St. John’s Episcopal Church
Tallahassee, FL
Isaiah 2:1-5
Psalm 122
Romans 13:11-14
Matthew 24:36-44
After a week of
Thanksgiving travel,
full calendars,
full inboxes,
and generally full lives,
I imagine you’ve come to church today
looking for
something steady,
something hopeful,
something true . . .
maybe even
a gentle glide path
into the Christmas season.
And what have we given you instead?
A big ol’ set of readings about
the Second Coming,
the Final Judgment,
and the end of the world.
Merry Christmas,
ya filthy animals.
This, my friends,
is the season of Advent:
a tiny, four-week,
do-not-blink-or-you’ll-miss-it season
that goes way harder than you’d think
and always packs a punch.
And while it may not be
what you expected,
it is, surprisingly,
exactly what you need.
* * *
Advent is a season
that refuses to play small,
so if we’re going to talk about big things,
we need some vocabulary.
I hope you ate breakfast
and got your mind right,
because you’re about to
learn some Greek.
It’s one word—just one—
and that word is . . .
eschaton.
Repeat after me: eschaton.
One more time: eschaton.
Eschaton comes from
the Greek word eschatos,
which literally means
“last” or “final.”
The study of it is called eschatology,
and it’s the word theologians use
when they speak of
the end of the story,
the end of the world,
and God’s final plan
for where all of this is headed.
But if I had to reduce it
to its simplest form,
I’d put it this way:
Eschatology is
what you hope and believe
the world is coming to.
I am not talking about
doom and gloom
or secret timetables.
I am not talking about
apocalyptic fan fiction
like those old Left Behind books.
I am not talking about
cracking codes with
bulletin boards
and photos
and red string
like an episode of CSI: Jerusalem.
No.
What we mean
when Advent rolls around
and we talk about the eschaton
is simply the question:
“What is this world coming to?”
So every time you have ever
sighed and asked,
“God Almighty,
what is this world coming to?”
you were doing theology.
You were doing eschatology.
You were doing Advent
and didn’t even realize it.
And you’re probably thinking,
“Fine, but why does this matter?
What does this have to do with me?”
Let me tell you why.
It matters because
what you hope and believe
the world is coming to
shapes how you live
right now.
Let me say that again:
What you hope and believe
the world is coming to
shapes how you live
right now.
If you believe
that all in this world is lost,
that there is no divine plan,
or that—even if there is—
everything is destined to end in oblivion
like one giant dumpster fire in the sky,
then, my friends,
it becomes
frighteningly easy
not
to
care.
It is the mindset of:
“Whatever.
Eat the bacon.
Don’t recycle.
Bomb the nations.
Nothing matters.”
But if you believe
that through the long sweep of time—
despite all we do to derail it—
God is drawing the world
toward a good and promised end:
toward renewal,
toward justice,
toward healing,
toward completion . . .
if you believe the eschaton
is not collapse
but homecoming . . .
then everything changes.
Your life becomes
more than a countdown clock;
your life becomes
participation.
If you believe
that God is truly up to something
and that the destiny of all creation
is held in God’s loving hands,
then you become a person
who plants seeds of a new Eden . . .
“seeds of the eschaton,”
tiny foretastes of the world
that God is bringing to birth.
And that then means that
every act of grace,
every act of mercy,
every moment of courage
is your way of saying,
“By God, I know
what the eschaton looks like,
and I am going to live
as though it is already on the way.”
(Because, spoiler alert: it is.
It’s been on its way
since Jesus’ first appearing,
and it won’t come to completion
until his next.)
* * *
But what about that feeling
of angst
and anxiety
and unrest
that we all carry?
What about that tightening
inside our chests
when we find ourselves asking,
“My God, what is this world coming to?”
I would argue
that even that
is holy.
That is not merely fear.
That is not simply anxiety.
That, my friends,
is longing.
It’s a kind of homesickness
for a world
you have never quite seen
yet somehow still remember—
not a future you have not glimpsed,
but a memory deep in your bones
of the long-ago before-times
when life was a garden
and humanity was at peace with God.
It’s a longing for a world
where people are not lonely,
where children are not afraid,
where swords become plowshares
and neighbors study war no more.
That longing
is not a flaw in your design.
It is God’s own longing within you,
God’s own active desire
to set the world back to right.
* * *
So . . .
what is this world coming to?
Today’s Scriptures
give us a glimpse.
Isaiah says
it’s coming to a mountain
where nations stream
to learn God’s ways,
and where weapons
are hammered into gardening tools.
Which means the eschaton
is not an arms race.
Instead, it’s a workshop:
hammers on metal,
turning fear
into fruitfulness.
Paul says
it is coming to daylight.
“The night is far gone,” he writes,
“and the day is near.
So wake up.
Shake off the works of darkness.
Put on the armor of light.”
Which means the eschaton
is not endless midnight.
Instead, it is the dawn,
and we are called to dress
like people of the day.
And in the Gospel,
Jesus makes abundantly clear
that you will not receive
a countdown clock,
which frustrates the part of us
that would genuinely appreciate
a detailed Advent calendar
for the end of time.
But it turns out
Jesus is not preparing you
for prediction.
Jesus is preparing you
for participation.
Stay awake.
Live now as if God’s Kingdom
is already leaking
into this world
(because it is).
Live forgiveness now.
Live mercy now.
Live courage now.
And finally today,
the psalmist says:
“I was glad when they said to me,
‘Let us go to the house of the Lord.’”
Because on the road
to that promised future,
God gives us places
where your homesick heart
can receive a foretaste of home.
Places like this.
* * *
Now, St. John’s is not the eschaton.
We are far from the final picture
of God’s perfect plan.
We know that.
We are human
and flawed
and as imperfect
as everyone else.
But there is a reason
we speak so often of
deep roots,
true belonging,
abundant grace
around here.
Those are not just pretty words
crafted by a committee.
They are our way of saying
that your longing
for depth,
for community,
for mercy
is holy.
They’re our way of saying
that, by God’s grace,
this house
is meant to be a preview
of what the world
is coming to:
A place of deep roots
in Scripture and Sacrament.
A place of true belonging
where strangers become friends
and friends become family.
A place of abundant grace
where shame does not have the final word,
and failure does not disqualify you,
and forgiveness is real.
This church is not
an escape hatch
from the world.
This church is
a workshop
for the world
that is coming.
A place where
swords become plowshares
in ordinary ways . . .
in casseroles left on doorsteps,
in hard conversations held in love,
in Communion
and in prayer
and in the quiet courage
to show up for one another
when life gets heavy.
All of these are
seeds of the eschaton,
tiny foretastes
of the Last Great Day
when Christ will be all in all.
* * *
So here, my friends,
is the grace
for you today.
Some morning
when the world feels strange . . .
or some evening
when the news is loud . . .
or some night
when you just cannot sleep . . .
you will sigh
and ask once again,
“My God,
what is this world coming to?”
When you do,
I want you to remember
the Greek word
you practiced in church
on the first Sunday of Advent:
Eschaton.
I want you to remember
that in Jesus the Christ of God,
the world is not coming to chaos.
I want you to remember
that in Jesus the Christ of God,
the world is coming
to renewal,
to justice,
to healing,
to peace.
I want you to remember
that in Jesus the Christ of God,
there is a plan.
He may be taking the long way—
and Lord knows we don’t exactly
make it easy for him—
but what the world is coming to
is Jesus himself.
That is not a threat.
That is a promise.
And that, my friends,
includes you.
So lift up your heads, O ye people,
and lift up your hearts.
Your King is coming.
And in the meantime,
we’ve got work to do.
Amen.
I’m indebted to and grateful for the reflection of the Rev. Ryan Dunn (UMC) whose article on eschaton and eschatology helped shape the framing of this sermon. Read it at https://www.umc.org/en/content/eschaton-and-eschatology.