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A weekly sermon podcast from Ojai, California. Grounded in scripture and open to the world, these reflections invite you to listen, wonder, and live the story.
We come today to the edge of the church’s year :
the long green season now thinning,
the sun slipping lower in the sky,
the hillsides turning sharper in the light.
Next Sunday we will keep the feast of Christ the King,
that strange and radiant ending of the liturgical year
in which we proclaim that all things, in the end,
belong to the One who holds history, the One who heals it.
But before we arrive there,
the lectionary gives us these stark, bracing readings.
These final Sundays always press us up against the “last things.”
Not so that we might be frightened by visions of chaos,
but so that we might remember the hope that carries us –
the hope that what God begins, God completes;
what God promises, God keeps.
And so today we hear from the prophet Malachi:
“See, the day is coming, burning like an oven…
But for you who revere my name the sun of righteousness shall rise,
with healing in its wings.” (Malachi 4:1a, 2a)
It is an image of fire and light mingled together –
a world being purified,
and a dawn breaking at the very same moment.
Judgment is described not only as an ending, but a beginning:
the rising of a sun that brings healing.
And this theme carries directly into today’s psalm.
Psalm 98 is a psalm that is not simply about human rejoicing,
but the rejoicing of all creation.
The sea thunders.
The rivers clap their hands.
The hills ring out in song.
Why? Because God “comes to judge the earth,”
and, as the psalm insists:
“[God] will judge the world with righteousness and the peoples with equity.” (Psalm 98:9, BCP)
Creation rejoices because God’s judgment isn’t ruin; it’s restoration.
Because equity will have the last word.
Because the One who comes to judge is the One who sets things right.
This is the tone that hangs in the air as we turn to the Gospel.
The disciples have been admiring the grandeur of the temple –
its stones, its adornments, the architectural pride of Jerusalem.
But Jesus replies with a jarring truth:
“The days will come when not one stone will be left upon another;
all will be thrown down.” (Luke 21:6)
He then describes a world trembling with upheaval:
wars, insurrections, earthquakes, famines, plagues, persecutions.
And yet he tells them not to be led astray by fear
or swept away by the frenzy of predictions.
And he culminates this teaching with a sentence
that lands at the center of today’s good news:
“By your endurance you will gain your souls.” (Luke 21:19)
Not by your brilliance.
Not by your frantic preparation.
Not by foreseeing the precise shape of the end.
But by endurance:
that quiet, sturdy commitment to
stay faithful, stay grounded, stay present in love.
This is not the endurance of white-knuckled survival.
It is the endurance of staying in the story God is writing,
even when other stories seem louder.
And this is where the words in Paul’s voice to the Thessalonians
meet us with surprising clarity.
The community in Thessalonica had become unsettled by rumors
that “the day of the Lord” was imminent –
as though normal life no longer mattered.
Some had stopped working.
Some had abandoned daily responsibilities,
believing that if the world was ending soon,
ordinary labor no longer counted.
Into that anxious swirl,
the voice of Paul speaks a word that sounds astonishingly contemporary:
“We hear that some of you are living in idleness,
mere busybodies, not doing any work.” (2 Thessalonians 3:11)
And just before that he has laid down the principle
he himself modeled among them:
“Anyone unwilling to work should not eat.” (2 Thessalonians 3:10b)
It’s important to hear what Paul means – and what he doesn’t mean.
He’s not condemning the unemployed, or the disabled, or the tired.
He is not withdrawing compassion.
He is saying to a community tempted by apocalyptic frenzy:
life goes on.
Faith still has hands. Hope still has chores.
Even as the world trembles with portents,
disciples do not evacuate the ordinary.
They attend to it with love.
He finishes with this gentle instruction:
“Brothers and sisters, do not be weary in doing what is right.” (2 Thessalonians 3:13)
Do not be weary.
Between Jesus’ vision of upheaval and
Paul’s insistence on steady work,
a single thread runs:
the Christian life is lived at the intersection
of the cosmic and the ordinary.
Yes, the world shakes.
Yes, the temple stones fall.
Yes, nations roar and creation groans
and history trembles with birth pangs.
But you -- beloved ones -- you still wake in the morning.
You still tend your work.
You still show up for the people entrusted to you.
You still practice mercy, equity, generosity.
You still trust that God is not finished with the world.
The early church faced persecution,
instability, economic uncertainty, and political violence –
and yet the strategy Jesus gives them
is not escape or prediction,
but endurance.
The steady, embodied holiness of not giving up on goodness.
“By your endurance you will gain your souls.” (Luke 21:19)
It is a strangely gentle exhortation.
He does not say: by your victory.
He does not say: by your control of outcomes.
He does not say: by your flawless faith.
He says: keep going.
Stay faithful.
Do the next right thing.
Let the ordinary be the place where you meet God.
As we near Christ the King Sunday,
we are reminded that the One who will reign over all creation
is the same One who knows our daily labor –
the One who washed feet, baked fish on a beach, walked dusty roads,
and endured suffering out of love for the world.
The judgment that creation welcomes
is the judgment of One who sets things right –
not by crushing the world but by healing it.
And so our calling in these waning days of the church year
is not despair or speculation or withdrawal.
It is the simple, sturdy, Eucharistic work
of being Christ’s people in the world:
steadfast in prayer, steady in love,
constant in mercy, and unafraid of the ordinary.
In a time when many things feel uncertain,
these good words come to us like a benediction:
Do not be terrified.
Do not be led astray.
Do not grow weary in doing what is right.
By your endurance you will gain your souls.
And may we – right here, right now –
live that endurance –
the quiet courage of faithfulness –
as we turn our faces toward the coming feast,
trusting that the sun of righteousness is already rising,
with healing in its wings.
Amen.