111724, Proper 28, Year B, Lectionary 33, 26th Sunday after Pentecost
Let us begin with a deep breath in and out.
I am mindful that when all is said and done in this text from Mark, it may be hard to be hopeful.
For example. Ole and Sven were drinking buddies who worked as aircraft mechanics in Seattle. One day the airport was fogged in. And they were stuck in the hangar with nothing to do.
Ole says, “I vish ve had something ta drink!”
Sven says, “Me too.
Y’know. I hear ya can drink dat jet fuel and get a buzz. Ya vanna try it?”
So, they poured themselves a couple of glasses of high octane hooch and got completely smashed.
Next morning, Ole woke up and is surprised at how good he feels. In fact, he feels GREAT! NO hangover! NO side effects. Nothing!
The phone rang. It vas Sven, who asks, “How iss ya feelin dis morning?”
Ole says, “I feel great. How bout you?”
Sven says, “I feel great, too. Ya don’t have no hangover?”
Ole says, “No, dat jet fuel iss great stuff—no hangover, nothing. Ve oughta do dis more often.
Sven agreed, “Yeah, vell, but dere’s yust vun ting.”
Ole asks, “Vat’s dat?”
Sven questioned, “Haff you farted yet?”
Ole stopped to think, “No.”
“Vell, DON’T, ‘cause I’m in Portland.”
For Ole and Sven, sometimes, being stuck with nothing to do, it’s hard to be hopeful.
And for us, when we get fogged in and do something foolish or shameful or just plain wrong, we are hopeless. When you see great buildings collapse, when you are led astray, when you hear of wars and rumors of war, when there are earthquakes and famines, when things are thrown down, and when chaos comes, it’s hard to be hopeful.
It’s hard. Think of the anguish caused by Hurricane Helene causing widespread destruction and numerous fatalities across the Southeastern United States in late September.
Further, on Lopez Island, it’s hard to be hopeful when cooperation collapses among families, or neighbors, or within the congregation, when there is so much shame and blame, it is a time of deep anguish.
Amid our madness and ignorance, it is hard to be hopeful when every living system is declining, and the rate of the decline is accelerating. When important rules like don’t pollute the water, soil, or air and don’t let the earth get overcrowded have been broken, it is hard to see all being well.
It is particularly hard when the end comes, when you are dying, when your internal organs begin to fail, and the only way of living is to be attached to medical machines and expensive medicine. It is hard to experience the structure of death, when cell upon cell is being thrown down. When the whole works, your brain and your body are in rubble, and when you encounter nothingness, it’s a difficult thing to hope.
There are other high octane disasters, but I will add this. It is hard to be hopeful, when the greatest commandment to love God— “the Creator who loves us in such a huge way” (David James Duncan), when this commandment is no longer the greatest commandment. And when the other greatest commandment to love neighbor and self is no longer the other greatest commandment—it is hard to be hopeful.
Dear congregation, how is hope possible? When the end of human history seems imminent, how does one walk on the path of love? Surely, we ought to ask: where is God at work in the world making life thrive? How is God renewing, restoring, and sustaining it? And how is the worldwide community including this congregation to joyfully participate in caring for the earth?
The end is near. Beware. And beware of what will happen to Jesus. He predicts the fall of the Temple and three days later, the building blocks of his body fall. The one who came to replace the Temple is killed. The one who claimed to be the foundation of relationship to God breathes his last. All his microbial life is dead. And in the silence, we are stunned. In the hopeless fog, we are bewildered, and we weep.
Now, according to biologist Janine Benyus, “Life creates the conditions that are conducive to life.” I think Jesus understood that. He acted with such awareness. Today’s text begins with Jesus’ powerful prophesy of great buildings and great stones being thrown down. And amid such chaos, Jesus ends with an even greater promise: birth. Labor pangs are conducive to life, newborns live.
The promises in this story are that God suffers with us in our suffering, dies in our dying, and is interconnected to the mystery of birth. As the labor of birth create new life, so following Jesus’ death, new life is revealed. Love is at work. Abundantly. Yes, God’s life creates the conditions that are conducive to life, conducive to hope.
Dear hope filled people, in living on earth, there is anguish, anxiety, deep down despair, and fear of nothingness. Amid fires, floods, human violence, and human weakness, we can lose our grip and fall so far that we can no longer see or hear the true God. Yet, think again. You are a part of another story. A story of infinite tenderness. A story that transforms all the stories of heartache and death. It is the story of Jesus becoming fully human. Moreover, it’s the story where God is humbly present in every living creature. It is the story of your baptism, where amid a congregation like this, you were buried with Christ by baptism into his death, so that from that day on, and forevermore, you live the new life of Jesus Christ himself. And live that life, you will.
I invite you to hopeful humility. For true hope is not self-made. Hope comes from God. Everything we have, including our most recent breath is grace, a gift from God. Last night was not your last night, you woke up refreshed and seeing a new day born. Dear sisters and brothers, I invite you to the humility that makes possible the web of true cellular hope.
Yes, I know, hope is hard labor but hear the good news. Despite your experience of suffering and death, the new is on the horizon. Birth will happen. The promise is that God will reach into the nothingness of death and the entire world will be recreated. Indeed, God has already done so. For Jesus Christ has transformed death. Jesus himself has entered the nothingness of death and begun the new birth. By his resurrection, he has begun your new birth.
And in your new birth, you can be hopeful. Friends, your hope is an interconnected hope shared in this congregation, a hope that is naked, honest, and passionate, a hope that is startling and graceful. I invite you to embrace the mystery of birth pains and the hope in, with, and under you.
Take a moment to meditate on God’s Word for and with you.
Finally, a stewardship appeal.
The focus of stewardship is to think carefully about working with God in our world. I invite you to prayerfully open yourself to God through your baptism. Read the Bible. Pray. Give your offerings. Locally and globally, serve your neighbor. As best you can, give of your time, talents, and treasure to Grace Episcopal Church. We know that we can never fully realize the kin-dom of God. Our mission is to serve God here in this place and it is often done by gradual measures, minor improvements, and piecemeal changes. And you are invited to give of yourself. We don’t totally transform the world. God does. And God uses you.
New birth is already possible. You are the loving creation of a good God who entrusts you to a starting position on God’s team here on this island. The cross of Jesus promises that when the end comes, you with Jesus Christ will pass through it to abundant life.
Excerpt from a Poem, Sabbaths:VI by Wendell Berry
Found your hope, then, on the ground under your feet.
Your hope of Heaven, let it rest on the ground
underfoot. Be lighted by the light that falls
freely upon it after the darkness of the nights
and the darkness of our ignorance and madness.
Let it be lighted also by the light that is within you,
which is the light of imagination. By it you see
the likeness of people in other places to yourself
in your place. It lights invariable the need for care
towards other people, other creatures, in other places
as you would ask them for care toward your place and you.