Apocalypse Now

Sermon Preached on 11.27.16 at GMC

Based (loosely) on Matthew 24:36-44

Advent is a time of waiting. We take this time in our season to watch and wait to see the presence of God in our lives and in our world.  

Some years at Advent, I wonder what I’m waiting for.  Am I going through the motions of Advent, just so we can get to the good stuff?  I want to jump right to Christmas hymns and baby Jesus in the manger.  I want to get right to the magic and beauty of the season.  I don’t want to wait, or pretend to wait.  I want the good stuff right now.  

Those are in the good years.  Those are the years when I don’t feel like I need God all that much.  Because God is here.  Or perhaps more accurately–things are going well.  In the good years, I don’t long as I do in other years.  I’m content, so God and I must be on good terms.

But this year–well this is not one of those years.  Waiting, anticipation, even desperation–they are all part of the mood this season.  We know we are waiting.  We know that things are not right with the world.  

The waiting is perhaps a wake up call from the “everything is going to be ok” mantra we’ve been  telling ourselves for so many years–that thin veil of hope we cling to.  Right now, “everything will be ok” is not a comfort.  It is a lie.  The words I’ve heard some Christians lean into lately are “God’s still on the throne” and “God’s still in control”.  And while that is true, I don’t understand how it is true, or when it will make sense.

This season of advent, we read these apocalyptic texts–the ones that come this time every year–and they seem more real and more true than I remember them to be last time around.  Two in the field, and one is taken.  Watch.  Stay Awake.  Be alert.  I’m watching.  I’m waiting.  I’m alert.  And–quite honestly–I’m feeling hopeless.  

So, it’s difficult to see the candle of hope lit this morning.  Because I’m not feeling hope.  Hope has never felt further away than right now.  It’s difficult to light this candle of hope today, because I am struggling to even know what hope is.  

A few days after the election two friends contacted me from occupied Palestine to see how I was handling our new political reality.  And I had to laugh.  It was ridiculous to think about my friends, calling me from Hebron–where they had to walk through multiple checkpoints that day, I’m sure.  They were worried about me.

I appreciate their friendship, and that they care about me.  But I know their concern comes from a recognition that my sense of hope is shallow and thin.  I have no lived experience to test my hope, no resolve to keep working, no sense of courage in difficult times.  

I sense that we often live like hope is a matter of wishing for things to be better.  We keep our fingers crossed for good things to happen.  That fingers crossed mentality doesn’t get us far when we are in deep difficulty.  It doesn’t get us far when we really begin to face the reality of the world we live in.  

So, I want to think about a deeper definition of hope, one that goes deeper than crossed fingers in shallow difficulties.  

I’m thinking today about two definitions of hope that we might be able to work with.  

One is the Palestinian definition.  Sumud is another word for hope in Arabic.  It’s translation is steadfast hope, or steadfast perseverance.  This word can best be described by two symbols:  One is of a deeply rooted olive tree–it is a Palestinian symbol of life.  The olive tree has existed on the soil for thousands of years.  This persistent tree gnarls over the years, but continues to bear fruit.  I’ve seen trees that have been burned down recover and green up again.  I’ve seen olive trees, cut to their stump, begin to grow again.  These are hardy trees, and the only reason they are so tough is because their roots go deep into the rocky soil.  

That is hope.  

The other symbol for samud is that of a pregnant Palestinian woman.  When I first saw this symbol for sumud, I thought of a conversation I had with several Mennonite guys about ten years ago.  Maybe you know the type–they have read all the right theology and philosophy, but lack some life experience.  

I had been invited to a gathering of young Mennonite leaders (I was considered young at the time!), and we went to hear a doom and gloom theologian talk about how terrible things are.  They really liked the speaker, and while I didn’t necessarily disagree with the speaker, something didn’t sit well with me.

I listened to the young Mennonite dudes engage this theologian’s work, and I didn’t contribute anything to the conversation, because I was becoming more and more sad.  Finally I said, “But here’s the thing, guys–I have kids.”  And that pretty much ended the conversation.  

The end is near theology was destroyed by the thought of little ones living in it.  The pregnant Palestinian woman represents the need to continue for whomever and in whatever comes later.  It’s not about us, but this samud, this steadfast hope is for others.  

So, samud–hope–is rooted deeply in people, it’s not easily destroyed by political ideology or oppressive systems, and it’s not for it’s own sake but for the sake of others.  And that is why Palestinian friends could call me after the election.  They were rooted deeply in who they were and in their people’s stories.  They had hope, even when I didn’t, and even when the political situation here would have a much bigger impact on them than on me personally.

Let’s talk about another definition of hope.  This one from Vaclav Havel.  Actually Havel had a lot to say about hope, so let me throw out a couple of his thoughts on hope:  

First, Havel said, “Hope is definitely not the same thing as optimism. It is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out.”  Now, I’m not sure what Havel thought made sense, even in the worst of times, but I know what I keep coming back to, and what you keep coming back to.  And that is the incarnation.  That is that soon God will show God’s vulnerable face to us.  Soon, God with us will feel more with us than God feels right now.  Hope is not optimism.  It’s not fingers crossed.  Hope is knowing God is with us in all this mess, even when it feels terrible right now.  

Here’s the other thing Havel said–he said, the act of hope is “walking towards the things we want.”  So, hope may be a feeling, but it is also an action.  We act on those things for which we have conviction.  If we are convinced that God shows up in the worst possible situations, we act in that direction.  That is hope.  

Things feel apocalyptic now.  They maybe even feel hopeless now.  But, we are in advent.  And we have one candle lit.  One small candle of hope.  Our hope is not a shallow, keep your fingers crossed kind of hope.  Our hope is rooted deeply in our stories that go back thousands of years.  Our hope is rooted deeply in the soil of our faith and the faith of our ancestors.  Our hope is not just for us, but we act knowing that this is about more than us.  

Our hope is our action, our resistance, and knowing that God is here with us.  God is with us.  God with us.  Let us access our source of all life, our hope, Jesus Christ.  AMEN.