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November 22, 2020Today’s Solemnity of Christ the King asks us a most pointed question: can you believe that Christ is King of the universe, not just in some future time, but here and now, amidst the trouble and travail of today’s world?
The Scriptural readings offered us in these final days of the liturgical year come from those books and parts of books called “apocalyptic.” The daily readings from Revelation and the little apocalypse of Luke speak of what is to come in the end times.
“‘And what sign will there be when all these things are about to happen?’... ‘Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. There will be powerful earthquakes, famines, and plagues from place to place; and awesome sights and mighty signs will come from the sky.’” (Lk 21:7, 10-11)
What are we to do with apocalyptic literature today? It may strike us as peculiar, especially if there are many-headed beasts involved. But these writings were never the products of pure fantasy, unmoored from present realities. Both natural and man-made disasters have been humanity’s lot for as long as we can remember. Earthquake and flood, war, insurrection, famine and plague – these are not foreign to the people of today. Blood flowing “as high as a horse’s bridle, for a distance of about two hundred miles” (Rv 14:20) is not such a far-fetched image of our times. Persecution and hardship made up the formative environment of the early Church, just as it is the present reality for many in our world at this very moment.
Apocalyptic literature is born from the painful discrepancy between what is and what should be. It plays out imaginatively that deep human need to see things set right, once and for all. Pain on the cosmic level, brought to fever pitch, can at last, we are told, give birth to God’s definitive redemption of creation. Christ can and does, has done and will again step into the world of chaos and death to “reign until he has put all his enemies under his feet. The last enemy to be destroyed is death” (1 Cor 15:25-6). If that image of “the holy city, a new Jerusalem coming down out of heaven from God” (Rv 21:3) fills me with an impetuous longing for the consummation of all things, and if I feel an almost physical pain at the words: “Behold, God’s dwelling is with the human race. He will dwell with them and they will be his people and God himself will always be with them. He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there shall be no more death or mourning, wailing or pain, for the old order has passed away” (Rv 21:3-4) – then what do I do in the meantime with my dissatisfaction?
Many of the bloodiest regimes of recent centuries seem to have drawn upon apocalyptic ideas to express the urgent need they felt to eliminate “the enemy” –undesirable elements that prevented their society from reaching the perfection they desired. Armenians, Jews, Hutu and Tutsi, Catholic, Protestant and Orthodox Christians, Muslims – both Shia and Sunni, communists, capitalists, homosexuals and the disabled have become victims of this purifying impulse which is of man and not of God. On the other hand, the United States of America was founded on the desire for an ideal society in which freedom and justice reigned. People came here as to a promised land, often fleeing persecution and hardship, so as to start over and have a chance at prosperity and happiness. This nation has been striving since its foundation toward that “more perfect union” that would serve as a beacon to the other nations of the world. All human projects aiming for perfection are “temples made by hands” (Ac 17:24), “a copy and shadow of the heavenly sanctuary” (Hb 8:5). As such, they represent beautiful ideals and quicken our practical urge to make a better world for ourselves, and yet they cannot fail to fall short of our most impassioned longings.
“See that you not be deceived, for many will come in my name, saying, ‘I am he,’ and ‘The time has come.’ Do not follow them!” (Lk 21:8)
So what do I do with my dissatisfaction? I could reach for a gun, or a rosary, a ballot paper, or a horse and buggy, a sandwich board – or a sandwich. Such impetuous desires and the violent actions that sometimes flow from them serve as background for the gospel’s warnings. The temptation is to follow or to become false messiahs, to buy into the latest utopian fantasy that only increases dissatisfaction and violence. We really want to believe that one charismatic individual can change everything for the better. Leaders matter, but probably not as much as they would have us believe. The violence that besets us comes as much from within as from without. If I am willing to admit that a similar fire burns in me as in a terrorist, a violent protestor, or a lone shooter – this world has just got to change! – then I have to ask what would be the most life-giving way to respond to the patent inadequacies of the situation.
“By your endurance you will gain your souls.” (Lk 21:19)
The key word is endurance, hypomone in Greek, which means ‘remaining under’, or by extension, ‘patience, endurance, fortitude, steadfastness, perseverance.’ It denotes the ability to remain in a situation of adversity, with quiet mind and without seeking escape, actively awaiting God's definitive action. This word occurs both in the prophetic literature as a call to wait for the Lord’s deliverance, and in New Testament exhortation to stand firm in persecution and hardship, to continue to live as Jesus taught. It is important to note that apocalyptic literature presents the faithful followers of Jesus neither as taking up arms to force the situation, nor as throwing up their hands in defeat. To endure is to wait and to work. There is no contradiction. To wait means not to expect final deliverance from any human agency. To work means to pour ourselves out in responsible effort whenever and however we can. But what kind of effort?
Today’s gospel is no less apocalyptic than anything that has gone before. We stand in a throne-room where the king makes a final separation between sheep and goats. But what is so eminently clear in this passage, where other apocalyptic texts may be less clear, is that the criteria for final judgment in God’s kingdom are neither dramatic nor heroic nor distant from our ordinary lives:
“For I was hungry and you gave me food,
I was thirsty and you gave me drink,
a stranger and you welcomed me,
naked and you clothed me,
ill and you cared for me,
in prison and you visited me.” (Mt 25:35-6)
The corporal works of mercy are not beyond us. Addressing world hunger, thirst, migration, poverty, sickness, and incarceration is a mammoth task laid at humanity’s door. The irony and the frustration of modern communications is that our knowledge of the suffering and need of our world vastly outstrips our personal capacity to address it. But the gospel turns our attention to the work that lies before us. What is mine to do today is to serve this meal, to welcome this lonely person or to care for this one who is not well. It is love in action that manifests the kingdom. It is persons in any kind of need and those coming to their aid who manifest the presence of the king. Even within a monastic enclosure, these gospel precepts are foundational to our life. St Benedict makes this clear when he places them squarely within his Tools for Good Works, and by implication in many other places as well. I do not think we need to get tied up in knots with narrow definitions or checking of boxes. Am I doing all of those things? Does this count? All seventy-four of those elements of gospel living that St Benedict collected in his fourth chapter of the Rule could have been cited by the king to the sheep and goats – just imagine how much longer that would have made today’s reading! On the other hand, all could be expressed in the one word insisted upon by John in his gospel: love!
So, if we desire to meet the King of the universe and inhabit his kingdom, let us learn to wait and to work. Let us live the gospel deeply according to our monastic charism. Let us take all the outrage and disgust, the grief and passion and desire that fills us when we see the sorry state of our world, our country, our Church, our own lives, and channel this into acts of loving service, here and now, toward those with whom we share our lives. And let all that is within us cry out: thy kingdom come!
Image: Christ of the Breadlines, by Fritz Eichenberg
