What do you do when the world doesn’t end?
Most of us are familiar with the story of Jonah and the whale. God tells Jonah to warn the people of Nineveh to repent, but the prophet, instead, runs away, taking passage on a ship. So God sends a storm after him, and Jonah implores the sailors to save themselves by throwing him overboard. A great fish swallows Jonah and vomits him up on the shore. Chastened, Jonah goes through Nineveh preaching repentance. The people listen, and God spares them.
The next part of the story is less well known. When Jonah realizes God intends to spare Nineveh, he becomes angry. Nineveh, after all, was the capital of the enemy nation of Assyria. As Jonah sits, sulking in the blazing sun, God causes a gourd vine to grow, shading him. But immediately afterwards, God sends a worm to kill the vine. Jonah complains about this, so God lectures him: He is upset about the death of a single vine but indifferent to the thousands of lives in Nineveh?
The story of Jonah reminds us not to let hunger for justice warp into a taste for vengeance. However, seeing the verses from Jonah juxtaposed against two other scripture passages in this week’s mass readings, I noticed another aspect to the story.
In the New Testament reading accompanying this one, Paul writes to the church in Corinth: “I tell you, brothers and sisters, the time is running out. From now on, let those having wives act as not having them, those weeping as not weeping, those rejoicing as not rejoicing, those buying as not owning, those using the world as not using it fully. For the world in its present form is passing away.”
Then, in the Gospel of Mark, we see Jesus calling his first disciples. This is shortly after John the Baptist has been arrested, and one can imagine the tensions in the community when Jesus arrives in Galilee, preaching, “This is the time of fulfillment. The kingdom of God is at hand. Repent, and believe in the gospel.”
These are stories of prophetic disruption, calling God’s people, as earthly kingdoms are passing away, to detach themselves from the things of the world. These warnings about the world’s end feel familiar to me, since this theme formed the backdrop of my childhood and teen years. Whether I was playing with friends, reading a novel or doing chores, that little voice was always with me, whispering, this world will end.
It may be easier and more entertaining to sit on the outskirts, waiting for the world to end, but that’s not how we bring about the kingdom of heaven.
Strangely, this awareness was a wall of invincibility between myself and others. I might be an oddity, a girl in thrift store clothes who lived without plumbing and rarely watched television, but I had special knowledge the cool kids lacked. I knew their secure and comfortable world would not last. And when it fell apart, I was trained to face it. Others might beg me to help them survive. Maybe I would, maybe I wouldn’t.
Apocalyptic alertness clearly inculcated in me; not holiness, but a superiority complex. This may have been a survival mechanism. Despite trends of romanticizing simplicity and back-to-the-land ideology, the homesteading life is far from glamorous and a lot of work. The more charming it looks, the less likely it is to be the real thing. Most people who call themselves homesteaders are fully dependent on the system, which is why they are busy documenting their bread loaves on Instagram instead of doing the actual labor of survival.
Still there’s something bracing, like a clean wind on a cold day, about that life. Preparing for the end of the world gives every moment an edge of importance that’s missing from the daily grind of existing in a world that keeps carrying on. Since life is already filled with failure and defeat, why not let the thing that defeats you be the literal apocalypse?
Four years ago, when the COVID-19 pandemic was beginning, I felt a return of that old excitement. We didn’t know yet what the virus would do, but we did know our plans were on hold. As months unfurled, countless tragedies played out. People were afraid, heartbroken, traumatized. But facing an existential threat of this magnitude gave me a sense of purpose. I was raised for this, right? If things reached dystopian-movie-level, I was prepared. And suddenly I had the perfect excuse to avoid irritating social situations. There was no need to sign my kids up for activities. Since the future was uncertain, my obligation to prepare for it seemed laughable.
When things began to return to normal, I grew curious: Had other people also, guiltily, enjoyed the simplicity of the lockdown era? I googled and found numerous published essays, including “Here’s How Many Of Us Miss Lockdown Life” or “People Reveal What They Miss The Most About Covid Lockdown.” I am not, apparently, the only one.
But that’s a perspective reserved for those of us who were lucky to be spared the real suffering of the pandemic. While I was hiding in the country stockpiling beans, many others were trapped in small apartments, unable even to go take a walk. And others were working to the point of exhaustion, saving lives and keeping the supply chains moving.
Two thousand years after Jesus proclaimed “the kingdom of God is at hand,” the world is still with us. So how should we live in it? Unfortunately, Christians have often used the call to spiritual detachment as an excuse to remain indifferent to what happens outside our special little circles. Climate change? Not our problem. Poverty? Jesus said the poor would always be with us. A refugee crisis? Well, it is sad, but maybe migrants should have made different choices. Abuse? It was probably your fault. And if it wasn’t, well, offer it up.
This, not apocalypse and cataclysm, is how the kingdom of heaven comes about.
It can also be tempting to give up on the often boring and seemingly thankless labor of building a more just society, and rush straight to the apocalyptic part where it all burns down. Real reform happens slowly, with many setbacks along the way. Denouncing injustice is important, but it’s only a first step. The thoughtful process of dismantling structures of oppression without harming innocent lives along the way takes a lot longer and involves the kind of work you can’t usually show off on social media.
I am sympathetic to Jonah, sulking under his gourd vine. I get why he was angry, since I too would like to see God smite the people who have wronged me. Plus it can be exciting to observe a cataclysmic event, at least from a safe distance. There is a reason why, repeatedly, since the founding of the church, Christians have become obsessed with the prospect of apocalypse. If the world is going to end tomorrow, or next month, or next year, this relieves us of our boring obligations. And it lets us feel so special.
But Christian detachment shouldn’t take the form of nihilism. Following Jesus means being more, not less concerned, with the needs of the people around us and our communities. It may be easier and more entertaining to sit on the outskirts, waiting for the world to end, but that’s not how we bring about the kingdom of heaven.
I write this on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. King famously stated that “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice,” yet this wasn’t intended to be a message of naive optimism. The bend toward justice is not inevitable, and it won’t just happen organically. We are all called to be part of the work of bending it, even when this work feels tedious. This, not apocalypse and cataclysm, is how the kingdom of heaven comes about.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rebecca Bratten Weiss is a writer and academic residing in rural Ohio. She is the digital editor for U.S. Catholic magazine and can be found at rebeccabrattenweiss.com.
