hope beyond hope

 A long time ago a friend of mine from the church we attended in Manhattan, St Clement's off Broadway, developed a one-man show he called The Reverend Billy Show. It later developed into a full choir revival tour style revue, in which his character, cracked street preacher Reverend Billy, would deliver two or three raving sermons - that were actually pretty good. 

But at first it was a one man show with just his character, Reverend Billy, in a clerical dicky, a white suit, fabulous hair, a bull horn, and an imaginary online congregation. He would stand at the pulpit and rave about commercialism, egregious bombing of innocents, and other apparently Quixotic concerns of the time. And he had a creed, which we repeated: 

We believe in the god that people that don't believe in god believe in. Chant that.

Reverend Billy's creed came to mind as Sarah and I read about mid-century German theologians, including Karl Barth and Paul Tillich, and especially Dietrich Bonhoeffer. 

At that time the world was plunging into despair, desperation, cynicism: no hope. There was no hope, but as some of those brave theologians put it, there was hope beyond hope. Beyond despair. 

It sounds absurd. But this is a time when absurdities are not unfamiliar, either. Hope beyond hope.

The times of the mid-twentieth century in places like Germany were times of extreme, of government unleashed upon the innocent, of babies born in the face of fear. Of families torn apart by arbitrary detention. Of executions personally authorized by the head of state. Of exile. Of famine. Of despair.

And of hope beyond hope.

The Blessed Virgin Mary, her cousin Elizabeth, her husband-to-be Joseph, and the children that came to them, lived also in a time of uncertainty, despair, and precarious hope. 

The world hinged upon a word. "Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb," the angel greeted Mary. She could have said no. Angels held their breath. And then she said, "yes."

Yes, to the improbably babyish salvation of the world. An innocent, among many born that year, was to survive the massacre of its age-mates - ordered by the king - and become ... the hope of the world.

It seems impossible but it was so. Is so. In the small room at the back of a home in Bethlehem, and in the small home the family returned to in Nazareth - but not yet - a child arrived, was welcomed, and grew. 

But not yet: first the child and his parents fled by night from Palestine through Gaza into Egypt, there to remain until the implacable search blew over and it appeared to be safe to return home. 

We here may not know, or may not have known, what it meant to be nearly hopeless, in a village surrounded by an imperial enemy, with disciplined troops nearby, always vigilant for signs of resistance.

We may know, through our own experience or that of family members or refugees we have encountered, or aid workers we have known, just exactly what that was like.

There is fear. But there is always hope. There is darkness. And-- there is light. 

And the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not - cannot - put it out. For in him was life, and this life is the light of all people. Merry Christmas, once again. 

December 29, 2024. Lessons & Carols. Episcopal Church of Saint Matthew, Tucson. 8 & 10:30am

the kingdom of Heaven is upon you!

Sometimes I wish this calendar would go faster. I wish it was already Christmas – already Epiphany, to tell the truth – and the baby and the shepherds and the angels and the wise men had already come, and we were across the desert of Advent and we were safe at home on the other side.

An image: a way through the desert, a straight path, that we must travel to get home; a river, that we must get into, before we get home.

But we are not home yet. We have, at this present moment, a desert yet to cross – and a river yet to be waded into – before we reach the resting place on the other side, before we get home.

Every transition – and Advent is a time of transition – has three parts: an end, a muddle, and a beginning. And we are in the muddle.

We are in the present moment. Though it is the child of the past, the past is behind us now. Though it is pregnant with the future, the future has yet to come. What we have, where we are, is now – the in-between time, the muddle. We are in the desert, travelers from what has been to what will be. And that is good.

The present moment – in the desert – is where we meet the living God.

Offspring of the past, pregnant with the future, the present moment, nevertheless, always exists in eternity as the point of intersection between time and the timelessness of faith, and, therefore, as the moment of freedom from past and future. – Dag Hammarskjold, Markings (New York: Knopf, 1964: 100).

At the intersection of time and timelessness, now, we see our freedom to take hold of what God is doing – to bring into being in us the coming kingdom.

We are not there yet. We are on our way. We look back and say, for all that has been, - Thanks! We look ahead and say, to all that will be, - Yes!

Now, though, in between, we have some things to do.

What we have carried with us into the present moment we may have to let go of, now. Not with regret, but with gratitude.

So we go to the river. There is a man there. He stands by the water like a prophet of old, like Elijah. And he beckons us forward.

Each of us, all of us, are called to take responsibility, in this moment, to become the people God calls us to be, God made us to be.

The people who went out to see John in the wilderness knew they were not home yet. They lived in the City, the Temple was grander than ever, but something was still missing – something at the center of life.

So like the people following Moses out of Egypt, like the people returning from exile, they traveled into the desert.

Like the people coming across the desert, they come to the river Jordan. It is time to get wet. It is time to come clean – to wash all that away, all the encumbrances of the journey. You don’t need to carry them any farther – you are almost home now. Leave them behind. Come. Start fresh.

The Kingdom of Heaven is upon you. Change your hearts and your lives. The kingdom is being born right now. What does it look like?

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How do we get there?

It won’t work to claim an “in” as a birthright. You can’t just make up a bunch of rules and follow them – there is no way to manipulate the system. You cannot crank the God machine until grace pops out.

Bear fruit that shows the change in your lives.

An image: an orchard that needs pruning – clear away the dead branches, so the fruit can grow.

A vision of the future: a fruitful orchard.

A vision of the kingdom: a place of peace.

A vision of what will be: all shall be well.

The kingdom is coming, in this present moment. We can express it in our lives – what does it look like? Justice. Reconciliation. Abundance. Peace.

The proclamation for today is this: Right now, in this present moment, the kingdom of heaven is upon you. Change your hearts and change your lives!

Beauty Ranch

2010 December 5, Second Sunday of Advent, Isaiah 11:1-10, Psalm 72:1-7 & 18-19, Romans 15:4-13, Matthew 3:1-12,

In the name of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit: source of all being, eternal word and holy breath of God: Amen.

About a hundred years ago a man rode into a valley - and looked around him. It was a beautiful place with views of majestic mountains and hills covered with that tawny grass we know in summers in much of the West. He saw that things could grow here - with nurture and water - this would be a good place for a ranch, and grape vines, and fruit trees.

There was a farm house and he built a barn. He planted an orchard and a vineyard. On the porch and in the study of the house (and probably on his walks and rides around the ranch and its environs) he carried on the profession he'd brought with him. The ranch prospered, the vines and trees bore fruit.

Other people moved into the valley and followed his example.

He built his dream house - with a good architect, solid rock and great hewn timbers. It was to be a place for friends and family to gather - to enjoy the good green earth - and when you rode up the hill to it you would get an impressive view, of the house and the orchards and fields around it, through the tall trees guarding the road, and once you got up to the house itself, the magnificent vista looking out over the hills and towards the mountains beyond and around it.

Fruit still grows to ripeness there.

Descendants still take an interest in the old place - people come to see it from time to time.

Jack London lived to see his dream house built - but he did not get to live in it.

It's no longer there - what is there are some of the trees he planted, the fields he cleared, some of the outbuildings, and oddly enough the little old house that was there when he started. Jack died on the porch of that house of uremic poisoning - after a full life lived well and passionately, his kidneys failed.

He left behind him a legacy not only for family and friends, for the readers of his words, but for the community. The people who came into the valley with him and before him - he acknowledged the primeval people of the place - and new people who come into the Valley of the Moon to this day - all benefit from what he did.

It's not so much what he built or how long it lasted - it has a lot to do with what he grew and harvested - it has even more to do with what he planted - and how he carried others along in his mission.

His mission was to establish a peaceful growing place - a place to live, a place to grow, a place to share in the abundance of the earth. It fostered his own creativity - he wrote every day, on that porch, five hundred words - it fostered a growing, creative life-sharing community - a tradition of how to live a good, generous, big life.

Of course he is gone now: the descendants of John Griffith London are not the big men in the valley (though they are still around and still keep an eye on the orchards and fields). What you see is new and old: continuity-in-change and change-in-continuity.

Remember the best of the past and look forward to the future - bring into the present moment the freedom God has given you - and go forth from this place, a place of God's abundance, in abiding love, strengthened, renewed, refreshed, and ready.

Preserving the past or its memories alone won't preserve it. Won't keep it alive. Won't nurture new growth. Won't bring life.

Another John, Lennon, found that out: life is what happens while you are making other plans.

The legacy is not in the building - the life of the community, the church - does not stay in the building - it reaches out. It has to do, yes, with what you have grown and harvested - in thanksgiving time we celebrate that. It has even more to do with what you have planted - and what the people coming new into this part of the world make of it - of what you have planted - and even more of how.

Whether the old place still stands or not, in the valley, it lingers in our memory: a sturdy place of shelter, of welcome and of beauty; an achievement and a monument of achievements past, but more than that a guidepost and landmark to guide our feet into the paths of peace.

Where will you go now, O people of God - how will you serve and what will you grow? What will you nurture? What fruit will you bear and what seeds will you sow?

Are you preparing the ground for new growth? Have you given thanks for the harvest, cleared the ground, and nurtured the soil? Will you be ready for spring?

New growth is coming - a new season on the old ranch - what will it look like? Familiar or foreign, will it be nurtured by remembrance of things past or captured in nostalgia? Will this present moment become a moment of freedom grasped - or forgotten?

What we know is this: God is our guide, our creator, sustainer, and redeemer. God will be there ahead of us as he was before us - planting, sowing, harvesting, cultivating, beginning and beginning again; his legacy is his calling forth into the future his people that true beauty and the fruits of the Spirit come forth and be known upon this earth.

We proclaim the mystery of faith, the mystery of Christ. We remember his death, we proclaim his resurrection, we await his coming in glory We await actively - by seeking strength and renewal; by going forth in peace to love and serve the Lord; by carrying forward his mission in the world; by bearing the fruit of the Spirit - peace, joy, gentleness, and hope; - and by nurturing in others the Word newly planted in their hearts; by seeing in the stranger a newcomer to the valley, a new partner in the work, to welcome.

May we go forward in hope
in the abundance of love
in the renewal of grace
in the strength of faith. Amen.

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Jack London, "The Acorn Planters" (play)

Sermon for the second Sunday of Advent 2010
St Alban's Episcopal Church, Edmonds, Wash.

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