33rd Sunday in Ordinarty Time
I've been scared about many things in my life. Still am, in some ways. As much as I try to place those fears into the hands and Heart of Christ, the fears remain and I do my best to not fall apart on a daily basis. Perhaps you can relate.
Fears often assail us from many angles these days: fears related to failure; fears of sickness and dying; fears of living without love; fear of the "unknown next," as I like to call it.
The first time I remember be consciously aware of that "unknown next" fearfulness happened when I was maybe 11-years-old, bored on a rainy Saturday evening in 1984 and flipping mindlessly through the five local-TV stations we had before the invention of cable and streaming services.
One movie -- on PBS, of all places -- stopped my channel surfing in its tracks as I happened to catch it just as a mother and her three children lose power in their home in the middle of the day: phone line goes dead; TV screen goes black; car won't start. Curious young minds want to know why.
What we movie-watchers for come to find out in short order is that the family's northern California city, as well as most of the country, was attacked by the Soviet Union with nuclear weapons. Within days, the children were experiencing radiation sickness and the mother was burying her children in the backyard.
It was at that moment, I believe, that I became afraid of the unknown next, and started living from that space in my mind and heart.
When was the world going to end? How would it end? Could we know ahead of time? Will I be alive during this moment of terror?
The Scriptures this weekend speak to these very raw and powerful concerns, ones that often remain unspoken but lie deep within our psyche as we face the universal fears of both living and dying in the unknown next.
Beautifully, though, Christ and His Church come to us in that very space. As He and His Bride always do, they give us comfort and a holy-bold way forward when the fears threaten to overwhelm and sink us.
On one very basic level, the Word we hear proclaimed does remind us that the Son of God will come again at the end of time to call us back to Him, back to the Heart where we were always meant to be. It could be today. If it were, would I truly be ready to return to Him? Have I made amends and shared my heart in the way I have been called to do? Would the Father see His Son in me were I to stand before Him in judgment?
Truly, this is something I need to take to prayer, not out of anxiety and unhealthy fear but out of a love for God that longs to know Him and spend eternity with Him.
At the same time, though, it speaks to a reality not just of the future destination of our bodies and souls but also to the present moment in which we find ourselves.
Jesus in this account from Mark's Gospel is speaking to his disciples about his upcoming crucifixion, preparing them for what they will feel in the days after his brutal execution. Literally, the world will be turned upside down as man murders God. The sun will be darkened; stars will fall from the sky ...
I love, though, what he says in the immediate follow-up to the "end of the world" experience: look for me, he says, coming in power and glory. I won't abandon you in the darkened world of terror and disaster, however it may come.
He's not just talking about the days following his crucifixion. He's talking about the here and now.
We have all had end-of-the-world experiences that shake us to our core: the death of a loved one; a painful divorce or unexpected break-up; the failure of lifelong hopes and dreams. It is in those moments that the skies of our world seem to have gone completely dark and God remains silent and dead to our senses, our prayers and our hearts.
If you are experiencing such moments now, know that He sees you -- really sees you -- and loves you in that very space. He isn't now nor will He ever abandon you to face the fear and terror alone. From it, resurrection will come and is already here. He is here in it all.
Notice what He says: "I'll come with power and glory with all my angels and the elect." But what did that power and glory look like after Calvary?
It looked like a humble gardener meeting a grieving best friend in the garden of burial.
It looked like a stranger sharing a meal with two grieving friends ready to throw in the towel.
It looked like a small community of friends gathered around a doubting disciple to which he came and offered His wounds to explore and find rest in.
That's how Christ came in power and glory. That's how He chooses to continue to come to us now in the unknown next.
No doubt at the end of time He'll come in a way that none will be able to doubt He is the Lord of lords and King of kings. But we also must recognize that His coming to us now often looks like a fig tree approaching summer: gentle, tender, its fruit often going unnoticed to the casual observer until it hangs upon the branch.
Don't miss the new-life growth that is happening now, even in the unknown fears, doubts and worries. And don't miss the ways in which He comes to us in the present, especially at times when our world seems to crumble around us: in others, in the Sacraments, and in His Word.
Isn't it fascinating to know that the seeds of new life for a fig are actually inside the heart of the fruit where it can't be seen by the casual observer? God always seems to do His best work from within, hidden and humbly.
Although I didn't realize the symbolism of it at age 11, as the dying mother-character in the nuclear apocalypse film was burying her last child, the filmmaker chose to play an old Mamas and Papas song in that closing scene which captured both heartbreak and hope with one lyric:
Mama Cass sings: Love can never be exactly like we want it to be. The darkest hour is just before dawn.
In those moments of life when all seems to be crumbling -- in those spaces of the unknown next -- cling to that beautiful reality: Christ is present; He hasn't abandoned us. New life is coming.
It is true: the darkest hour is often just before dawn.