wait for him.  5 You meet those who gladly do right, those who remember you in your ways. But you were angry, and we sinned; because you hid yourself we transgressed.  6 We have all become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous deeds are like a filthy cloth. We all fade like a leaf, and our iniquities, like the wind, take us away.  7 There is no one who calls on your name, or attempts to take hold of you; for you have hidden your face from us, and have delivered us into the hand of our iniquity.  8 Yet, O LORD, you are our Father; we are the clay, and you are our potter; we are all the work of your hand.  9 Do not be exceedingly angry, O LORD, and do not remember iniquity forever. Now consider, we are all your people.


There have always been people
            who have sought to predict the date of the end of the world.
From the prophecies of Nostradamus
            to the date-setting of American doomsday ‘prophet’ Harold Camping,
from seventeenth-century millennialists
            to the tenth-century monk Joachim of Fiore,
from the messianic prophets of first-century Judaism
            to the 2012 end of the Mayan calendar
– there has never been a shortage of people predicting the end of the world.

And yet here we still are, and the world is still turning.

In the twentieth century,
            end of the world prophecies took a technological turn,
and many who grew up in the shadow of the cold war
            genuinely feared the world might imminently end in nuclear holocaust.

In the 1970s it was believed that the world was cooling
            and that a new ice age was coming
            (as Punk Rock group The Clash famously sang in their song London Calling).
The current and genuine fears about global warming and climate change
            inspire similar levels of fear, anxiety, denial, or activism.

And yet, for now, here we still are.

So far no-one has set a date which has been proved right;
            as Jesus says in our gospel reading for today
                        ‘about that day or hour, no one knows,
                        neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son.’
                        (Mark 13.32; cf. Matthew 24:36).

Strictly in the interests of research for this sermon, you understand,
            I spent a few distressing minutes this week researching end-times predictions online.
And I have to say that the world of the contemporary end-times prophet
            is certainly an interesting place to be…

One London pastor and blogger, who had probably better remain nameless,
            runs an end-times ‘news feed’,
                        in which he lists contemporary events that he believes
                        are indicators of the fact that ‘Jesus is Coming Soon’.

Just in case you’re a stranger to this world,
            I thought I’d share some of his evidence of the end times with you…

He describes himself as a
“Pastor & Proclaimer of the Word of God.
Counting down to the return of Jesus Christ
& pointing out the signs along the way.”

Interestingly, he then adds,

“REPENT, for the time is at hand...”

His list of signs of the end times,
            includes the following from just the last few days alone:

45 arrested in Boston yesterday for rioting... 700 miles away from #Ferguson. This has spread right accross the US

Massive earthquake in Indonesia.  7.0 on the richter scale

Bubonic Plague death toll in Madagascar reaches 47

Woman got swallowed by a sinkhole in her garden while hanging the washing out.

Flash floods have killed at least 32 in Morocco today #EndTimes

Volcano erupted in Cape Verde

Earthquake in Japan caused houses to collapse

And so it goes on…

For this blogger, and his many, many followers online,
            human violence and natural disasters
                        are the convincing proof they need
                        to believe that the end of the world is at hand.

Whilst at one level it is fairly easy to deconstruct his logic;
            after all, earthquakes, volcanos, disease, and war are nothing new,
                        and yet, still the end has not come;
nevertheless, the issue of suffering at the hands of humans and nature
            continues to pose a very real question for any of us who seek to hold a belief
            in a God of love and mercy.

In many ways, seeing such events as proof that we live in the ‘end times’
            is a compelling solution to the problem of human suffering;
because it shifts the focus away from us, and our response,
            and puts the emphasis instead onto the outworking of the purposes of God.

In other words, these things must happen before the end,
            because God wills it to be so,
and the fact that they are happening now,
            must mean that the end is nigh…

Many of those who have responded to the problem in this way,
            have been influenced by date-setting end-times prophets,
                        or the many films and books that offer such an interpretation
                        of the relationship between human suffering the end of the world.

The Left Behind series of books and films
            has achieved huge popularity over recent decades,
offering a rapture-based end times reading
            of passages like our Gospel reading for this morning,
            or other similar biblical texts such as the book of Revelation.

And not without good reason or effect,
            because I have a suspicion that if you ask most people
                        what they think Mark 13 is about,
            one of the first things they will say
                        is that it’s about the end of the world.

And it’s true, there is a lot of imagery in this chapter
            that sounds pretty catastrophic
            (‘apocalyptic’, you might say, but we’ll come to that shortly).

However, is it actually accurate to say that it’s about the end of the world?
            Well, yes and no.

If what we mean is,
            ‘is it a kind of “Dummies Guide” to the end of the world?’,
                        then no, it isn’t.
            As those who have tried to make it such can show us,
                        neither Mark chapter 13, nor the book of Revelation itself
            are any better at helping us predict the date of the end of the world
                        than, say, Nostradamus!

This is where our end-times blogger is making his category error;
            he’s treating this chapter, and others like it,
            as a literal prediction of specific events
            that will precede the ending of the world.

However, there may be another way of looking at this chapter,
            where it can indeed speak to us very powerfully about the end of the world.

Have you ever heard someone say,
            perhaps after a tragic bereavement or a serious illness,
                        ‘it was the end of the world’?

They clearly don’t mean that the world has literally ended,
            and to assume they did would be to miss their point.

What they mean is that the world as they knew it has gone,
            and they are now living in a new world,
                        a world that, is in a very real sense,
                        different to the world that they lived in before.

Of course such world-ending, or world-transforming, events
            aren’t always tragic or traumatic,
sometimes it can be a positive thing that ends one world and starts another,
            think of the unexpected lottery win,
            or falling in love, or becoming a parent.
The old world ends, and a new world begins.

So when the New Testament uses imagery and language
            about the end of the world,
it is telling its readers that if they understand its message,
            if they spend time with its prophetic images,
they too will experience ‘the end of the world’,
            as their old world is brought to an end,
            and they find ourselves entering a new world
                        in which Jesus Christ is at the centre of creation,
                        drawing all things and all people to himself.

Those who have sought to confine such passages
            to the realm of predictive prophecy
make it of greatest relevance to those
            who find themselves living in the ‘last days’ of planet Earth.

And the difficulty with this is that they run the risk of alienating
            the vast swathe of humanity
                        (probably including ourselves, unless we really are the ‘last generation’)
            who have been born, lived, and died
                        within the normal course of history.

Christians usually assert that the Bible is of equal relevance to all,
            whether you live and die in the first, eleventh or twenty-first centuries.
So, if it is to be of relevance to all generations,
            not just the last generation,
and if it proclaims a message of world-ending significance
            rather than simply predicting the end of the world,
what is it that is so special about the message of a passage such as Mark 13?

Well, I think Ruth was very helpful last week,
            when she suggested that one of the ways of reading such sections of scripture
is to see them as similar to the story of Dickens’ ‘A Christmas Carol’,
            where the vision of the future that is shown to Ebenezer Scrooge
            by the ghost of Christmas yet to come,
                        is not prediction of what must take place,
            but rather shows the consequences that will arise
                        from the choices Ebenezer will make.

The intent of the vision that he is shown
            is to produce in him a change of behaviour;
it is to get him to ‘repent’ of his scrooge-like behaviour,
            and to start living a life of generosity and care for his fellow humans.

In other words, it is to bring his world of mean-ness to an end,
            and to bring into being a new world of kind-ness.

It is exactly the same with Mark 13,
            as it is for other similar texts such as the book of Revelation.

The descriptions of suffering and tribulation
            that we find in the apocalyptic tradition of the New Testament,
are not to be heard as expressions of the vengeance of God,
            but rather should be seen as the suffering caused by
                        - as Robert Hammerton Kelly puts it -
            ‘wars, frauds, charlatans, natural catastrophes,
                        misunderstandings, and persecutions’

The very human and very troubling question,
            of where God is to be found in the midst of human suffering,
is not answered by seeing God as the instigator of that suffering,
            but rather as the one who suffers alongside us
            in the shared tribulations of our fallen human condition.

This is not a cross God,
            it is the God of the cross.

Some of us here may remember the news reports from 1966,
            when, over a period of five minutes,
            the coal tip above the Welsh mining village of Aberfan,
            slid down the mountain and engulfed a farm, several houses, and a school.
In total, 116 children and 28 adults were killed.

The question which many asked, quite rightly, was:
            where was God at Aberfan?

An end-times blogger might see such an event
            as further proof that we live in the last days,
with tragedies such as this happening in fulfilment
            of the prophecies of scripture.

But I think a more helpful perspective comes from the theologian W H Vanstone,
            who offered the following reflection on the question
            of where God is to be found in the midst of suffering. He said,

 ‘We believe that at the moment when the mountain of Aberfan slipped,
            “something went wrong”.
Our faith is in a Creator who does not abandon even this,
            nor those who suffered, wept and died in it.
Our preaching on the Sunday after the tragedy was not of a God
            who, from the top of the mountain, caused or permitted,
            for his own inscrutable reasons, its disruption and descent;
but of one who received, at the foot of the mountain, its appalling impact
            and who, in the extremity of endeavour,
            will find yet new resources to restore and redeem.’

If our view of God is one that expects him to intervene in power
            to stop the vicious cycles of human suffering,
            then we are worshipping the wrong God.

The ‘intervention of God’ is that which we see in Christ,
            where God comes to his people not in vengeful wrath,
            but rather to suffer with us, and to redeem our fragility and frailty.

The sufferings of humanity depicted in the Apocalyptic tradition
            point us not to violence of divine origin,
but to the sufferings brought about by humans themselves
            as they resist the in-breaking the Kingdom of God
            and live out their humanity in imitation of a violent God of their own making.

Sadly predictable human failings cause human suffering on a global scale
            without any divine intervention needed.
And, time and again, it is the innocent who suffer.

From children whose school was sited beneath an unstable coal tip,
            to impoverished subsistence farmers
                        forced to live in areas prone to flooding as sea levels rise,
            to Syrian refugees,
                        to aid workers,
            to people who are simply on the unlucky bus, or tube,
                        or in the wrong building at the wrong time.

The powerful flex their muscles,
            and the innocent suffer.

And where is God in the midst of all this suffering?

Well, this is a good question,
            for us on this first Sunday of Advent.

In the deepening darkness of the world,
            where is God to be found?

The prophet Isaiah wrestles with this question
            in our Old Testament text,
as he addresses God’s seeming absence from his people,
            and articulates a desperate longing
                        that God would dramatically intervene in human affairs,
            tearing open the heavens and coming down
                        with such force that the mountains would quake at his presence (Isa 64.1).

The Advent prayer of, ‘Come Lord, come quickly’
            is the prayer of desperate longing.
It is a prayer born of an experience of the absence of God.

In our evening ‘Informal Church’ services,
            we always have a time of quiet reflection,
where we ask people to think about where, over the last week,
            they have met with God.
But then we follow this up with another, possibly more difficult question,
            of where, over the last week, have we been,
            but have not met with God.

Or, to put it another way,
            where have we experienced the absence of God;
where have we wanted to share with Jesus and the Psalmist
            the cry of desolation ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’

And sometimes the desperate longing of our souls
            to experience God in the midst of Godless suffering and pain
                        may simply need to be held in mystery.
            Sometimes we have to wait through holy Saturday
                        for the day of resurrection to come.

But sometimes we may discover that God appears absent from our lives,
            because we have been looking for the wrong God.
We may discover that we have been looking at the top of a mountain
            for a God who sends a coal tip down onto a school,
when God is actually to be found at the bottom of a mountain,
            in the mud, and terror, and death of human suffering.

As humans we have an inbuilt tendency to idolatry,
            we find it all too easy to worship the wrong God.
The story of the fall from the opening chapters of Genesis
            vividly explores the human experience
            of seeming hard-wired for idolatry.
We so often look for the wrong God,
            in the wrong places, and from the wrong perspectives.

And so it was that the longed-for Christ was born,
            not in the palace where the wise men first sought him,
            but in poverty to a refugee family,
The coming of Christ marks the beginning of a new humanity,
            one which is focussed on the true God of love
            rather than the many gods of violence that we so readily construct in our own image.

The Advent of the ‘second Adam’, as Paul calls Jesus (1 Cor. 15.45),
            opens before us a new way of being human
            which is not dominated by the violent idolatry of the first Adam,
because the Advent of Jesus reveals God to be the God of the bottom of the mountain,
            rather than the top.

If we are looking for a god who comes in might,
            to violently liberate us from our enemies,
                        and to extract revenge on those who oppress us,
            then yes, that God is absent.

However, if we are looking for the God of the victims,
            then we may discover that he has been with us all the time.
And if he is hidden from our eyes,
            it is because our eyes have not yet been opened to the true God,
                        who comes, not to fight for right,
            but to redeem suffering and restore humanity.

The God who comes to us in Jesus,
            and who goes to the cross in pain and suffering,
                        is a God, not of violence, but of non-violence.
The God who is revealed in Christ,
            is not a God who is passively indifferent to human suffering,
but one who takes positive action
            to enter into our suffering bringing redemption to all.

The apocalyptic tradition which we meet in Mark chapter 13,
            unveils the true nature of the God who comes to humanity in Christ.
And it challenges us all to see the world unmasked,
            to see God as God is, and not as we would construct him,
            to see the Son of Man revealed in Christ Jesus,
                        who comes to us in weakness and humility,
            to see the signs of the in-breaking kingdom of heaven,
                        redeeming and transforming the world,
            to keep awake when others slumber,
                        to not let ourselves be lulled into a stupor of indifference,
                                    but to keep hope alive and faith active.

The apocalyptic unveiling of the world
            reveals to us a God who is not found along the well trodden paths of violence.
And as we see God in Christ Jesus we come to realise that all attempts
            to simply contain our human desire for dominance over another
            are ultimately fruitless in releasing us from the hold that sin has over our lives.

Any attempt by humans to sanction violence,
            whether through secular legitimation
                        or sacred justification,
            simply opens the door to the profanity of further bloodshed.

What we need, to be fully free before God, is re-creation,
            we need the radical transformation,
that comes through the ending of one world
            and the inauguration of a new world.

We need violence transformed,
            and suffering redeemed.
We need humanity recreated,
            and the world reborn.

And this is the vision of Mark 13,
            not as a future hope,
but as a present reality, coming into being in our midst,
            as we enter the new world and live its reality into being in our lives.

The end times are at hand,
            the old is gone, and the new has come.

As Jesus puts it;

‘in those days, after that suffering, the sun will be darkened,
            and the moon will not give its light, 
and the stars will be falling from heaven,
            and the powers in the heavens will be shaken. 
Then they will see 'the Son of Man coming in clouds' with great power and glory.’