"Hope as Action"

St. Margaret’s Episcopal Church, The 10th Sunday in Pentecost, August 8, 2004

 The Rev. Dr. Frank Anthony Spina

[ Genesis 15:1-6, Psalms 33:12-22, Hebrews 11:1-3, 8-16, Luke 12:32-40 ]

            “It was the best of times.  It was the worst of times.”  You’ll recall that’s how Charles Dickens famously began A Tale of Two Cities.  Somewhat less well remembered is that Dickens went on to enumerate several similar polarizations.  It was a time of prosperity and poverty, of sickness and health, of virtue and corruption.  And so forth.  Of course, in writing these lines, Dickens was doing more than displaying literary brilliance.  He just happened to be correct.             

            How can I be so sure?  Well, it is certainly not because I’m an expert on British novels or that era in England’s history.  Rather, it is because of this simple fact: The world that Dickens described is the way the world is, and always has been, and always will be, regardless of time or place.  Human triumph and tragedy go hand in hand.  It has always been so.  As long as history continues to unfold, it will always be so. 

            Granted, we like to fool ourselves sometimes.  For example, we are fond of romanticizing the past, of imagining some golden age of yore, of yearning for the idyllic ages that others supposedly enjoyed.  Or, we delude ourselves into thinking that the present we inhabit is superior to anything that has gone before.  The new is always better than the old, novelty always trumps tradition, an exciting present replaces a boring past.  We are heirs of “enlightenment,” having emerged thankfully from ages ever so dark            

            Both these outlooks are problematic.  That’s because the human condition is simultaneously characterized by good and bad, fortune and misfortune, advance and retreat, victory and loss, abundance and scarcity.  This is not resignation or fatalism; it is reality.  Granted, we don’t like this very much.  That’s primarily because it undercuts one of our most cherished modern myths: the myth of inevitable human progress based on our intelligence, our technology, and our formidable will.  In spite of all evidence to the contrary, we blithely believe that we’re just on the verge of solving once and for all our most besetting problems.  Just think, a handful of years ago the Cold War came to a sudden and surprising end.  A President proclaimed a “peace dividend.”  Now, even without Iraq, the world is engaged in another war—of an arguably more invidious type—of horribly uncertain duration or outcome.  If the Democrats take over, it could be much better, or marginally better, or much worse, or marginally worse, or about the same.  If the Republicans stay in power it could get much better, or marginally better, or much worse, or marginally worse, or about the same.  Who knows?  It’s the best of times.  It’s the worst of times.

            The question for you and me is: “Is there a Christian response to the constant ebb and flow of human life, whether that ebb and flow is seen in political, social, military, economic, medical, moral, or religious terms?”  The answer is: “Yes.”  But that’s not a simple “yes,” it is a complex “yes.”

            Here’s why.  In spite of our being Christian, there is no exemption from the flow of history or complete involvement in the multiple vagaries of human existence.  That’s why there are poor Christians, oppressed Christians, sick Christians, dying Christians, grieving Christians, emotionally troubled Christians, and tortured Christians.  The converse is, thankfully, also true.  Still, that’s not related to the fact that Christians get a “break” in life.  This is simply the way things are.  So, one Christian response to life’s struggles and difficulties is: “Much as I wish it were otherwise, my faith does not make me immune from life’s onslaughts.”  There is simply no Christian inoculation from the human condition.

            When I was in seminary, a couple of centuries ago, I was required in a preaching course to read an anthology of great sermons.  One I’ll never forget.  It was titled, “But When Life Tumbles in, What Then?”  How apt!  We all have stories of when life “tumbled in,” notwithstanding our faith, our church membership, our station in life, our economic status, or even our virtue.  Life has a way of “tumbling in”—that’s just the way life is.  Even for Christians, it’s constantly “the best of times and the worst of times.”  There’s no use denying that.  As Christians, we have no choice but to embrace it.  As the kids are fond of saying, “Get over it.” 

            But, as I said, that’s only part of the Christian response.  The other part, the more interesting part, is quite another matter.  It has to do with the very core of our faith and the very substance of our Story.  It involves not avoiding or denying life’s difficulties, stresses, or disappointments, but dealing with them in light of God’s larger purposes and promises.  As people of Christian faith, we are on a communal journey.  That journey—we can all attest—has more than its share of bumps, bruises, forks in the road, and dangers.  But here is the variable.  We embark on this journey in response to God’s summons, in light of God’s promises, and with the assurance of God’s presence.  Indeed, even when we “walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” which we all will, we still “fear no evil.”  Why?  Because we’re “tough as nails?”  No.  Because we’re noble and heroic?  No.  Because we’re emotionally balanced, psychologically strong, morally resolute, absolutely determined?  No.  Here’s why: “Because God is with us.”  Life tumbles in, the “worst of times” threaten the “best of times,” but God is with us.  That’s our story.  That’s our comfort.  That’s our belief.  And that is our hope.

            God said in a vision to Abraham, our forefather in the faith, “Don’t be afraid . . . I am your Shield; your reward will be magnificent.”  Abraham countered by saying in essence that it was the “worst of times,” that “life” had “tumbled in”: “Lord, what will you give me?”  Abraham’s cynical question was prompted by the fact that God’s promise made to him years before had not come to pass.  “Fear not?”  “I am afraid!”  “You’re my Shield?”  “You could have fooled me!”  “My reward will be magnificent?”  “I guess You’ve been too busy to notice that Your promise remains unfulfilled!  There’s no child of promise in this house.  There’s only a slave boy to be my potential heir.  Ah!  Some promise!”

            Then God counters Abraham’s counter: “I’ve made a promise and I stick by it.  On my terms.  In my way. With my Timing.  You’ve no idea how lavishly my promise will be fulfilled, not unless you can count all the stars.”  Abraham does not this time counter God’s counter, he only believes.  What does he believe?  That God’s word is constant, true, trustworthy.  That God’s actions exceed our impoverished imaginations.  That God has involved us in a cosmic plan and is expending an enormous amount of divine energy implementing that plan.  That not everything is as it seems.  That God is working even when we do not notice or cannot or will not see.  That the “worst of times” or “life’s tumbling in” is no barrier to God, no impediment to divine action, no reason for dismay. 

            So Abraham believed.  And God regarded that belief as a great act of righteousness.  And no wonder, for our greatest act of righteousness is not adhering to a moral code, keeping a commandment, or being “good.”  Our greatest act is believing in God, trusting God, counting on God.  Everything else follows from that.  “Don’t be afraid, Abraham.”  God is out and about, God is working hither and yon, God is on the stage occasionally and behind the scenes always.  We are not alone.  We are not left to our own devices.  We do not have the burden of sovereignty.  “Don’t be afraid.”  “I am your Shield.”  “Your reward will be magnificent.”

            Truth be told, this vignette about Abraham is the biblical Story in shorthand.  Over and over in the biblical narrative God’s presence and God’s promises are most prominent, most decisive, most emphatic, precisely in the worst of times and when life has tumbled in and shaken us to the core.  Every single post-Abraham episode in Genesis presents a grave threat to God’s promise; and God shows up in completely unexpected ways every single time.  In an Esau who reflects the face of God, in a Jacob who goes from cheat to religious reformer, in a Tamar who is abandoned but saves everyone’s future, in a Joseph who went from a pit to a throne.  Could any time have been worse than the Exodus, when Israel was oppressed and enslaved?  God was there, too.  The Wilderness was one depressing “tumbling in” after another.  But God showed up and led Israel to a Promised Land.  Even in Exile when hope seemed absurd, prophets were comforting the people and assuring them that God would once again be in their midst.

            This morning’s epistle is a well-known biblical rehearsal of this motif.  One after another name is mentioned of those who lived by faith, who hoped beyond hope, who believed in God when there seemed no good reason to do so.  That’s our Story.  This is our Narrative.  We live by faith, trust, hope.  That’s why, when God says, or Jesus says, as he does in today’s Gospel lesson, “Don’t be afraid,” we’re not afraid.  It does not have to do with us, with our ability, our tenacity, our efforts, it has to do with our steadfast belief.  Belief in God, God’s promises, God’s ways, God’s sovereignty.  “Fear not, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.”  Believing that, trusting that, hoping for that are our most strategic and significant actions.  Hope is our greatest Christian action, our best Christian achievement.

            You see, the nature of the Christian Gospel is such that it is un-Christian not to have hope.  Hopelessness means there is no future, no prospects, no meaning to life, no ultimate resolution.  It means the Christian Story is a tragedy rather than a comedy.  It means we’re trusting in ourselves because we’re actually alone and on our own. 

            Granted, God takes our humanity ever so seriously.  We should not downplay our God given gifts, talents, competencies.  These are all to be put into God’s service.  These have been granted to us for the sake of Christ’s Church and its reconciling mission.  But they’re God’s gifts, God’s enablements, God’s initiatives.  We hope finally, then, not in ourselves but in the God who in Christ calls us, sustains us, and shows us the way.  This is not something new.  It is something old, very old.  It is as old as our Story.  God said in effect to Abraham, “Don’t be afraid, just believe, just hold on in hope.”  Jesus said to the “little flock,” “Don’t be afraid, just believe, hold on in hope.”  This typifies the hope by which we are summoned to live.  That’s why Christians are the quintessential optimists. 

            Dear friends who make up the “little flock” at St. Margaret’s, these seem to be “the worst of times.”  It is all but impossible to imagine them simultaneously as “the best of times.”  Life has tumbled in and overwhelmed us.  We are frightened.  Confused.  Terribly anxious.  Angry.  Frustrated.  Some of us are reeling.  We are blaming.  Defending.  Floundering.  Our hold on the future seems so tenuous.  We’re unsure what will happen to us.  We worry about people whom we love dearly, whom we respect, whom we know are trying to carry on the Lord’s work.  We’re not certain where to turn, exactly what to do, precisely how to respond.

            This is especially difficult for us as American Christians.  Because Americans, for all their faults, take charge and get things done.  They fix things.  They’re “can do” folk.  We pioneer, settle uncharted territory, don’t hesitate to make foolish purchases (like Alaska), go to the Moon and Mars, split the atom.  You name it, we do it.  We want to do that here, in this situation, right now.  What’s broken?  We’ll mend it.  What’s wrong?  We’ll make it right.  Who’s in charge?  Let me give them my two cents worth.  I don’t for a minute want to disparage such attitudes or responses.  They’re often exactly what is needed.  But there’s ultimately another way.  A more excellent way.  It’s the way of Christian hope.  Even our vaunted American outlook and attitude needs to be thoroughly baptized by the Christian Gospel and its accent on hope.

            Perhaps more than anything else right now we need prayer, good old-fashioned prayer.  Someone suggested to me last week that we should get a prayer vigil started.  I second the motion.  And what should we pray for?  That’s no secret.  All the usual things: wisdom, patience, understanding, focus, perspective, balance.  But there’s one more thing we should pray for, something that emerges organically from today’s lections.  We need to pray for the kindling of our Christian imaginations.  Why imagination?  Because our Christian Story requires us to think outside the proverbial box.

            The very essence of our Story is that God is constantly showing up in unpredictable and surprising ways.  Our Story is not primarily about remarkable people, it’s about a remarkable God.  Indeed, the only thing the biblical characters are remarkable for is how frail, silly, broken, unbelieving, obtuse, stubborn, scared they are.  Yet, it is precisely these people through whom our surprising God works.  I say, as I have said before: “Who would ever expect to find God in an Egyptian slave-camp, a Jewish cradle, or on a Roman cross?”  That requires imagination.  Exercising that sort of imagination constitutes hope of the profoundest sort. 

            No matter how we might describe our community right now, the fact is we’re in excellent company.  Worried?  Welcome—others have been there before.  Confused?  No problem, God can deal with that.  Angry?  Fine—God can convert that energy into something productive.  There’s no condition, no situation, no difficulty that God cannot transform.  God took on the burden of the whole world in the cross of Christ.  That was the ultimate transformation. It gives us the ultimate hope, manifested in Resurrection faith.

            St. Margaret’s is, you’ll pardon me for saying so, relatively speaking small potatoes.  You figure God can get Abraham and Sarah through their crisis, but is befuddled about ours?  You suppose God hit one out of the park in the Exodus, but will strike out in Factoria?  You speculate that God can restore an exiled Israel but will be stymied by the problems plaguing us?  You imagine that God can redeem the created order though Jesus Christ but fail miserably because life has tumbled in on us?  I don’t think so.  Not because I’m a contrarian, or in denial, but because I hope.  That hope is not a virtue.  It’s the only possible response to taking our Story, our Church, our Lord, and our God seriously.  Don’t be afraid.  Hope.  That’s the best thing we can do.  If we’re truly Christian, it’s the only thing we ever do.