A is for Advent and A is for Asteroid.
Let’s start with the asteroid. In September of this year, NASA sent a small spacecraft smashing into an asteroid about 7 million miles away from us. They believe the impact was sufficiently powerful to have changed the orbit of the asteroid. NASA scientists point out that it’s the first time humans have altered the location of a celestial body in space, so it was a big deal. The “New Yorker” called it “a rehearsal for saving the world,” since the purpose of the mission was to see if we could successfully change the path of a dangerous comet or asteroid that might be hurtling toward earth, as we are pretty sure has happened in the past, with bad results for the dinosaurs. We don’t want to be tomorrow’s dinosaurs. What used to be science-fiction has become science. So, A is for Asteroid.
But A is also for Advent. And in Advent the church turns her mind toward the fulfillment of time, the end of the world, the second coming of Christ, and the dawning of the new Jerusalem. In doing so, the church has pondered what she calls the “last things:”Death, Judgment, Heaven and Hell. If you thought Advent was a way of marking the weeks left to shop before Christmas, you skipped a lot of Sunday School. So, every Advent we hear in the scriptures warnings about the end of time, the end of life as we know it, at the second coming of Christ, as we heard from Jesus in the Gospel today:
“…two will be in the field; one will be taken and one will be left. Two women will be grinding meal together; one will be taken and one will be left. Keep awake therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.”
But, just as what used to be science-fiction has become science, what used to be faith has become fiction in the minds of many people. And nothing could seem more fictitious, and perhaps more laughable, than these kinds of warnings about the end of the world, except to a certain brand of Christian, who probably would not think much of the kind of religion we practice here on Locust Street, anyway.
It was surprising to discover, during the TV binges of the pandemic, a film about a large comet that is headed toward earth and is almost certain to destroy human life on our planet. For my purposes, let’s stipulate that a comet is an awful lot like an asteroid. The week that I watched “Don’t Look Up,” it was among the top ten offerings on Netflix - which I assume means a lot of other people watched it, too. The film is mostly political satire, and I’ll spare you details of the plot. Suffice it to say that a comet is on a collision course for the earth and eventually, everyone is freaking out about it, since it has become clear that the comet’s impending impact, and the apocalypse that will result is a matter of science, not fiction. So, A is also for Apocalypse.
Late in the film, a character named Yule is introduced. He is a young, skater dude with authority issues. At one point in the movie Yule is lying on the hood of a car beside one of the central female characters. As they stare up at the sky, from whence the comet and their near-certain doom is coming, the question of religion comes up. Yule says, “I feel like if God wanted to destroy the Earth, He would destroy the Earth.”
The young woman, Kate, is surprised by this. “You believe in God?” she asks.
Yule replies, “My parents raised me evangelical, and I hate them. But I found my own way to it. My own relationship. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t advertise it though.”
Kate reassures him, “I won’t tell anybody. I think it’s kind of sweet.”
To which Yule replies, “Wanna make out?”
Enjoy for a moment that insightful miniature portrait of the way faith doesn’t always become fiction, even when a great deal has been done to undermine it.
The real surprise of the film - from a faith perspective - comes toward the very end, when the comet’s impact is only seconds away. The government has already tried to smash things into the comet and change its course or destroy it. But the attempt failed. Now, those who have managed to escape the impending destruction and death have already blasted off in their spaceships. For everyone else, for all those who have been left behind, apocalypse awaits, and with it the implied threats of Death, Judgment, Heaven, and Hell.
Yule and Kate and their friends have gathered in someone’s home, around a table. They know that the comet will soon destroy them and the world as they know it. They are well aware that this is the time of last things. The screenplay directions say, “Everyone at the table has joined hands and are giving thanks.” And at the conclusion of this short expression of thanks, someone says, “Maybe we should say ‘Amen.’ Should we do that?”
Another replies, “Don’t look at me. I don’t know how to... What, do you just say, ‘Amen?’”
But Yule, the disaffected evangelical, who’s found his own way to God but doesn’t want it advertised, knows what to do. “I got this,” he says. “I got it.” And then, with no tongue in cheek, without a hint of irony or sarcasm, in a moment the likes of which I cannot recall in recent film, the young skater dude begins to pray.
As the world is about to end, and the powers that be have fled, and the marvels of science have fallen short, and our own human failings have very clearly gotten the better of us, and catastrophe of biblical proportion is about to destroy human life on earth, a group of uncertain and imperfect, and heretofore mostly faithless people gather around a table, hold hands, give thanks, and pray.
This is how the prayer goes:
“Dearest Father and almighty creator, we ask for your grace despite our pride, your forgiveness despite our doubt, and most of all, your love to soothe our fears in these dark times. May we face your divine will with courage and open hearts of acceptance. In your name... Amen.”*
Long ago, St. Paul wrote to the people of the early church in Rome “You know what time it is.” Maybe he wasn’t giving too much credit to the members of that church in Rome, but he might be giving too much credit to later generations, if he thought we might be reading his letters. I’m not sure we have any idea at all what time it is.
St. Paul does go on, however, and in what follows he has been correct for every generation: “it is now the moment for you to wake from sleep.” But at the present moment we cannot easily tell science from fiction or fiction from faith, because we don’t know what to believe. St. Paul knew what to believe, and he saw that “the night is far gone, the day is near,” as he wrote. And when you know that the night is far gone, when you know that things will soon come crashing down, then there is the possibility of focusing the heart and the mind on God.
A is for Advent, and for Asteroids, and also for Apocalypse. In our own day and age, it’s hard for us to see that the night is far gone and the day is near. It’s been so long since St. Paul wrote those words that many people have concluded he was just plain wrong.
But I think that a world that uses science to smash space vehicles into asteroids in order to avoid an apocalypse is a world that has actually begun to contemplate the last things. And if, in such a world, when you conceive scientifically of asteroids that could trigger an apocalypse, and you conclude that the only good and helpful thing to do in such circumstances might be to pray… well, I think that such a world can conceive of Advent, too: that the Son of God will come again, in the fullness of time, when the night is far gone, and the day is near.
A is for Advent, and Asteroids, and Apocalypse. Even though we live in a society that can hardly tell science from fiction or fiction from faith, Jesus is still coming to us. God will still accomplish God’s purposes. Time will lead to some decisive moment, with or without an asteroid. And every single one of us will face the implications of Death, Judgment, Heaven, and Hell. So it’s good to have a prayer on our lips. And for starters this one does just fine:
“Dearest Father and almighty creator, we ask for your grace despite our pride, your forgiveness despite our doubt, and most of all, your love to soothe our fears in these dark times. May we face your divine will with courage and open hearts of acceptance. In your name... Amen.”
Do you just say “Amen?” Yes, you do. A is for Amen, too. So be it, Lord. Come to us in your time and find us awake and ready to meet you. The night is far gone, and the day is near.
Amen. Amen. Amen.
Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
27 November 2022
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia
* All quotations are from the film, “Don’t Look Up,” written by Adam McKay. 2021, distributed by Netflix.
The last supper scene of “Don’t Look Up.”