“Keep Alert, Keep Awake”
Isaiah 63&64; Ps 80; 1 Cor. 1:3-9; Mark 13:31-37
“Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come.”
Today’s reading from Mark’s gospel is part of what scholars have termed Mark’s “little apocalypse.” Significantly, it comes immediately before Mark’s Passion narrative, which we will have to wait to reflect on until Holy Week. Chapter 13 opens with Jesus emerging from a visit to the Jerusalem Temple. One of his disciples says to him: “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!” It is almost a child-like statement of amazement at the ancient Temple’s grandeur. Jesus responds with an apocalyptic warning: “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down” (v.2).
Most scholars agree that Mark’s gospel was written soon after the Roman siege of Jerusalem, and the destruction of the Temple. This was veritably the end of the world for the Jerusalem Jews. The Temple had stood on the Mount in the Old City of Jerusalem since King Solomon’s day, although it was destroyed previously by the Babylonians and rebuilt in 538 BC. In his gospel, Mark places this apocalyptic prophecy on the lips of Jesus, and warns his hearers and readers that the end is nigh: “Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come” (v.34).
“It is like a man going on a journey,” Jesus continues. The master leaves his slaves in charge, gives them particular jobs to do; and tells the doorkeeper to keep awake, and to be ready for his return at any time, day or night. “And what I say to you, I say to all,” he adds, “Keep awake” (v.37).
When I was a boy, my father took me to Manchester City Art Gallery. In pride of place was Holeman Hunt’s own copy of his famous painting “The Light of the World.” The original sits now in Keble House Chapel in Oxford. Probably the most famous, third and much larger version, also painted by Hunt, is hung in St Paul’s Cathedral, London. Interestingly, before it was dedicated in 1908, this version went on a world tour between 1905 and 1907, and it is estimated that 4 out of every 5 adult Australians went to see it when it toured the Southern Hemisphere.
After our visit to the Art Gallery, my father hung a framed copy on the wall of my bedroom. It is an image etched into my psyche and my spirit. The painting is based on another apocalyptic text, from the Book of Revelation (3:30): “Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.” In many ways this could be the sequel to the Markan parable of the man going on a journey from today’s gospel. This is the time of the return of the master. You can see a copy of the painting on the front of your pew sheet. It is dawn. The light is just starting to break through the darkness on the horizon behind our Lord. Apparently, Hunt researched this dawn light incredibly carefully for his painting, and on a trip to the Holy Land he finally found what he had been looking for, early one morning in Bethlehem. The returned Master knocks at a door with no handle. The doorkeeper must let him in. Is she, or he, awake I wonder?
Today, as much as in first-century Jerusalem, we are called to be doorkeepers; to watch, to wait, to keep alert, to keep awake. The threats to our world are just as real: climate change, political instability and financial insecurity, the threat of violence and conflict. We are rejoicing today, the first day back at church for many since March, but the pandemic is still wreaking havoc in the US, the UK, Europe, India and so many countries around the world. “Beware, keep alert … And what I say to you, I say to all: Keep awake.”
Over these past months, for most of us I imagine, we have been confronted with challenge and change as never before. I remember the first Sunday that Fr Philip, and Eugene, and Rhys, and Rachel and I celebrated the Mass for the first time behind closed doors. No congregation. You will no doubt recall that Sunday vividly too. At home. Not allowed to come to church. Perhaps watching our first, very dodgy live-streamed Mass. We were all in grief; in shock; afraid; anxious.
But we have all managed to find a way through the challenges of this year, by God’s grace. And sadly some of our number have gone to be with the Lord over this time: John Taaff, Gina Macpherson, Fr Don Edgar. May they rest in peace. As I said at last week’s Annual Meeting, I am incredibly proud of how we as a parish have managed to stay connected, against incredible odds. The live-stream Masses have improved … a little J. Our Rosary group now meets every evening of the week. The daily 7.15am Mass has regular viewers from as far away as Sydney. And I think the burst of life at the start of Advent this weekend is a sign of a church full of doorkeepers who have indeed kept awake and alert, as best we can: the choir and servers are back in force (as best we can under ongoing restrictions); the “Holding the Light” service this afternoon in church will remember victims of domestic violence and violence against women (45 women so far this year); a service of Adoration and Benediction will be held in church this evening; and a vigil Mass tomorrow evening for World AIDS Day; and then on Tuesday, we have no less than three Advent groups meeting - the Lectio Divina group here in church and on-line at midday, Carol’s Christina Rossetti Advent poetry group online at 5pm, and our summer webinar with Bishop Kate with Dr Wendy Crouch reflecting on Advent liminality at 7pm.
In closing, an Advent poem for the alert and awake doorkeepers, to keep us encouraged perhaps, written by George Herbert (1593-1633):
Come, my Way, my Truth, my Life:
Such a way as gives us breath;
Such a truth as ends all strife,
Such a life as killeth death.
Come, my Light, my Feast, my Strength:
Such a light as shows a feast,
Such a feast as mends in length,
Such a strength as makes his guest.
Come, my Joy, my Love, my Heart:
Such a joy as none can move,
Such a love as none can part,
Such a heart as joys in love.