Malachi 4:1-2a; Psalm 98; II Thessalonians 3:6-13; Luke 21:5-19
The Rev. Candice B. Frazer
Order, disorder, reorder: the perpetual circle of life. In the church, we often describe it as creation, death, and resurrection. Mythology recognizes this as the “hero’s journey” framing it as departure, initiation, return. Jung might describe it as moving from a constructed identity, encountering the shadow, and and emerging as an integrated, whole self. Philosophers speak of experience, rupture, and becoming. Sociologists see it as stable norms, disruption, restructuring.
Across all these disciplines we find a common pattern: order, disorder, and reorder. More importantly, these perspectives converge in a hopeful insight: disorder is not failure, nor is it the end. Rather, it is the necessary space where transformation becomes possible.
Of course, when we are in the midst of disorder, this insight can feel distant. Disorder often looks like losing a job, facing a health crisis, or grieving the death of a loved one. It can also take forms that feel less dramatic but are still disruptive like marriage, having children, children moving out, relocating to a new city, even getting a pet. Yet, it is the hard times—the moments of suffering—in which disorder seems most bleak.
In times of disorder, many of us turn to the church. Maybe we are seeking hope or comfort or peace. Maybe we just need to remember that we do belong somewhere and need to be reminded our lives have value. Whatever the reason, the presence of a church—its walls, its sacred space, its liturgy—anchor hope in ways that few other things can.
Years ago, I visited Paris for the first time. Walking toward Notre Dame, I was awed by its enormity: the flying buttresses, the gorgeous rose window, the artistry and architecture designed to inspire wonder. Standing outside, I drank it all in. When I went inside and looked up, I felt as if I was looking into heaven itself. The arches stretched upward, designed to lift the eye and the spirit. I would not have been surprised to see cherubim and seraphim singing in the heights.
Construction on Notre Dame began in 1163 and was largely completed by 1250, though final modifications continued for another two centuries. Those who envisioned Notre Dame never saw its completion. Since that time, it has undergone periodic restoration work, most notably after a fire in 2019. Notre Dame was never meant to simply be an architectural marvel. It was meant to glorify God and give hope to the masses.
The tall ceilings, pointed arches, flying buttresses, and light-filled windows are designed to draw the eye upward and inspire awe—a sense of touching the heavens. Gothic architecture uses proportion and symmetry to evoke both cosmic and spiritual order. The cathedral stands as a spiritual anchor, a microcosm of heaven on earth, a visible sign of God’s protection over Paris and its people. Its sacredness extended beyond its walls, shaping the skyline and ordering the life of the city.
Standing in that church more than twenty years ago, I felt that sacredness poured through a thousand plus years. I am sure I walked around that space with my mouth agape in wonder and amazement at the architecture, the relics, stained glass, sculptures, and intricate carvings. Afterward, I gathered with the others in my group and we could not stop talking about how beautiful it was. We left feeling renewed, uplifted, and certain that those who created it had also created a beacon of hope for generations.
Though Ascension is not the architectural feat of Notre Dame—it inspires me in much the same way. I am captivated by the stain glass windows especially when the sun splashes the color from the panes across the stone, the reredos behind the altar and its intricate carving, the transcept with its Canterbury Cross at the spot where the horizontal meets the vertical axis of the nave. There is beauty outside as well: the bell tower lit up at night, the gardens that draw those who seek peace and ponder purpose. This place reminds us of the spiritual ordering in the world. Ascension stands as a beacon of hope to the masses of Montgomery, reminding us that spiritual stability and hope are possible even in a turbulent world. Just imagine the emptiness we might feel if it were no longer here.
Jesus, in our Gospel this morning, reminds those who admired the beauty of the Temple that it is temporary. Its grandeur would not last forever. He points them instead toward the days to come, when even sacred spaces can be destroyed. His words may feel unsettling or pessimistic, yet they point toward hope—the reordering that follows disorder. In less than fifty years, the Temple would be reduced to rubble. Judaism did not end with the destruction of the Temple in 70 AD. In some ways, that destruction liberated the faith, opening space for new understanding and renewal. Disorder can free us to rediscover our beliefs, refocus our hope, and deepen our connection to God.
In 1984, when Ascension caught fire and much of the nave was destroyed, the church did not cease to be a church. Its members found creative ways to continue worship and mission. They turned destruction into opportunity, adding new spaces. The fire, while tragic, created space for reordering, for growth, and for resurrection.
This is who we are as the church. Like Notre-Dame, we may inspire awe and contribute beauty to the world. But at our core, we are defined by the cycles of order, disorder, reorder—by creation, death, and resurrection. This identity connects us to all who have gone before and all who will follow. It reaches into the world to reassure those living in fear, anxiety, or uncertainty that there is something greater than the fears and anxieties of a brittle, anxious, non-linear, incomprehensible age. This identity allows us to be beacons of light for those walking in darkness.
On this Celebration Sunday, we encounter passages that speak of dreadful portents, destruction, famines, plagues, persecution, and rejection. And yet, we do not fear. We understand that the reordering of the world always requires disordering. In times of great disorder, we remember that the worst things are never the last things—disorder can never be the end—because, at our very essence, we are resurrection people.
Amen.