To Fear Nothing but the Loss of You

To Fear Nothing but the Loss of You

                                                   Text: Luke 21:5-19

         (Gary W. Charles, Cove Presbyterian Church, Covesville, VA, 11/6/2016)

At the close of Gail Godwin’s marvelous novel, Evensong, Margaret, an aging Episcopal priest, writes: “Please accept with all my love this inner and outer chronicle . . . when so many things were on their way to us, things we neither anticipated nor, in some cases, ever could have imagined. This is the story of how we met them and were changed by them. May we continue to meet what is coming to us with courage of heart. `Until, Dear Lord’, as my father used to pray, `you gather us into your household and assign us to our rightful rooms.’ Until then, he would always continue, `keep us generous and faithful and teach us to fear nothing but the loss of you.’” (405).

This time four years ago I was just out of the hospital recovering from a nasty e-coli infection. I was hooked up to home IVs, with barely enough strength to climb the steps to our bedroom. A month earlier than that, I had been in the same hospital, but as a healthy pastor visiting congregation members who were sick. “Things we neither anticipated nor, in some cases, ever could have imagined,” writes Godwin. If you ask survivors of Hurricane Matthew in the village of Trou Jacques, Haiti, I imagine many would speak Margaret’s words as well, “Things we neither anticipated nor, in some cases, ever could have imagined.”   

 As Jesus leads his disciples into Jerusalem, events are about to unfold beyond which any could anticipate or ever have imagined. Arriving at the magnificent Jerusalem Temple, his disciples are struck by its sheer size, its glorious stonework and its intricate architectural design. They are in awe. Two weeks ago, I was back in Washington, D.C. and driving past many of our national monuments. Again, I was struck by the sheer size, glorious stonework, and intricate design. I was simply in awe.   

Jesus challenges his disciples’ jaw-dropping gazing. He says: “These things you are gazing at, are in awe of – the time is coming when not one stone will be left upon another; they will all be thrown down.” Or, said in another way, “my friends, re-examine what you notice and what you find truly awe-inspiring.”

Earlier in the temple, Jesus asks, “Did anyone take notice that the leaders of the glorious, magnificently constructed temple, who are supposed to defend the rights of poor widows, do not blink an eye when a poor widow gives away her last cent to the temple?” “Did anyone notice that the person who teaches the most about abundance and generosity in the temple is not a religious leader but an anonymous poor widow?” “Did anyone notice that within this superb stonework is a rotten institution that is about to crumble?”

Then, sounding more like a mental patient than a Messiah, Jesus describes the doom awaiting the world, a terror greater than anything they “ever could have imagined.” However, even amid this horrid, terrifying scene, Jesus also says, “When the world collapses around you, including everyone in whom and everything in which you have trusted, you can trust in me.”

In the novel, Evensong, as Margaret ages, she learns to cherish the last part of her father’s prayer. Taken partly from a collect in the Book of Common Prayer, this prayer asks God to: “keep us generous and faithful and teach us to fear nothing but the loss of you.” In this bizarre and disturbing apocalyptic text from Luke today, Jesus does not reassure them that their wealth will insulate them from tragedy. He does not suggest that poetic preachers and lilting songs will enchant them into spiritual ecstasy. Jesus assures them, only, that this world and all therein is tottering between chaos and collapse and that a day will come when everything they count as sacred – religion, family, leaders – will betray them, will leave them bereft, but he will not.

Until that day, Margaret prays, “Keep us generous.” As you and I prepare to give thanks with friends and family later this month and as we consider how we will give generously to the ministry of Cove in the coming year, perhaps, it is wise for us to pause and remember a poor, anonymous, widow in the Jerusalem Temple, and then to pray: “Dear God, keep us generous.”

Margaret also prays, “Keep us faithful.” Jesus says, “Believe in me even when the world in total chaos, even when your life is in total chaos. Believe in me when you are at a loss for words, for I am the word of God.” I can think of no time in my ministry when “keep us faithful” is a more essential prayer and yet a more difficult practice. We live in a society where it is fine to be faithful, just as long as our faith does not put too many demands on us. After all, we are very busy people.  

What if praying “keep us faithful,” though, means living into new priorities, means committing to the weekly discipline of learning and worship, to the daily discipline of reading Scripture and lifting our prayers to God? What if praying “keep us faithful” means that you and I actually talk to others about our faith in God when most of our society would prefer that we keep silent? What if praying “keep us faithful” means that Jesus was dead serious when he promised in the most inopportune and critical times, “I will give you words”? What if “keep us faithful” means praying for our enemies when we would rather tell God fifty reasons why we must get even, protesting for peace even when pundits tell us, “It does not make any difference”?   

Margaret’s prayer ends with this petition, “[Dear Lord] Teach us to fear nothing but the loss of you.” Listen to the current rhetoric and ads of our political candidates and there is no question that in our land fear has unpacked its suitcase and moved in to stay. Fear infects our intellect, our public discourse, and it stifles our faith. Fear is on the front cover of every newspaper and is the lead story of every news cycle.

Too often, I suffer from a bad case of fear. I fear what will happen to the millions of refugees forgotten not just in Syria but across the globe. I fear the racism that couches itself in righteous political rhetoric about the character of our current President, who, oh by the way, just happens to be black. I fear the cold nights ahead when cities across our nation of plenty will have more women and children needing shelter than there are shelters to house them. Far too often, I live in fear.    

The terrifying scene that Jesus describes near the end of Luke’s Gospel sends me rushing back to an opening scene in Luke. It sends me outside, at night, to an open field and an evening sky alive with a choir of angels. It sends me staggering about in awe with frightened shepherds who hear, “Fear not, for, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.” 

“Fear not, people of Cove. I bring you good tidings of great joy.” Fear not, whoever is trapped in the deep crevice of fear. I bring you good tidings of great joy.” “Fear not, those waiting for the diagnosis or the grade or the phone call. I bring you good tidings of great joy.”

The shepherds in the fields minding their flocks by night were not deluded and the disciples who left everything to follow Jesus were not duped. Fear is not our God. Fear is the impressive imposter, for our God refuses to lose us to the demonic grip of fear.  

Maybe, then, that is why we need to come to the table today. Maybe that is why we need to taste and see that the Lord is good and that the only true antidote to fear is found at this table, when we are united with God and each other far beyond our differences and light years beyond our fears.

It is at this table that you and I learn to pray daily the words of the aging priest: “May we continue to meet what is coming to us with courage of heart. Until, Dear Lord, you gather us into your household and assign us to our rightful rooms. Until then, keep us generous and faithful and teach us to fear nothing but the loss of you.”

AMEN