Advent Man

You may listen to Father Mullen's sermon here.

For most of the time I have lived in Philadelphia – more than ten years now – I have been aware of the presence of an unusual character who regularly passes through the neighborhood here.  I have no idea if he lives nearby, or if he is also seen and known in other parts of the city.  I can’t say I see him every day; but three or four times a week would not be unusual.  And sometimes I don’t see him; I only hear him, so I know he is nearby.  He is a trim, fit fellow of indeterminate age – he could be in his 50s, but he could be in his 60s – it’s hard to say.  He wears runner’s tights, with short, runner’s shorts over them, and usually high socks, as well.  I think he always has a cap on his head, and usually there is a set of small headphones over his cap, covering his ears.  Whether or not the headphones are connected to anything, I cannot say; it is not immediately apparent that they are.  And he has a small backpack on his back.  The colors of his close-fitting outfit are muted, not outrageous - blues and blacks and greys.  The get-up, which seldom changes very much, is not, I think, intended to draw attention to him.  Were it not for two distinct features of his ensemble, he could pass for any very fit but un-stylish, late-middle aged man devoted to his daily exercise.

But there are these two distinct features that render him remarkable.

First, he traverses around the neighborhood – and I can only surmise, around the entire city – on rollerblades.  Second, he carries with him a trumpet, upon which he occasionally blows short, loud blasts of a note or two, never an entire tune.  I am not at all sure he knows how to play the trumpet, although I have seen him carry one for years.  But he does know how to get a bit of noise out of the instrument.  And he rolls around the city sounding blasts from his trumpet, for no apparent reason.

Actually, I am being a little un-truthful in this description, for, in fact, a month or two ago, the rollerblading man gave up his trumpet in favor of a French horn, which appears a bit newer and shinier than the trumpet he once carried.  As was the case with the trumpet, one cannot say for certain that the man knows how to play the French horn.  One can only say that he does indeed know how to evince short, mellow blasts from the French horn, which almost evoke in the hearer’s mind hunting scenes in the Bavarian hills, but not quite.  I’m not sure what made the man forsake his trumpet in favor of the French horn.  I don’t think it’s the holidays, for I don’t ever recall noticing in years gone by seasonal adjustments in his orchestration or his repertoire.  And I wouldn’t venture an opinion to the question for which instrument the man demonstrates a keener aptitude.  And I must say that I have no idea what the man thinks or hopes he is accomplishing as he wheels his way through the streets of the city.

I wish I knew.

I wish I knew what dream or thought process or voice in his head compelled the man to don an outfit not unlike that of an Olympic bobsledder’s, with headphones either to drown out the sounds of the world, or to provide a soundtrack to his journeys, mount himself on wheels, a brass horn in his hand, and career around the city, blowing one-note fanfares as he goes.  And I wish I knew what made him change instruments.  Maybe the French horn was a gift!

I wonder if he is a religious man. I wonder if he is a Christian of some variety (for we come in many varieties).  I wonder if he reads the scriptures, and I wonder if he does, how does he read them?  I wonder if his get-up, and his skating circuits around the city are born of religious conviction.  I wonder if is his trumpet blasts – or more recently the blasts from his French horn – are meant to sound declarations for which he has no words, or which simply require the announcement of a brass section.  I wonder what he thinks he knows that I don’t know… if that’s why he does what he does.

Because I have nothing else to call him, and because it suits my purposes, I am going to call him Advent Man.  And because I have never had the opportunity to ask him, I am going to imagine what it is he believes.  I am going to imagine what he hears through his headphones, and what he sees in his dreams.  I am going to imagine what he carries in his little backpack.

I imagine that Advent Man lives in a state of perpetual preparedness - ready to go at a moment’s notice, ready to get wherever it is he’s going faster than the next guy, and ready to sound the alarm – whatever it may signify.  He is ready!  He is Advent Man, hear his horn!

I imagine that what Advent Man hears through his headphones may be the Gospel reading for today:  “There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see 'the Son of Man coming in a cloud' with power and great glory. Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.”  I imagine he hears these verses in pronounced by the voice of Sir Alec Guiness.

Or maybe it’s the voice of Morgan Freeman in his head:  “Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life, and that day catch you unexpectedly, like a trap. For it will come upon all who live on the face of the whole earth. Be alert at all times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will take place, and to stand before the Son of Man.”

Stand up!  Raise up your heads!

I imagine that inside Advent Man’s little backpack is some water and a few power bars – just enough to tide him over if he is caught unawares for a day or two.  And maybe a rain jacket and a nice warm fleece.

I imagine that Advent Man has dreams very much like yours and like mine, and if he ever dreams of God, he dreams that God loves him, and searches him out, because I imagine that Advent Man knows he is like a sheep without a shepherd.

I don’t imagine that Advent Man hears voices in his head, other than the ones reading the scriptures to him.  I imagine that he hears Betty White telling the parable of the wise and foolish virgins.  And James Earl Jones telling the stories of John the Baptist (a particular hero of his, I would guess).

And I imagine that he hears Dame Maggie Smith reading Jeremiah:  “The days are surely coming, says the LORD, when I will fulfill the promise I made to the house of Israel and the house of Judah. In those days and at that time I will cause a righteous Branch to spring up for David; and he shall execute justice and righteousness in the land. In those days Judah will be saved and Jerusalem will live in safety. And this is the name by which it will be called: ‘The LORD is our righteousness.’”  Wouldn’t you like to hear Maggie Smith deliver those lines?  I sure would!

“Stand up!  Raise your head!”  That I imagine, is the secret message of Advent Man’s horn-blowing: Stand up!  Raise your heads!

I imagine that Advent Man doesn’t know how to play either the trumpet or the French horn because he knows it doesn’t matter.  When the time comes, God will put the tune in his heart and the notes on his lips!  And in the meantime, his short blasts of warning are enough:  Stand up!  Raise your heads!  Your redemption is drawing near!

And here is Advent Man’s greatest secret – not that he knows when the Messiah will come again, but that he knows he is in need of redemption.  He knows he is broken, sinful, pig-headed, and selfish.  He knows he has done those things he ought not to have done, and left undone those things he ought to have done.  And he has spent time, roller-blading around this city, thinking about all these things, recalling his shortcomings, remembering his foolishness, repenting for his sins.  All that time on wheels has not led him to reflect on how awesome he is.  It has made him realize how much he needs God in his life, and how prone he is to push God away.

Does he race around the city, as he does, in order to keep the wind in his face, to dry the tears as he recalls his own sinfulness?  And do the tears turn joyful when he hears, somewhat surprisingly, these words again - “stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near,” – read by Oprah?  Who’s to account for the voices that proclaim the Gospel inside his head?  What’s important is that they grab his attention.  They get him out of bed every morning.  They loosen his fingers when they feel stiff, lacing up his rollerblades.  They remind him to raise his head, when he looks in the mirror, and to keep it raised throughout the day.  And they keep repeating the promise: your redemption is drawing near.  Your redemption is drawing near.  Your redemption is drawing near.

Advent is a time of warning and caution.  It is a call to repentance and a reminder of our human frailty, foolishness and selfishness.  But it is also a reminder of God’s promises.

Advent asks, why did you get up early to shop on Black Friday but you won’t get up to worship me?

Advent asks why you spent $1.5 billion on Cyber Monday and put $5 in the offering plate for God?

Advent asks what you mean when you call yourself a Christian?

Advent asks what it is you are hoping for?

Advent asks if you think you love God, are you ready to meet him?  Do you want to?

And Advent Man hears all these questions in his head – asked by the reasonable voice of Anderson Cooper, or sometime Walter Cronkite, because Advent Man is old enough to remember what Cronkite sounded like.

He hears all these questions in his head, and he cannot sit still or remain silent, even though he does not yet know where to go or what to say.  This is not stupid of Advent Man: this is faithful, which sometimes looks stupid to those who have no interest in a costly faith.

I imagine that Advent Man’s faith is a costly faith: it has cost him everything and boiled his life down to his simple outfit, and his jaunts through the city, and his one-note solos.  And I wonder, again, about why he switched from the trumpet to the French horn. I wonder if it’s because, occasionally, once in a very odd while, Advent man hears in his head the Gospel proclaimed by a voice that can be none other than God’s voice:  “Stand up!  Raise your head!  Your redemption is drawing near!”

Maybe to him, God’s voice sounded more like a French horn than a trumpet.

Or maybe it reminded him that the sound of the Gospel never grows stale, but rings out with new timbres and different tones, in new and different times.

I don’t know.  I can’t say.  I have no idea, in fact, if the man on rollerblades hears anything, or cares one fig for what people think when he blows his horn.  He might be carrying in his backpack nothing but a tuna fish sandwich and a Diet Coke, to munch on at lunch time, for all I know.  He might not hear any voices articulating the scriptures to him, and he might resent any comparison whatsoever to John the Baptist.  He and his dopey horn-blowing might mean nothing at all.

Which means that it may be the voice of God, proclaiming in my ears and yours, and in my heart and yours, and in this place when we gather:  Stand up!  Raise your heads!  Your redemption is drawing near.

Because I hear that ancient message proclaimed, and I pray you do too.

And I am reminded that I am broken, sinful, pig-headed, and selfish.  I know that I have done those things I ought not to have done, and left undone those things I ought to have done.  And so have you.  And sometimes I could use a strong breeze to dry the tears as I reflect on all these things.  But in Advent, my tears are turned to tears of joy, if I can just bend my ears and my heart to hear that proclamation carried somehow, mysteriously through the streets of the city:  Stand up!  Raise your head!  Your redemption is drawing near!  Your redemption is drawing near!  Your redemption is drawing near!

And the voice is unmistakable: it is the voice of Love.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

Advent Sunday

2 December 2012

Camelot

You may listen to Father Mullen's sermon here.

Late one recent night, I found myself staying up long past a reasonable hour to watch a broadcast of the 1967 film version of Camelot, with Richard Harris and Vanessa Redgrave.  The film is every bit endearing as I recalled, but I’d forgotten how shot through with angst the story is: how obvious to everyone is the affair between Guinevere and Lancelot; how unwilling is Arthur to acknowledge the truth; how cruel he is to Pellinore, the old man who tries gently to urge Arthur to accept the truth; how desperate is the king’s fondness for Lancelot; how inevitable is Guinevere’s fate, considering Arthur’s pride in the rule of law; how wicked is Mordred’s Oedipal jealousy.  And all presented with a jaunty score of song after memorable song.

Because of the Kennedy appropriation of the idea of Camelot, “that once there was a spot/ for one brief shining moment/ known as Camelot,” I think we tend to recall the story of the musical as if it was as chirpy as its title song.  But really it’s a story full of conflict and pain.  And the characters are all deeply flawed.  (So, I guess the Kennedy comparison holds.)  By the end of the movie, Mordred has desecrated the Round Table, Guinevere has been rescued by Lancelot from burning at the stake in the nick of time, and Arthur is preparing to go to battle with Lancelot.  England is clearly headed for the Dark Ages.  It’s not what you would call a happy ending.

I wonder if the story of Camelot has any parallels with the Christian story.  At the center: our hero, whose commitment to justice was admirable, but ultimately the institution he built to advance the cause wasn’t up to the task.  The church, like the Round Table: a good idea, but ultimately susceptible to the foibles of both its enemies and its own flawed leaders.  Of course, both provide fodder for good musical numbers and colorful costumes with a certain medieval flair.  But does the church seem to be headed for any better an ending than the musical’s?  Or will all be wrack and ruin by the time we finally acknowledge what everyone else can see is going on around us?  And do we have anything more to hold out to the would-be believer than a story that might be nice if it was true, but that seems frayed at the edges and straining at the seams?  Perhaps there was one brief shining moment long ago when the Christian faith was full of promise: before the schisms, and the crusades, before the greed and power and corruption, before the scandal and abuse, before the willful ignorance, before the disregard for women, before the stultifying self-absorption, etc., etc.  But you can see what happened.

One wonders if Arthur had a bit of a messianic complex.  Did he think to himself, in the words of the Christ, “My kingdom is not of this world”?  Or was his problem that he didn’t realize that the ideals of Camelot could never survive in this world, that they had to be aspects of another dimension of reality?  To look at the other side of that coin, is Jesus as delusional as King Arthur, when he stands before Pilate and says, “My kingdom is not of this world.”?

And what use is either of them to us – Jesus or King Arthur – if their kingdoms are not of this world?  After all, we have to live in this world, we have to work and strive, and hope and suffer, and repair, and restore, and ruin, and recover, and heal, and fall sick again, and forget, then remember, and lose things, and find some of them, and break, and fix, and wander, and get lost, and discover, and guess, and invent, and disfigure, and design, and build, and burn, and assemble, and discard, and recycle, and fight, and resent, and forgive, and repent, and assist, and cook, and wash, and nap, and conquer, and overcome, and deceive, and risk, and give, and take, and coddle, and cajole, and swoon, and sing, and sew, and float, and swim, and love, and live, and die in this world – not in some magical fairytale land.  What good is it to us to tell us that Jesus’ kingdom is not of this world?

Here’s what I think Jesus means by this, when he tells us his kingdom if not of this world.  It means that Jesus’ kingdom is not a fleeting thing, that lasts for one, brief, shining moment.  It means that Jesus’ kingdom is not a fantasy kingdom, where the climate must be perfect all the year, where winter is forbidden till December, and exits March the second on the dot.  It means that Jesus’ kingdom is not a kingdom of wishful thinking, where rain may never fall till after sundown, and by eight the morning fog must disappear.

Fantasy kingdoms are built in this world all the time, and they deliver only fantasy promises that, like a Broadway musical, bring momentary salve, but not real healing; a happy tune to hum, but not real hope; a call to arms, but not real justice; all the craziness of romance, but not real love; and illusions of resuscitation but not real life.  But the kingdom Jesus is talking about is a kingdom of real healing, real hope, real justice, real love, and real life.  It exists in dimensions beyond this world, but it is not inaccessible from this world.

How, then, does one get to Jesus’ kingdom?

There are really only two steps involved.  First, you follow Jesus.  Then you go where he sends you.

Now, following Jesus is not so easy.  To do so, you probably have to hear him call you, which is one reason to come to church – for here the call of Jesus is pronounced week after week as we proclaim the Good News of his ministry, and tell the story of his salvation.  Sometimes you have to stop and listen to hear Jesus calling.  You have to turn off your phone, take your earbuds out of your ears, shut off your iPod, and listen.  I’d call this praying – for listening is at least half of prayer.  Though it’s certainly possible that you could hear Jesus call while you are praising him: singing a hymn, or reciting a psalm, or raising your eyes to see him lifted high, as bells ring, during the Mass.

Then, if you listen to Jesus and follow him, eventually you are very likely to hear him tell you to go somewhere and do something.  Go ask for forgiveness where you have needed it for a long time.  Go help the hungry, the poor, the lonely, the sick, or the imprisoned.  Go help a child who the world is failing.  Go help a church that is struggling.  Go help someone whose life was turned upside down in a hurricane.  It’s hard to follow Jesus and never hear him tell you to get up and go somewhere and do something.

Now, these two steps, may not seem to take you very far, but the trick to the Christian life is in repeating these two simple steps over and over.  We have to stop and listen for Jesus over and over, because his voice is easily drowned out by the din of this world, and many people are actively trying to obscure the sound of it.  And we can’t follow Jesus unless we are listening to him.  And we have to go where Jesus sends us over and over, because mostly he sends us on small excursions that last an hour or two, or a half a day here and there, without interrupting every other aspect of our daily schedules.  So we repeat these two simple steps over and over: follow and go, follow and go, follow and go.  (If I was Lerner and Loewe, I’d write a song here.)

At the end of Camelot, as Arthur is about to take up the battle with Lancelot; he encounters a young boy named Tom, who tells the king that he wants to be a knight of the Round Table.  The boy’s naivete gives Arthur pause to reflect on what’s happened to his kingdom.  Despite his disappointment and his misgivings he has Tom kneel, and makes him a knight, commissioning him with a reprise of the title song of the show: “Don’t let it be forgot/ that once there was a spot/ for one brief shining moment/ that was known as Camelot.”

Long before I had any inkling about being a priest of God’s church, I wanted to be Tom.  I suppose I really wanted to be Richard Burton, but you have to start somewhere.  But now that I am older, I see how sad the story of Camelot is, and how hopeless the nostalgia it rests on.  Like all the Arthurian legend, it looks wistfully backward without any real hope of building Camelot in this world, because, after all, Camelot is the stuff of fantasy and musical theater.

But you and I have to live in this world.  We have to work and strive, and hope and suffer, and repair, and restore, and ruin, and recover, and heal, and fall sick again, and forget, then remember, and lose things, and find some of them, and break, and fix, and wander, and get lost, and discover, and guess, and invent, and disfigure, and design, and build, and burn, and assemble, and discard, and recycle, and fight, and resent, and forgive, and repent, and assist, and cook, and wash, and nap, and conquer, and overcome, and deceive, and risk, and give, and take, and coddle, and cajole, and swoon, and sing, and sew, and float, and swim, and love, and live, and die in this world – not in some magical fairytale land.

A fairytale land is what the church looks like, what the kingdom of God looks like, to those who are not willing to take those two simple steps: follow and go, follow and go.

But when we follow Jesus, listening to him, and then go where he sends us, doing the work he gives us, we find that we are already learning what it is like to live in his kingdom, where the hungry are fed, the poor are lifted from their poverty and given a decent education, the sick are cared for with compassion, where love sustains relationships despite many challenges, where justice is upheld, and where life does not end at the grave, as long as we are willing to follow and go, follow and go.

All these things are happening in God’s church, where his kingdom is being built even now.  All these things are real and true right now, in places where the saints of God follow and go, follow and go.  All these things are part of the life of this parish community, this church, this gathering.  This is no Camelot, we are just a parish church on Locust Street, in a city that struggles and fails to live up to its name.  But when we follow Jesus, listening carefully for his call, and the go where he sends us, we find that his kingdom, strangely not of this world, is nevertheless being built right here.

And so we rejoice in his kingship, and we crown him with honor and glory, we wave his banner on high.  And, God willing, we follow and go, follow and go; making the journey toward his kingdom which is not of this world, not remembered from one, brief, shining moment long ago, but is being built right here when we follow and go. 

And it’s enough to make you want to sing about it!

May God put the song of his kingdom on our lips, and in our hearts, and may he make us ever ready to follow him when he calls and to go wherever he sends us, in the service of Jesus Christ, our king.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

25 November 2012

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

The Right Impression

You may listen to Mother Erika's sermon here.

It is a mercy, really, that we don’t know his name. It is not always the case, as you know, that disciples who say silly things remain anonymous – just think of poor Peter, for example. But in this moment, the disciple who says the silly thing remains mercifully nameless. He and the other disciples are heading out of the temple in Jerusalem. They have spent the past several days there – listening to Jesus spar with the Sadducees; watching the rich come and go; noticing, at Jesus’ prompting, the generous giving of one poor widow woman. But now Jesus has gathered up his sheep and begun to lead them out of the temple gate. As they wind their way down the stairs of the temple mount, pushing through the hordes of Passover pilgrims, this one disciple can’t help but turn back. He looks up, way up, craning his neck to see the stones stacked seemingly into the very clouds. “Whew!” he whistles, his eyes wide. “What great stones you have!” he says, innocent as a lamb.

Now, to be honest, knowing what we know about Herod’s temple, this disciple’s awestruck appreciation isn’t actually that silly. The temple was, in fact, hugely impressive; it was designed to be hugely impressive; it was constructed to make everyone who saw it whistle in appreciation. The platform it was built upon was in and of itself an architectural marvel, with enormous foundation stones, some of which were as high as this nave and weighed over 400 tons. Herod’s temple in Jerusalem was one of the hallmarks of his reign, an outward sign of his vast wealth and his immense – and immensely dangerous – power. It is no wonder that this little disciple from a backwater in the Galilee gushed a bit over the building, even felt a sense of pride that this was his temple, the mercy seat of his God. The temple made its mark upon him; he was im-pressed, and he thought his teacher would be impressed, too.

So in the face of this disciple’s wide-eyed wonder, Jesus’ response must have felt like the bite of a big bad wolf. “Those great stones? All the better to deceive you with, my dear disciple. Do you see these great buildings? Soon, someone will huff and puff and blow even this stone house down.” This is a devastating declaration. Because the temple was much more than a source of wonder and pride for the children of Israel; it was a mark of their election, a sign of future hope. It had already been destroyed once but had risen from the ashes, a golden assurance to generations to come of the faithfulness of their God. The temple was the locus of God’s relationship to his people, the birthplace of a new kingdom, where the Messiah would come to help his people shed the shackles of their slavery to the godless wolves of Rome. If the temple were to fall, how could Israel be saved?

It’s no wonder, then, that the moment Jesus broke their journey with a stop on the Mount of Olives, the favored (and named) disciples cornered him and pressed him for more details. They must have been shocked and scared. Ever since their youth the ultimate importance of the temple had been impressed upon them; the mark of the meaning of this building pressed into their hearts.  All of their hopes on that temple were founded, a temple their Lord had just told them would most surely fall. How could God work without a temple? And when would all this happen? As they sat gazing across the Kidron Valley at the shining temple mount, they asked themselves desperately, knowing all this, what do we do now?

That temple did fall, of course, razed by Roman troops only forty years after Jesus’ death and resurrection. But there are still plenty of temples for us to admire. And we are, after all, so easily impressed. Ever since our youth, the importance of these grand, worldly structures have been impressed upon us, and we almost can’t help but to place our hope upon their foundations. And so we find ourselves admiring the temples of wealth, of intelligence, of beauty or health or talent. We find that we have set our hope on the structures of human love, on a foundation of friendships that are sometimes frail and passion that is always fleeting. We find ourselves standing awestruck before the vision of a nation so pure in concept, so right in construct, that we imagine it will continue to be the vehicle for peace and justice in the world until time immemorial. We even find ourselves relying on the temple of the Church itself, impressed by its longevity and its righteous call to serve as the body of Christ in the world.

But today’s Gospel invites us to square our shoulders and to ask this difficult question: what if none of these temples last? A shocking question to be sure. What happens if we lose our wealth, if our mind is ravaged of dementia? What happens if our beauty fades, our bodies weaken, our talents dim? What happens if relationships fail, if love falls away or passion dies? What happens if our nation stumbles, overcome by political divisiveness, greed, or lust for power? And what happens if the Church as we know it fades away, just another vehicle for grace wrecked by all too human hands? What do we do then?

The tricky thing about this is that God can and does work through any and all of these things. All of them are gifts of God – our wealth, our hearts and minds, the gift of our bodies and our talents, the gift of human love, the gift of passion, the gift of a country that is founded on the ideals of freedom and equality, the gift of a Church that strives to preach the Gospel to all peoples and nations, the gift of a glorious, holy temple. But Jesus reminds us that we must not be overly impressed by any of these things, because all of these things fall. None of them is sure to last; all of them can be toppled to the ground so that not even one stone is left standing upon another. And while we might like to imagine that we can predict the way that God will use these gifts to work his will, that is not for us to decide. God will be what God will be. Temples fall. So knowing that, what do we do now?

When the temple of Jerusalem fell, indeed not one stone of the temple was left standing upon another. But there are still stones there. The Western Wall is all that is left – the remnant of one of the supporting walls for Herod’s great temple mount. There one can still see massive white stones, worn by thousands of years of rain and sun and the hands of millions of people who have traveled to Jerusalem only to fall on their knees in this holiest of places. They have stood with open mouths, craning their necks upward, awestruck by the palpable sense of God’s presence in this place, by the energy that emanates from the smooth face of the rocks and the cracks that pulse with prayers. These people, some of you among them, have not chosen to stand before these stones because they are impressed by their size, their age, or their architectural beauty. They have chosen to stand before these stones because they bear witness to the fact that when the temple falls, God is still there.

When the temple falls, God still reigns. When the temple falls, God is still at work. When the temple falls, and the wounded earth whips up superstorms and tsunamis; when the temple falls, and people struggle to find food to feed their families; when the temple falls, and rockets slice the air between Israel and Gaza; when the temple falls, and our most beloved dies, or our business fails, or our lover leaves us, or our mother no longer knows our name, God is still at work. God reigns even in the rubble; God is still sovereign even in the midst – or perhaps particularly in the midst – of suffering. We need not know how. And we need not distract ourselves with worry and predictions of when the next stone will hit the ground. What we need to do is watch and pray. “Beware that no one leads you astray,” Jesus tells his disciples. Beware of those voices sounding in your ears or inside your own heads that want to tell you that because one of these temples has fallen our world must surely end. These current sufferings are just the beginning of something new, the labor pains of a new creation groaning to be born. Let God worry about how that will happen. You just watch and pray, look for ongoing work of God in the world and trust that you will find it in the most beautiful and unexpected places. When you do this, when you let temples fall and begin to hope in things not seen, then your eyes will be opened wide enough to see that each breath is pregnant with possibility, each moment is an opportunity to witness what God is bearing into the world. Each moment will become an opportunity to be permanently and wonderfully impressed with the true wonders of this world – a tiny manger, a bloody cross, an empty tomb. Knowing this, what do we do now? Watch. Watch and pray. Look up, way up, to see what a great God we have. With this God at our right hand, we will not fall.