Brothers and sisters, let us turn to Psalm 42:5, which says, "Hope in God."
Okay, so I went for something simple, but cut me some slack here. It's not like I went to seminary. I barely made it through confirmation class at the First Presbyterian Church of Fargo, ND.
Hope in God. For the sake of discussion here, I'll buy that. But whatever one thinks about theology and scripture and competing interpretations, in the end we all have to acknowledge that God is, and always will be, mystery. If that's true, then the command really is "Hope in mystery."
If that's the case -- if our lot in life is to place our hope in mystery -- then our ignorance need not frighten us quite so much. Our hope can root itself less in what we claim to know and more in that which is beyond knowing. We can get on that train without knowing the destination.
And, as long as I'm quoting the Bible, let me reach in there for one more to help me try to get myself out of this.
It's important to realize things are going to get worse before they get better. The path I'm talking about is not a popular path. Confronting systems and institutions will not win us promotions at work or the easy company of friends. Instead, as the culture's fear deepens, such ruthless talk will mark one as a threat, as someone to be marginalized, ignored, laughed at.
In the language of the Gospel, I'm talking about choosing the narrow gate. In Matthew 7:12-14, Christ says, "Enter by the narrow gate; for the gate is wide and the way is easy that leads to destruction, and those who enter by it are many. For the gate is narrow and the way is hard that leads to life, and those who find it are few."
I don't want to be melodramatic, but in my gut I think this task -- this burden I am speaking about -- engages us in the struggle that leads to life. And it is hard, and it will get harder.
But we will never be alone walking that path, riding that train, taking that journey. Let me turn to a secular version of this same call. In "Bread and Circuses," a painfully beautiful song about the hypocrisy of much contemporary religion, Billy Bragg and Natalie Merchant tell us, "The gates of hell stand open wide, but the path of glory you walk single file."
If we walk through those wide-open gates of hell, we won't want for company as we pass through. When we choose the narrow gate, we understand that there will be a moment when we will walk through it alone. But the song reminds us that we are not truly alone; we walk single file. That means someone is ahead of me, someone who can reach back to me if I stumble. And it means there will be someone behind me who will need my hand.
To be weak and yet hold onto hope -- to be human in the deepest sense, turning neither from the pain of this broken world nor from the joy that creation offers us -- is to remember the meaning of those two simple acts: A hand reaching, out of our need for the help and love of others, and a hand offered to another out of that same love. We will never fully understand that love; like God, it is mystery. All we can do is trust in it. But understand: In action, it is a harsh and dreadful love.
Part of our work today is to pursue politics today; in the present we must agitate for the policies we believe to be just, try to affect small changes, attempt to bring about the little reforms that can make big differences in the lives of individuals. That work goes on, and it is important work. It is our work.
But we also must understand that in a broken world, such reforms must come from a radical analysis, an analysis that goes to the root of the problem. And while we work to make this world kinder in the moment, we have to keep our minds on the ruthless task of preparing for the future, for the moment when the terrain on which we work will shift quickly. We will face choices we can't predict. We will need a strength we don't yet have. We will be forced to know and trust each other in ways deeper than we now know and trust ourselves. That trust comes in community, the kind I believe is being built at St. Andrew's, a community-in-construction that has always lovingly welcomed me, a love for which I am always grateful.
Never has this radical work been more important, for I believe the time of change is coming and that moment when the path of glory will open is not so far away. That is the hopeful news. But in that hope, we must also face a ruthless truth: We are not yet ready for that moment. As a community, we are not yet strong enough.
Will we be ready in time? It is a question that haunts me. It is, I believe, a question that should haunt us all. It is the question that hope demands we face.
Okay, so I went for something simple, but cut me some slack here. It's not like I went to seminary. I barely made it through confirmation class at the First Presbyterian Church of Fargo, ND.
Hope in God. For the sake of discussion here, I'll buy that. But whatever one thinks about theology and scripture and competing interpretations, in the end we all have to acknowledge that God is, and always will be, mystery. If that's true, then the command really is "Hope in mystery."
If that's the case -- if our lot in life is to place our hope in mystery -- then our ignorance need not frighten us quite so much. Our hope can root itself less in what we claim to know and more in that which is beyond knowing. We can get on that train without knowing the destination.
It's important to realize things are going to get worse before they get better. The path I'm talking about is not a popular path. Confronting systems and institutions will not win us promotions at work or the easy company of friends. Instead, as the culture's fear deepens, such ruthless talk will mark one as a threat, as someone to be marginalized, ignored, laughed at.
In the language of the Gospel, I'm talking about choosing the narrow gate. In Matthew 7:12-14, Christ says, "Enter by the narrow gate; for the gate is wide and the way is easy that leads to destruction, and those who enter by it are many. For the gate is narrow and the way is hard that leads to life, and those who find it are few."
I don't want to be melodramatic, but in my gut I think this task -- this burden I am speaking about -- engages us in the struggle that leads to life. And it is hard, and it will get harder.
But we will never be alone walking that path, riding that train, taking that journey. Let me turn to a secular version of this same call. In "Bread and Circuses," a painfully beautiful song about the hypocrisy of much contemporary religion, Billy Bragg and Natalie Merchant tell us, "The gates of hell stand open wide, but the path of glory you walk single file."
If we walk through those wide-open gates of hell, we won't want for company as we pass through. When we choose the narrow gate, we understand that there will be a moment when we will walk through it alone. But the song reminds us that we are not truly alone; we walk single file. That means someone is ahead of me, someone who can reach back to me if I stumble. And it means there will be someone behind me who will need my hand.
To be weak and yet hold onto hope -- to be human in the deepest sense, turning neither from the pain of this broken world nor from the joy that creation offers us -- is to remember the meaning of those two simple acts: A hand reaching, out of our need for the help and love of others, and a hand offered to another out of that same love. We will never fully understand that love; like God, it is mystery. All we can do is trust in it. But understand: In action, it is a harsh and dreadful love.
Part of our work today is to pursue politics today; in the present we must agitate for the policies we believe to be just, try to affect small changes, attempt to bring about the little reforms that can make big differences in the lives of individuals. That work goes on, and it is important work. It is our work.
But we also must understand that in a broken world, such reforms must come from a radical analysis, an analysis that goes to the root of the problem. And while we work to make this world kinder in the moment, we have to keep our minds on the ruthless task of preparing for the future, for the moment when the terrain on which we work will shift quickly. We will face choices we can't predict. We will need a strength we don't yet have. We will be forced to know and trust each other in ways deeper than we now know and trust ourselves. That trust comes in community, the kind I believe is being built at St. Andrew's, a community-in-construction that has always lovingly welcomed me, a love for which I am always grateful.
Never has this radical work been more important, for I believe the time of change is coming and that moment when the path of glory will open is not so far away. That is the hopeful news. But in that hope, we must also face a ruthless truth: We are not yet ready for that moment. As a community, we are not yet strong enough.
Will we be ready in time? It is a question that haunts me. It is, I believe, a question that should haunt us all. It is the question that hope demands we face.
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