Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Sermon at St. George's, Maplewood, December 15 2013

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

This poem of Emily Dickinson is immortal, though mostly we hear just the first line.  It speaks nicely to the strangeness of hope, to the strange blend of fragility and resilience that hope carries.
In the Church, we name Advent as the season of hope.  But this hope is as elusive as Dickinson’s thing with feathers.  For what, exactly, do we hope?  Is hope really a thing with an object at all?
Hope is not the same as wishing, for all that we use it that way.  We say, “I’m hoping for a bike for Christmas,” when we mean we want it, we wish for it, we even expect it.  But hope is not any of those.
We don't hope "for" things.  We hope "that" - the object of hope is an occurrence, a state of affairs, a way of being.  We hope that hunger and thirst might come to an end.  We hope that injustice and oppression might come to an end.  The object of hope is a whole world, not just an object within a world.
Hope is not based on evidence.  In the first letter of Peter we hear that we should always be ready to give a reason for the hope that lives within us, but that reason is not scientific proof.  We hope in spite of what we see, but hope transforms the landscape so that we begin to see differently.  We see signs of life where we had only seen death and destruction.

We see an example of this wild hope in our reading from Isaiah.
The first half of the book of Isaiah is mostly a prophecy of doom.  Judah will be destroyed.  But interspersed with the doom are glimmers of light, such as today’s reading.  This reading would make sense if we were later in the book, when the exiles are returning home.  But here it’s out of place, out of time.
But hope is always like that.  If it were in place, in the right time, it wouldn’t be hope.  It would be the way things are.  We need hope when the way things are isn’t enough.  Hope lets us see the world that could be, can be, in the midst of the world that is.
And hope is what gives us the strength to make that world real.  Hope is a spring that renews us in the midst of desert waste.  Hope is what gets us up and on our feet again.
It is the hope that things might be better that transforms slaves into freedom fighters and eventually into free people.  As we mourn Nelson Mandela, we continue to learn from him the power of hope.
The brutality of apartheid in South Africa was as deep as the Roman occupation of Palestine had been in Jesus’ time.  The people were treated as less than human, not only to be exploited but to be denied basic human dignity.  There was plenty of reason to be angry, and plenty of anger.  Nelson Mandela entered the resistance movement and, like John the Baptist, spoke strongly and clearly against the rulers.  And, like John, he found himself in prison, isolated, forced to perform meaningless brutal labor.  He had no reason to hope, but he did.  He knew the story of what God had done, what God could do, and the divine spark in him claimed that another miracle could happen in South Africa.  Somehow, during those endless years, the seed of wisdom and love grew in him.  He befriended his guards, treating them as humans even when they did not reciprocate.  He became a voice, not for giving in, but for finding a new way.
When he was released, many whites feared that they would be hounded out of the country they had been raised in.  Many blacks hoped that Mandela would indeed lead them to throw out the oppressors.  But here Mandela surprised both black and white.
He entered prison like John the Baptist, but he came out like Jesus.  He came out just as committed to freedom, but he came out joyful and loving.  He came out committed to healing for his nation.
And so many wondered.  Was he perhaps not the one they had waited for after all?  Where was the warrior who would avenge the years of oppression?  Are you the one who is to come, or must we wait for another?
Now, we are not living in South Africa.  We are, however, living in a society increasingly divided between extreme rich and poor, a country with income inequality greater than all other developed countries.  We are becoming a country of two separate societies, held together by a myth that anyone can make it if they try.
What has separated us from other countries with extreme inequality is precisely the hope that it is possible to move up.  When hope wears thin, however, violence and repression become increasingly attractive.  Some of us remember the riots of the 1960s.  Parts of Newark have never recovered from that loss of hope.
In those situations, it’s not enough to just wish away the blues.  it’s not enough to tell people to try harder.  You have to give them hope, and that hope has to be real.  Nelson Mandela, like Martin Luther King Jr., gave people hope.  Around them, the reign of God could break into a room and shine among them.
I imagine being around Jesus was like that.  Lots of healing, lots of forgiveness, lots of naming and claiming without blaming.  Lots of people coming to feel they could be free, not only of the Roman occupation but of the hatred and fear in their souls.
But John was confused.  Jesus was not acting like his picture of a messiah, and so he almost missed it.
The other day I was looking for a book on my shelves.  We moved recently, and when I didn't find it I became afraid it had been given away.  I was certain I knew what it looked like, and I couldn't find it.  I looked three times.
On the fourth try I finally found it.  It was right where it belonged, but the cover looked different than I had remembered it.  I couldn't see it because it  wasn't what I was expecting.
where might Jesus be acting within you and among you?  Is there a chance you are missing him right in front of you?
You don't have to wait for Christmas and a baby.  Jesus is here, now, at work.  Just look, and share what you see.

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

Advent again

It was almost a year ago that I moved up here and the Companions took the next step into existence.  We keep taking the next step, and it seems just methodical and orderly, until someone says, "I can't believe how far you've come so fast!"  And then I see it's true.  It's one thing to name steps toward "birth" - our own commitments, forming covenants, forming a corporation to receive donations, starting a network of companions.  It's another to actually see so much happen.

God is in those events, I know, energizing and guiding us.  But plans and steps can easily become a matter of our own will, unguided by God. So today, early in Advent, I give thanks for those moments when we have paused, prayed, and waited.  Without that, we will just be another project - and likely one that flames out.

In the past year, we've had several people express interest in a close relationship, though not residential, or not yet.  That's exciting - we want people to be curious and hungry.  But now we're in a new place.  People are starting to ask in that serious way, the way that comes with tears and tremors and nervous laughter.  We're in the territory of the holy.  And that is not a place we can plan.  We can take steps - we must - but we cannot know what God intends for those seekers, or for us.  We have to paused, pray, and wait.

In a lovely meditation, Paula Gooder explores Sarai's decision to have Hagar bear a child by Abraham.  She couldn't wait for God's promise to manifest, so she engineered a "solution" that ended with heartache and rivalry and distrust.  It's a wonderful reminder of what can happen when we turn from following the path of trust.  In this tender, ever-new, ever-emerging place, plans must be held like butterflies.  If we are patient, the butterfly will show us who she is.  If we rush, she will fly away or die in our tight fist.

I give thanks for an amazing year, for God's spirit and strength - and I pray to pause, pray, and wait in the coming year.

Blessed Advent to everyone!