Second Thoughts on the Second Coming

“Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.”

We Episcopalians often say this splendid confession of faith during the liturgy of the Eucharist. But what are we saying, really, when we affirm that “Christ will come again”?

And if it’s not the traditional answer, could it be something just as deep and compelling?

As a former fundamentalist, I have always assumed the affirmation meant what it said: that Jesus would return from heaven at the end of time and usher in the Last Judgment. There are ample scriptural references to this event: whole chapters (Matthew 24), even whole books (Revelation), are devoted to this topic.

Or are they?

A closer reading causes me to wonder. From all appearances, the New Testament writers fully expected the return of Christ within their lifetimes. St. Paul writes, for example, that “the appointed time has grown very short…. For the form of this world is passing away” (1 Corinthians 7:29, 31b). The writer of Hebrews exhorts readers to meet together regularly, “and all the more as you see the Day drawing near” (Hebrews 10:25).

One small problem: it didn’t happen.

Then you look at the apocalyptic passages in the gospels and realize they could be talking about any era. “You will hear wars and rumors of wars”: happens in every age. “There will be famines and earthquakes in various places”: same thing. In fact, these could be referring to the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple in the first century. Given that Revelation is written to “the seven churches that are in Asia,” might not that book also be referring to first-century events?

Now, none of this necessarily means that there won’t be a final return of Jesus and an “end of the age.” Still, when I read scriptural affirmations of such a return—especially when coupled with harrowing accounts of the end times—I hear something distinctly different: a deep, almost unutterable yearning for restoration and healing after a cataclysm. In that sense, the passage echoes the most moving passages from the Old Testament prophets, in which they bewail the destruction and captivity of Israel—then bring the good news of a future return.

In a post-9/11 world, don’t we need this message more than ever? For us in the modern era, “Christ will come again” becomes a stirring message of hope in the restorative love of a God who, all evidence to the contrary, has not abandoned us—and never will.

Yes, “Christ will come again.” Count on it.

Spiritual but Not Religious?

You hear this from a lot of people these days. Many of them, I suspect, mean they have an appreciation, even a reverence, for the things of the spirit, but they find themselves repelled by the trappings of institutional faith. (Given the history of institutional faith, who can blame them?)

In many cases, as our parish’s interim rector said in his sermon this past Sunday, this hunger for spirit expresses itself in a most eclectic way. The small shrine at our dog’s favorite kennel includes all manner of spiritual objects, including statues of Buddha and the Virgin Mary nearly side by side. “Spiritual but not religious” people might place Emerson in with Krishna in with St. Francis of Assisi and Zoroaster in one religious stew.

Is this necessarily a bad thing? I don’t think so. Truth is hardly restricted to one faith tradition. On the whole, at least from what I’ve read and seen, I think Eastern religions have gone far deeper than Christianity in matters of meditation and mysticism. On the other hand, there’s a depth of meaning in the Incarnation—God “lived and died as one of us,” so surely he knows our failings—that I believe is unique among faith traditions.

Here’s the one thing that worries me about “spiritual but not religious”: I suspect that, without a single established core to one’s spirituality, it becomes tempting to adopt those elements of faith that offer comfort but not challenge. In that guise, non-religious spirituality fails to do what spirituality at its highest level does: make us grow toward the Divine—and toward one another.

An example from the tradition I know best: Christianity, like the other Abrahamic faith traditions, calls its followers to live out their faith in flesh-and-blood communities, in this case the church. When you participate in a church with other people, however, some of them are bound to rub you the wrong way. The solution, according to modern society, is to leave. The solution, according to the Christian faith, is to stay—and even learn to love (though not necessarily like) those people. Why? Because it forces us outside ourselves, leavens our perspective with those of others, and fosters our growth in love.

In the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer, we ask God to “deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table [the Eucharist] for solace only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not for renewal.” This, I suspect, is what happens when we commit ourselves to a spiritual tradition: we enjoy the comforts even as we take up the challenges to which God calls us. Following that path is an adventure like no other.