Sermons

“Tenemos Que Esperar”

Romans 8:22-26; Luke 21:25-31 – Rev. Rebecca Littlejohn

Vista La Mesa Christian Church (Disciples of Christ), La Mesa, California

December 2, 2018

 Holy God, bless the speaking and the hearing of these words that we might find the light of hope in the midst of despair and learn to share it in life-changing ways.  In Jesus’ name we pray, Amen.

Sometimes you have to work to find Advent among all the clutter of Christmas commercialism in our society.  But on Monday, Advent was right on the front page of the newspaper.  Kate Morrissey’s article began: “Members of the migrant caravan who have entered a version of immigration purgatory in Tijuana repeat the same phrase when talking about what will happen to them next ­– tenemos que esperar.  The phrase has two possible translations – We have to wait.  We have to hope.  Both are applicable to the uncertainty facing those who trekked hundreds of miles and are starting across a border at a goal that has shifted from theory to reality.”[1]

We have to wait.  We have to hope.  What better introduction to the season of Advent could we give?  Tenemos que esperar.  We often talk about the season of Advent as a “journey” toward Christmas.  But we don’t always think about the literal journeys involved.  As we begin Advent 2018, with thousands of people living in open-air shelters less than 50 miles away, struggling to complete their journeys of hope, we will do well to remember that their stories are perhaps more closely connected to the experiences of the Holy Family and the people who gathered to herald Jesus’ birth than our own personal experiences.

In many ways, Advent is a time for contemplating acts of solidarity.  In choosing to take on flesh and become human, God was expressing the utmost depth of solidarity with us.  As we contemplate the journey Mary and Joseph made to Bethlehem, the journeys of the shepherds and the wise men, and the hurried journey to Egypt that Jesus’ parents took him on, fleeing the threat of death, we will do well to seek to express solidarity with those at our doorsteps who are on journeys as well, fleeing violence and deprivation.  In so many ways, calling to mind God’s becoming human calls us to work at restoring our own humanity and our inalienable connection to the rest of humanity.  When we listen to the stories of those on journeys of biblical proportion – “tenemos que esperar, we have to wait, we have to hope” – we discover they will help us understand our own faith more deeply.

So the newspaper can point us back to our own faith traditions.  But it’s been going the other way this week too.  Reading from Romans – “the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains” – or from Luke – “There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves.  People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world” – I can’t help but think of the recently released climate report that clarified just how dramatically our continued addiction to greenhouse gasses is going to affect our future.[2]  I heard a report on the radio the other day about how therapists are starting to identify a new syndrome they’re seeing in clients, which they’re calling “climate dread”.  People are struggling to get through their days because the knowledge of just how much damage we’ve already done and what the consequences of that are likely to be is so overwhelming.  Climate dread, as you might guess, is especially pronounced in climate scientists themselves, so it’s not that they’re people worrying about imagined possibilities, but rather that they’re the ones with the clearest understanding of what is coming.  “People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world.”

Of course, we know that the majority of the migrants waiting and hoping in Tijuana will not be allowed to move to the U.S.  We know that the climate scientists, even if they could convince policy makers to take the climate change threat seriously will not be able to stop the next devastating fire, or drought, or hurricane.  What does it mean to preach Hope in such a world?  How can we speak of hope when things look so hopeless?

Latinx theologian Miguel de la Torre would counsel us not to preach hope.  In his new book, “Embracing Hopelessness”,[3] de la Torre, a professor at Iliff School of Theology in Denver, declares that hope is a middle-class privilege, used to make ourselves feel better about the way things are, in order to justify our lack of action toward making things better.  The truly poor and disenfranchised, he says, do not have the option of hope; they have only hopelessness and must fight against injustice without hope, simply because they have no choice.  If we want to be in solidarity with the biblical “least of these”, he says, we must abandon the opiate of hope in order to spur ourselves to action.  Again, if Advent is a season of solidarity with humanity, then we do well to listen to the stories of those whose earthly existence is the most in jeopardy.  De la Torre may be pointing us in their direction.  But as one reviewer notes, what he “calls hopelessness bears a strong resemblance to what [we] call hope.”[4]

Paul reminds us that “hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen?”  Perhaps a season of Advent like ours today, when hope seems so hard to find, is exactly when we need to call upon the power of hope.  Tenemos que esperar.  We have to wait.  We have to hope.  But we don’t have to be passive and do nothing in the meantime.  What if the hope this season invites us into isn’t an opiate designed to make us feel better about the terrible realities around us, but a motivation to do what we can to alleviate suffering wherever we can, in spite of the “drop in the bucket” scale of our actions?  What if Advent hope is about answering Jesus’ call to “stand up and raise our heads” when the signs of destruction are all around us, because followers of Jesus are not those who faint in fear, but those who work alongside God to redeem the earth, even in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds?

On the one hand, these seem like ridiculous times to preach hope.  But on the other, this is precisely the most important moment to preach hope.  “Who hopes for what is seen?” writes Paul.  Even when we don’t know how, when we can’t find the words, we can seek hope.  For the Spirit, Paul assures us, will intercede with “sighs too deep for words.”  The very breath of God is moving through your body right this moment.  It is moving through the bodies of migrants and asylum-seekers.  It is moving on the waters as it always has and through communities devastated by fires where mourners sift through ashes.  It is moving in Alaska, as people put things back together after the earthquake.  That Spirit is unseen like the wind, yet like the wind, we see its affects.

We do well to consider what it would be like to live without hope.  If Advent is a season of solidarity with humanity, we need to understand what it’s like to be hopeless.  But we also need to understand that hope can be real even when it’s impossible to justify.  The hope of Christ is the kind that doesn’t fear death, but trusts in the power of love.  The hope of Christ is the kind that defies the structures that separate and divide us, saying No to cycles of poverty and violence that trap some, while others prosper.  Advent hope is not merely aspirational; it is motivational – it pushes us to move, to act, not just to wait.

When we say tenemos que esperar – we have to wait, we have to hope – it means that while we’re waiting, we’re doing everything within our power to create gospel outcomes.  “Sages, leave your contemplations; brighter visions beam afar,” goes the song.  We are not called to simply consider hope, or pray about hope.  We are called to live hope, to share hope, to bring hope, to bear hope.  Today, and throughout Advent, as we come forward for communion, we are invited to light candles up here on the chancel.  Today, it may be that the fires of hope need rekindling in your heart.  As you are moved to do so, when you come forward for communion, if you would like to, you may take one of the small candles from the basket on the piano, light it from the Hope candle, and go up to light a tea light.  They are all candles that were once lit, but have gone out, waiting for the light of hope to bring them to life again.  May these candles symbolize our own commitment to be in solidarity with those who journey, those who wait and hope, and all who need the light of Christ to carry them through dark times.  Alleuia and Amen.

[1] http://enewspaper.sandiegouniontribune.com/desktop/sdut/default.aspx?&edid=632e50b8-b655-45db-8d5e-2320be9d640a

[2] http://enewspaper.sandiegouniontribune.com/desktop/sdut/default.aspx?&edid=b59e8148-61c2-4d9b-ac3b-b6c5efe79d1c

[3] http://fortresspress.com/product/embracing-hopelessness

[4] https://www.christiancentury.org/review/books/miguel-de-la-torre-s-ethic-hopelessness