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

Epiphany 2013

When I lived in New York my friend and co-religionist Bill Talen was developing a one-man show, Reverend Billy. A cracked-pot street preacher, Reverend Billy would occasionally gather a congregation (audience) together and in the middle of his sermon ask us if we could testify to any god-sightings we’d been blessed with in the past week. It was wise to make one up – if you dared to volunteer: he’d turn and discount your story with explosive sarcasm.

The wise men from the East in our gospel reading today have had a god-sighting:

one they could have predicted, but didn’t;

one so extraordinary that they had to verify it – which involved considerable travel;

one that called for celebration – which involved significant gifts;

one that to us seems so absurd – astrologers from Babylon predicting the birth of the Messiah! – that we might tend to respond with sarcasm, but not Herod’s cold plotting.

Nevertheless they followed that star, and … that god-sighting changed things.

“They returned home by another road”…

only to find that they had changed. They could no longer be satisfied with the old ways. Indeed that is why they left in the first place. They saw the portents of inevitable change, and went forward to embrace it.

It was good news they heard. The praise they proclaimed was sincere. Those gifts they offered were honest, generous, and fitting.

“Where is the one born king of the Jews? For we saw his star at its rising…”

We perceived in our wisdom that something new and great was coming into being, that this ordinary-looking child, breathing softly there sleeping in his mother’s arms, that this child’s birth changes the world – and changes us; we too will never be the same, and that is joyous and disorienting news.

For we are – or were – kings in the Orient, wise men from the East. We had our places. 

But we saw the signs. And now we know – we have seen that which makes all our philosophy, all our observations and calculations, seem so much packing material.

Like the straw strewn under the manger, it has its purpose – not so exalted now.

And we began to absorb our losses – to feel our grief for what is gone. No longer will we look to the stars to give life meaning.

We must look on earth. For heaven has come down to meet us.

And meeting us has changed us – changed everything.

Redemption begins with a child. Revelation begins with a baby. It ends in a scene of triumphant glory. But first, in between, in between…

In our minds’ eye we will be walking in the dust beside a young man: far away we will be his companions, as he goes about spreading the news that fell from the sky.

Now earthbound and easy to the touch, the great good news has come to earth, to human form. This boy, this man, this Son of God, has brought the message down to earth.

And he asks us to do earthbound things, things that are ready to the touch.

Love God? Love your neighbor.

Love your neighbor? Love yourself.

Be kind. Be patient, slow to take offense. Be a good neighbor. Give honest weight.

Ordinary things – so hard to do.

And build on them – in them – build the kingdom right there out of earthbound ordinary things.

Find the praise, find the proclamation, find the pardon.

Find the procession of offerings.

Follow it to the altar: as Isaiah the prophet envisioned, a gathering of all nations, to pay homage to one God.

We were just the first to arrive. You come too.

It is a great procession of all people. All are welcome. Where do you find your place?

Are you trying to go back – to retrace your former journey to a time and place when you were comfortable and everything made sense - or are you going forward, entering into joy?

It’s a different road, a hard road. 

So here’s what we do – we the wise of the East:

Hear the good news. Sing his praise. Seek him out. Worship him. And go forth into the world, rejoicing in the power of God.

"Journey of the Magi", T. S. Eliot 

http://revbilly.com/