Let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day approaching. Amen.
And good morning!
So I’m beginning this morning with another English cathedral story – we heard about several cathedrals this morning in Sally James’ class. A little more than seven years ago, before seminary, before pandemic, before a lot of things, I was in England, standing in the ruins of a medieval cathedral just outside London. A wedding had just happened I think, probably at the newer cathedral next door, which isn’t even a century old – it’s a mere toddler, in the timeline of English architectural history. Two toddlers, children, were running through the stone remains of the medieval church, as a matter of fact – also a bride, and some other guests, who were dressed for the celebration, and it struck me, this very visible sign of new life, of new beginnings, living and playing and expressing joy in the midst of an ancient building that had not stood the test of time.
From today’s Gospel:
“As Jesus came out of the temple, one of his disciples said to him, ‘Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!’” And Jesus answers:
“Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.”
Eighty-four years and three nights ago – on November 14, 1940 – under the bright light of the moon, Coventry, England, in the place where I was standing on that summer day after a wedding, Coventry was bombarded by 500 tons of explosives, 30,000 incendiaries and 50 landmines. More than 43,000 homes in the town were damaged or destroyed; more than 550 people lost their lives, and St. Michael’s Cathedral, which was built in 1450, was gutted. When the sun rose, only a few walls and the tower were left, and scattered on the floor of what was the nave were wooden roof beams, burned black, and the medieval nails that had held them together. It’s said that the king came and wept in the ruins (read more here).
The Provost of the Cathedral, Dick Howard, found two beams that had fallen in the shape of a cross, and they were tied together and placed at the remains of the altar.
And I thought of the ruin of that great cathedral while reading today’s Gospel. I suspect that it was just as difficult for those who lived near or traveled to or worshiped in Coventry to imagine St. Michael’s Cathedral toppled – I suspect it was as difficult for them to imagine as it would have been for the disciples to imagine the Temple in Jerusalem broken apart. But not quite 40 years after Jesus said these words, those stones would be thrown down, the temple would be destroyed and was destroyed by the Romans in 70 A.D.
We believe the Gospel of Mark was written around the year 70 A.D., partly because of that story – whether the writer of Mark put those words in Jesus’ mouth a few decades later, or Jesus did prophesy that the Temple would be destroyed, we don’t know. But in any case, between Jesus’ conversation with his disciples and the writing of the Gospel of Mark, there was war, there was famine, there were earthquakes, and the temple was torn down, stone upon stone.
Jesus, during his lifetime, and through the words of his Gospel years after his death and resurrection, right up until today – he was speaking to the present moment, a time of upheaval and change, uncertainty, fear, a time when people struggled for religious and political power, when Jesus was viewed with suspicion because he proposed a different kind of power, a different kind of kingdom, a different way to know God. There’s a reason why this conversation comes right after the story of a poor widow giving everything she has to the Temple, that story we heard last week, about her gift which was greater than the gifts of the wealthy. Jesus is upending the system, and today he says words that will be his undoing, at least for a short while, as the powers and principalities of this world arrest and condemn and execute him – “Do you see these great buildings?” he asks. “Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.”
This passage in Mark is often called “the little apocalypse” because it sounds so much like Revelation, with all of its talk of famine and earthquake and nation against nation. But if you’ll remember, two weeks ago we talked about that word, apocalypse. It’s a word that means not the destruction of things, but the unveiling of things – new understanding, new vision, new possibility. Apocalypse is an upending of norms, a re-visioning of the world. It is illumination – it is revelation.
And Jesus, in this conversation with his disciples, after telling them that these incredible, awe-inspiring monuments built of stone and faith will be thrown down, says two more things that might have been nearly as disturbing:
The first is:
“When you hear of wars or rumors of wars, do not be alarmed; this must take place.”
Jesus sees past the solid stone walls of the temple and recognizes its impermanence. He knows that earthly monuments and accomplishments are trivial and temporary compared with the power of God, and he reminds his disciples that war and conflict and famine – all those griefs and troubles of this world – are inevitable on this side of heaven. And he reminds them that we, as a community of Christ, bound together by love, can live and move by a different path, can be the voice of peace and the body of Christ in a world that is divided. He’s trying to remind his disciples to stay focused, to keep working for love in the world, not for power.
“This is but the beginning” – and this is the second thing he tells them – “this is but the beginning of the birthpangs,” Jesus tells them. Not death throes, but birthpangs. Because times of upheaval and uncertainty are also times of transformation. Apocalypse reveals new possibilities. Hope grows in the places where we can’t see the road clearly.
So here’s the rest of the story of Coventry and its cathedral.
After the sun rose that next morning, the rebuilding began. It was still five years before the end of the war. On Christmas Day the Provost gave a BBC broadcast from the ruins and said that once the war ended that Britain should work together with its enemies to rebuild and reconcile, “to build a kinder, more Christ Child-like world.” They inscribed the words “Father Forgive” on the walls of the ruined church – not “Father forgive them,” or “Father forgive us,” just “Father forgive,” in acknowledgement that the blame for conflict cannot be laid on any one person or one side or position. And they took three of the nails that had fallen from the ceiling and welded them together and made a cross, a cross of nails. I understand that they sent these crosses – they made more and sent these crosses to the leaders of other countries, to leaders of Parliament.
And after the war ended, Coventry adopted German sister cities – starting with Kiel and then then Dresden and then they built a relationship with Berlin – and they established an organization called the Community of the Cross of Nails, and today that organization spans 45 countries and works for reconciliation where there is disagreement and peace building where there is conflict. And the cathedral was rebuilt, a new sanctuary that is connected to the ruins of the old church, living side by side. And angels are etched in the windows that let the light from one into the other.
Many of us are on what feel like uncertain roads right now, especially following the events of the past few weeks. Some of us are joyful, some of us are sad, some of us are afraid. Relationships have been strained, and the tension of these last months has at times compounded the other challenges in our lives – work, health, finances, family.
In revelation lies hope; in apocalypse lies transformation, in the spiritual and political and emotional earthquakes that we move through as individuals and as a community. Jesus tells us we have the opportunity to step into that transformation and see where it takes us. Lutheran pastor Janet Hunt wonders if we can be the midwives of that transformation, those birthpangs.
In this present time, how can we be those midwives?
We can start with reconnecting, with listening: listening to those who are joyful, listening to those who are sad, listening especially to those who are frightened. Listen in order to seek understanding, to put ourselves in others’ shoes – why joy? Why sadness? Why fear? How can we better know each other? How can we better take care of each another? How can we be strength to one another, instead of adversaries, after a long time of division?
For earthly monuments and powers that be, in God’s timeline, will fade away. God’s love remains. Christ’s communion remains. And we, as a people of faith, can live the revelation of that love and that communion.
The church year ends next Sunday, on Christ the King Sunday, and begins again with Advent. We might consider these our New Year’s resolutions – instead of fear, can we bring peace – instead of raising our voices in anger, can we open our hearts in invitation – can we listen, listen, listen.
What remains, after the monuments, after the temples – what sustains is the church we are together – the faith we live in community, and what we build from the ruins that is new and lasting and grounded in love. Amen.
Sermon by The Rev. Cara Ellen Modisett at Trinity Episcopal Church, Staunton, Virginia, on November 17, 2024.
