Nations in agony, bewildered by the clamour of the ocean and its waves; people fainting with fear and with foreboding of what is coming on the world (Lk 21:25-26).
Our Lord’s solemn prophecy sounds remarkably like the theme more or less constantly held before us these days by public figures and by the secular media. That is: irreversible catastrophe is coming our way. At the global level, things are bad, and getting inexorably worse. And we are the guilty ones responsible for the mess in which we find ourselves. So we must all bear our share of the blame when the dire predictions come true.
Far from attempting to soften this message, or to shield us from it, our Lord adds a yet more terrifying element, of which the media never dream. That is: dreadful things coming our way are actually so many expressions of God’s anger, and judgement, and of punishment long threatened, and now soon to be unleashed. All last week we were singing the magnificent 13th century Hymn Dies irae - “The Day of God’s wrath is coming; that predicted Day; when the whole world will be reduced to ashes.” On that Day, all sin will be seen for what it is, and made manifest, and dealt with appropriately.
For the secularist, this is all cause for dread, or for anger, and above all for frantic evasive action. For the Christian, by contrast, signs of impending doom are all just confirmation of the truth of the Lord’s words. They are for us therefore reasons for strengthening and proclaiming our faith, and for looking forward in hope, and for kindling our eager longing for supremely wonderful things to come.
The Gospels according to SS. Matthew, Mark and Luke all record, in almost identical words, what is called the “Eschatological Discourse” of Jesus. He gave this in the Jerusalem Temple, in the days immediately preceding his Passion. For all the Evangelists, this discourse is an essential part of the Good News they preach. All of them presume its positive aspect for believers. But St. Luke, typically, emphasises this even more than the others. In the passage we heard just now, there is a sentence of Jesus recorded by St. Luke alone: When these things begin to take place - we read - stand erect, hold your heads high, for your redemption is near at hand.
Reading this text on the First Sunday of Advent, at the start of a new Church Year, we are reminded that the end of all things will be for us only a new and better beginning. Advent is a time then for facing our future with renewed confidence in our Lord’s Providence, and in his saving good will, and in his mercy. Now this year we embark on this course taking St. Luke as our particular guide.
Our Lord’s blood-curdling prophecy looks forward in the first place towards the destruction of Jerusalem, and especially of its Temple, which took place at the hands of the Romans in the year 70. In the second place he looks forward towards his own Second Coming, and the end of the world as we know it. But he looks forward also to the turbulence of all history: to wars, plagues, famines, floods, earthquakes, devastating changes of climate - to the death which comes eventually to all - as has ever been. For those who belong to Jesus, these things teach us not to trust in this world, and in its empty promises, but instead to put all our trust in God, and in our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.
Our inner gaze is to be set forward. We are preparing now to welcome Jesus at Christmas as the meek Babe of Bethlehem. We look forward also to meeting him, as Transfigured on the Mountain; as the Crucified Lamb of sacrifice; as the Risen Lord; as the King of all Creation. He came once. He will come again. He comes even now - pressing in on us by his grace - in truth never absent from us. He is present to us above all in our prayer, and in the Sacraments, and in a very special way in the Holy Eucharist.
In the meantime, in the second part of today’s Gospel text, Jesus tells us how to live. We are to sit lightly to this world, and especially to its fleshly pleasures. We are not to be weighed down by excessive consumption; or by undue cares; or by overmuch anxiety about the things of this world. Our true home is not here, but in heaven (cf. Phil 3:20). Here we are only travellers, passing through. Here what really matters is not health and safety, but faith, and hope, and charity.
Thoughts of one’s own death occur readily to a person with heart disease; as to someone with cancer, or merely to someone growing old. It seems to me that if we love Jesus - if our sins have been washed away in his blood - if we have been to confession, and received Holy Communion, and maybe even the Sacrament of the sick - then we have grounds for great confidence.
The attitude we should cultivate in all circumstances is beautifully summed up in the words of Psalm 24 (25), which the Gregorian repertoire sets for the Introit and Gradual and Offertory of today’s Mass. Ad te levavi animam meam - To you, my God, I have lifted up my soul. I trust in you. You who are the God of my salvation, whose ways are mercy and truth - misericordia et veritas - hesed and emet (vv. 1, 2, 5, 10).
St. John Damascene famously defined prayer as the raising up of the heart or soul towards God (cf. CCC 2559). We look up to God from a very low starting point: from the depths of this valley of tears (Ps 83/84:7). And God responds, in his merciful love, by reaching down and raising us up to himself. He does that through Jesus Christ our Lord.
What Jesus did at his first coming, he will finally accomplish at his Second coming. And that for us will not be a Day of wrath, but a day of salvation; a day of glory; a day opening out to endless joy.