The Promised After

Luke 21:25-36

In this sermon, I reference the destruction in Nelson County VA caused by Hurricane Camille in 1969. One of the two parishes I serve is located in Massies Mill, one of the communities most impacted by that storm. Grace Episcopal Church in Massies Mill is one of very few buildings built pre-1969 that are still standing. The high water mark of the flooding is stained in the wall of the sanctuary, well above my head.

This past week, I have had the great privilege of spending some time with Ben and his parents in the mountains of Western North Carolina. Every year we spend the Thanksgiving holiday together at Kanuga, a camp and conference center owned by the episcopal diocese of North Carolina. Kanuga is just outside the town of Hendersonville, and a short drive from Asheville. We drove past signs of the devastation of Hurricane Helene; houses with massive uprooted trees laying in pieces in the yards, damaged roofs covered by plywood and bright blue tarps, newly created ravines and washed out roads hemmed in by traffic cones and caution tape. Although Kanuga itself did flood and some buildings sustained damage, overall their recovery has been much quicker than surrounding areas. Still, there were areas that were off limits, an entire educational garden had been washed away, and the side of the mountain was scarred by erosion and lost trees. In places, it was like walking through a hastily tidied demolition site.

Driving through Hendersonville, the effects of the storm were even more obvious. The road was lined on either side by pile after pile of brush and branches. Many of the piles were my height or higher, and the land that had once been shaded by the lost trees felt bare and empty. It was eerie, made more so by the familiarity. It didn’t take me long to realize where my sense of déjà vu was coming from. It looked like the photos in the book about Hurricane Camille put together by the Nelson County Historical Society which was given to me during my first week in Virginia. I keep it on my desk, a constant reminder of the trauma that storm inflicted on the people and places I love and the resilience of those who survived and rebuilt a life after so much loss. Driving around Western North Carolina was like seeing the photographs in the book come to life.

It is fair to say, much like the devastating effects of Hurricane Camille on the Nelson County community, Hurricane Helene was apocalyptic for the people of Western North Carolina and the other areas affected. It was the end of the world, terrifying and violent and full of tragedy and loss. The impacts will be felt for generations, long after the majority of the physical damage has been repaired and new trees have grown up in the space left by those that fell. It was the ending of a world, and now a new one is slowly coming into being, not entirely different but never quite the same.

This is the kind of apocalypse Jesus foretells in our passage from Luke. Not the end of the world as seen on Netflix or the big screen, but the very real world-endings that take place in communities throughout history and all over the earth. A world-ending that shakes the powers of the heavens, confuses and distresses the nations, and causes fear and foreboding to the point of unconsciousness for those in the center of it. The sun, the moon, and the stars will show signs like the leaves point to the coming summer, and all things will pass away. Only Jesus’s words will not pass away. The Word will remain as the foundation of the new creation, and with it will come our redemption.

This is a scary future Jesus predicts for us, not one we might really want to come to pass if we’re honest. As we know in our own lives, as the people of Western North Carolina know, the end of the world is devastating, grievous, a nightmare. So why does our Lord share this with us as if it were Gospel, as if it were supposed to be Good News?

The friends from Western North Carolina that we spent time with on our trip told us their stories of destroyed places of work, layoffs, traumatized children, lost sacred spaces, displaced friends and family they suspect will never return, exhaustion, and the sense that their own pain must take a backseat so they could provide care for people who had lost everything. Like anyone who has survived a natural disaster, their sense of safety is utterly shaken, and the long road to rebuilding is daunting. They have survived an apocalypse, and we would do real harm to deny that truth.

That’s why Jesus doesn’t. Jesus does not deny that there will be fear, and pain, and grief in the lives of his followers. Jesus does not pretend that if they would just believe in him, they would have everything they ever wanted. Many of the first followers of Jesus, the ones to whom he speaks in this passage, died young and in pain. Many suffered, many were oppressed and impoverished. He did not sugarcoat that; he did not deny their truth. What he did do was name the pain to come and promise that there would always be an after. After the cloud will come the power and great glory of the Son of Man. After the roaring of the sea and the waves, redemption will come. After the long night of winter, the leaves will sprout and herald the warmth and growth of summer. After everything we know has passed away, he will remain, and we will stand before him with our heads held high.

Even these two short months after the devastating storm, there are already signs of hope, of a promised after. I mean that literally, there are actual signs. The usual ceaseless parade of billboards advertising ways to spend more money is disrupted by new billboards, road signs, and even hand drawn yard signs at intersections. They. Convey messages of encouragement and hope- Western North Carolina Strong, We Will Rebuild Together, Come Helene or High Water We Will Rebuild North Carolina, and even a sign cosponsored by a Episcopal and United Methodist Churches that read “Love Unites.” A few billboards paid for by wealthy private businesses and individuals do not heal the deep wounds of the community, but words alone never do. Only the Word, Jesus who has promised us that after every death will come resurrection, after every ending will come redemption, can give us strength to carry on. I pray that strength and resurrection for the people affected by Helene, and for all those around the world facing such challenges. I pray you will always find that strength in yourselves, too.

As we enter the advent season today, the season of prophets and apocalypses and assured futures at unknown times, we do well to take Jesus’s advice to heart. Be on guard, he tells his followers, do not let your hearts become so weighed down by dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life that you miss the birth of the new world. To our modern ears, as we enter into the tinsel-covered consumerist sprint that this time of year has become, this is a warning not to let ourselves become numb or distracted or hurried. The dizzying rush of decorating, gift purchasing and wrapping and exchanging, baking, crafting, rehearsing, hosting, secular celebrations, bright lights and big sales, is enough to make us almost forget what it is we are preparing to celebrate. It might even distract us from the end of the world, if we let it. As we go about our preparations, the advent season invites us to reflect on the endings that come before new beginnings, the deaths that must be mourned before any kind of resurrection can take place. So be on guard, do not succumb to the numbing rush past this present time. Look up, look around, look for the signs of the promised after. Our redemption draws near.