Context of "Advent Hope" series: In the winter of 2021, while I was still a student at YDS, I was presented the opportunity to do pulpit supply for First Church of Christ, Congregational and Hopeville Church UCC. The two churches were yoked together and were entering Advent without a resolution to a search for a new pastor. I offered the theme of Hope in the past, present, and future to walk with the two congregations through a difficult time.
Greetings. It is good to be with you all in this third week of Advent. Today is a bittersweet occasion. Although it has only been three weeks, I have treasured this time with your congregation. You welcomed me in, shared coffee, communion, fellowship, and stories of your lives and experiences. Our time together has flown by too fast. I knew from the beginning that my presence would be fleeting, which is why I leave you with the greatest element of hope, hope in the present. In the last two weeks, we looked to the past and future, to the anxiety of a Jerusalem under attack and the long-lost age of prosperity during the reign of King Solomon. When we looked for hope in the future, we remembered the strength of community that endures in lulls between moments. When we looked to the past, we remembered to curb our expectations so we might be open to possibilities beyond our imaginations. Today, we return to the present, the realm we always exist in, but are rarely present in.
God has a knack for catching us by surprise. You never know when God will act, or who God will speak through. God must have a sense of humor, because, despite humanity’s best attempts to organize ourselves by wealth and prestige, God always seems to pick the person that was overlooked or is able turn the tide when endings appear inevitable. When ancient societies were dominated by god-kings, surrounded by great wealth and massive armies, our God chose shepherds as their leaders. It makes you wonder which is more significant, that God turned David, a meek shepherd into a king, or that God took Moses, a prince of mighty Egypt, and spoke to him only after he had been exiled and left to herd sheep. That is where today’s reading starts, in a moment that must have felt like the lowest of lows. For a moment, let us wipe our memories and forget what comes next. Let us pretend we do not know the end of Moses’s destiny. Close your eyes. Listen closely to what I say, and take note of the connections you make in your mind.
Jack was a stockbroker. Born and raised in Des Moines, Iowa to a family of farmers that tended ground that yielded less and less each year, his parents saw the writing and the wall and sent him away to live where the going was good. He used his last dime to buy his first set of new clothes, a discount suit that would not catch any glances but was better than his tattered jeans and denim shirts that had more patches than the original fabric. When he hit New York he got lucky. As he been wandering Wall Street, an elegant, elderly man in an Armani suit slipped on some ice and would have cracked his head had Jack not stopped to catch him. After he helped the man up and got him back on his feet, the man noticed Jack's suit and dress shirt were soaked with coffee. In the process of saving the man, Jack's clothes had fallen victim to the man's venti cup of holiday blend. Despite his best efforts, Jack could not mask his distress. This was the end. That suit had been his only shot at getting an interview. The elderly man noticed Jack’s crestfallen look and took pity on him. Jack did not know it, but he had just saved Theodore Wallace III, a titan of Wall Street. Although he was not naturally charitable, Theodore always paid his debts, so he took the despondent Jack with him to his favorite tailor, got him fitted for an Italian silk suit and designer shoes, and then secured him an entry position on the trading floor.
Years passed. Jack learned the tools of the trade, and his knack for business and killer instinct paid off. He went from a pitied position to being Theodore Wallace’s protégé, the son set to inherit the kingdom when the king retired. That would have been the happy ending, had not Jack been born with an inconvenient defect. He had a conscience. One day, while on the sidelines of a meeting, Jack discovered his boss was collaborating with some other businessmen on a lucrative deal. One of their friends had bought up small banks throughout the Midwest and was planning to use his position to call in all the loans for hundreds of small farms so that, when they failed to pay, they could be acquired on the cheap from the farm conglomerate that already owned hundreds of thousands of acres of the best land.
Theodore was on the board of the farm conglomerate and had gifted Jack thousands of shares to keep his silence. But Jack knew if he did nothing his parents, his family, friends, and everyone else who was barely holding on would lose everything. So, he blew the whistle. And he lost everything. Our modern-day Moses found himself back in Iowa, in the dust and dirt he had risen from.
Open your eyes. Our society's limited definition of "success" would label Jack as a failure. Or worse, pity him. We love rags to riches stories, but never know what to do after the riches. It is as if there is something pitiable about rags, an element that touches every level of doubt, insecurity, and guilt we feel within us. Maybe that is why America preaches “work harder” and imperial Christianity dilutes the message of Jesus to “just believe and you will be rich. If you are not rich or healthy, reassess your sins, and then you will become rich and healthy.” Those in rags, those “huddled masses” Lady Liberty beckons to, are deprived of identities, dignity, so they can be the boogeymen that cast judgmental glares from outside locked windows and doors, asking “when will I be warm, when will I be seen?” Jack is fiction, but I worry that he was only real when became the “American Dream,” that he did not exist until he became an affirmation of a toxic hope that has taken root in the foundation of our society. This is the hope of individualism, of social Darwinism, the tainted belief that some might be ordained to suffer while others should be free to reap all the spoils. That is why, despite all that is good of Christianity or an American ideal of "all men are created equal," hearts yearn for autocracy, not democracy, or the power of Rome and Egypt, rather than the pitiable position of the enslaved Hebrews.
It is hard to hope because I fear to name what I hope for, lest it be laughed away and held in front of me to mock me for naivety. However, there is power in what is named. In silence and darkness, things fade, wither, and die. That is the fate of hopes that are discarded so one can play it safe, not stick out, not be disappointed. Maybe we do not speak so loudly, so, if our hopes do not come true, we are not called hypocrites, sellouts, failures. Yet, I stand here preaching on hope, to hold myself accountable, so I might be judged by God and man if I turn tail and run.
I hope to turn on the news and not see another report of a school shooting, of drowned refugees, or a black son or daughter shot for daring to live. I hope to see a world that loves children for their uniqueness, that tells them their love is sacred and their identity is blessed, no matter who they love or identify as. I want to see legislation crafted out of love, that is not shut down by waves of fear. To see the care given to the veterans we sent to war and forgot about when they came home, to offer health care that gives life, rather than bankrupts and only privileges the wealthy. I hope that prisons might close because there are not enough people to fill them. After all, we spent too much money on schools, job growth, and trauma care.
If this world is going to get warmer and flood, I hope our homes, our churches might become arcs for God’s creation, rather than barricades that shut out climate refugees. Finally, I hope for reparations and truth for lies and sins that have gone ignored for too long. Land must be returned to the native brothers and sisters it was stolen from, or America will always be a land of conquerors, rather than Christians. Land and funds must be supplied as the start of a long recovery of dignity for our black brothers and sisters who, like the Hebrews, were used to build this empire, where slave masters skipped over God’s decree of “let my people go” to quote letters from Paul about obedient slaves.
I do not know how to get there though, and that is what makes the present so painful and frustrating. There is a future that seems so much better, brighter than this present, where we know the reality of the odds we face. But God does not care about odds.
Feel this moment. Just a second ago, we were raised to the clouds, by the rawness of hopes beyond our reach. I might have named my hopes, but I am sure, as I spoke, your dreams joined mine, lifting this congregation into a near heavenly place, as close to what we can imagine heaven on Earth to be. Yet, now we are sinking back down. Maybe not all of us, some of you might have the stronger resolve or might be better at dreaming and not being drug down by reality. I know I have fallen. Maybe it was because, for everything I named, I felt the opposite, the enormity of the task, squeeze my hopes until they could be watered down to what is realistic, what is safe.
Now, we are here again, in this present moment, this space where we face every urge to escape, but always return to. Although we can imagine the future or look at the past, we always live in the present. Yet, living is a monumental task when the present falls short of what could be. How can there be hope in the present if what we hope for is not present? The only answer I have found is God.
Moses's stint as a shepherd was hardly noteworthy. It does not even merit an entire chapter in Exodus, a book that is 40 chapters long. Exodus happened long before the concept of a montage, but the movie Prince of Egypt, understood this moment best when it saved time by zooming through the moments of Moses’s marriage and time with the people of Midian, portraying years in the span of a song. When compared to the rest of Moses’s life, it can make sense to skip over all the years that might seem to pale in significance. A story of a shepherd’s life is not as impressive as the rescued babe that became a prince or everything Moses became after the burning bush (remember, for now, we are forgetting what came next). This falls into a common theme of the Bible.
Despite the inclusion of chapter-long lists of endless names to track who was the father of who, most of the biblical stories start their accounts right before things get juicy. Even Jesus, the most important figure in the New Testament, has accounts of his life gloss over the years between his birth and adult ministry. Of course, this is probably for the best. Other than Biblical scholars, few say, "I really wish Exodus was longer" or ask for more letters to be added to the New Testament. However, even though it is for the best, this editing has a profound impact on how we receive God's word. Since almost every human who has ever existed does not live a super noteworthy life, of events worth writing about every day, it is easy to get the impression the only moments that matter is those that are significant. The only problem is, like expectations, our understanding of "success" and "significant" are highly flawed.
Let us dive into this small segment.
First, I would like you to raise your hand if you consider your marriage, or the birth of your children, grandchildren, or a loved one to be some of the most important moments in your life. I guessed when I wrote this, but I suspected there would be a lot of hands. Look around. Yet, that was just one moment right, at most a few days, in thousands of days of existence. Moses was one of the most important Biblical figures, and both of those events were barely a footnote in his story. However, I doubt anyone would argue that his marriage and the birth of his child were insignificant. In fact, at that moment, I am sure Moses could fill the seat of anyone here, raising his hand to indicate his child and his marriage were the best things that had happened or would happen to him. Yet, the narrative of Exodus glosses over these years of his life as something that is filler.
Without this context, I am sure most pastors would scratch their heads and ask why, of all the passages in Exodus, of all the content for Advent, I chose to preach about Moses’s time in Midian. But I did not choose it, God did. Despite our handling of the Bible, despite its length, this passage was important enough to note as part of God’s word, of God’s story of interaction with a chosen people. So, I offer this passage to challenge the expectation that some moments matter more than others, that significance is measured by outcomes and reactions.
When I offered my list of hopes, I left one out. I want to be a dad. Out of all the things in the world, the thing I want most, have always looked forward to, is being a dad. Of course, for resumes and interviews, I list pastor or professor as my desired goals, after all, those are prestigious respected jobs that come with benefits, that put food on the table. People write books or stories about those who fix climate change, but as too many women have known, few take the time to note the importance of those who care for us as we enter the world and leave the world. Yet, everything I have learned has been learned to be passed on, whether it is to a biological child or those I foster, adopt or go on to teach. I have done all this because I see children as the only hope we have. The problems we face, the odds stacked up against us, do not just disappear. Yet, I believe those who come after us can be better than us.
If I have daughters, I want them to be paid the same as a man, and to not be another statistic in an epidemic of violence against women. If they are gay, I do not want them to need a coming-out party to break the news that heterosexuality is not the only orientation. I want them to know all their peers by character, rather than cruel associations of skin color. They will be lights in the darkness.
Every one of you was once the brightest star on this planet, the north star every burned-out soul flocked to for hope that the toil that has been known is not eternal. You still are beacons, yet I see how close many of you come to dimming. Maybe, like lighthouses, you stand stuck in place, shining your lights to others, warning of rocks and perils you know, yet not seeing light shown back at you from the darkness. Return to this season when we all see the light, that light of the child that was born.
You have gathered here to celebrate a child who will be born soon, that child who saved us. This wait between the lull of moments can feel like an eternity, especially when we know what we hope for and do not see it in the present. Yet, even if we get what we hope for, that is only another small moment, another present moment. We do not live by looking to the future. We breathe here, we move in the now. You, God's beloved, are significant beyond measure. Your worth, your holiness cannot be diluted or magnified by what has happened or what may come. That is what we are reminded of when we look to this babe who grew from being a prince to a shepherd. There was nothing lowly or pitiable about his tending of a flock. Remember, it was a shepherd, not a prince who encountered the burning bush. It was a shepherd’s staff, not a prince’s rod that split the sea. All miracles from God. Just as you are miracles. Look at your hands, those are works of God. If you have limited yourself to what can and cannot be done by what those hands can craft or what your mind can imagine, then you underestimate your worth. You can do everything or nothing and still be worth the world. So, let all of us shepherds, children of God, go out and live. The hope is now. The work of the future is now.
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