Fourth Sunday of Advent
Scripture Reading for Today:
Hope is an Audacious Thing
by Nichole Forbes
Hope is an audacious thing. It’s this fine silver thread that weaves itself in and through our hearts and binds us to Possibility in a way that defies reason and explanation. We trust Hope, against all odds. We see it, that fine silver thread, glimmering in the darkest of spaces, and its beauty is so heartbreakingly breathtaking that all we can do, sometimes, is weep in its presence.
Hope has held a million of my tears.
It has held my sorrow and mended my wounds.
It has, stitch by stitch, created a future out of tattered rags.
Again and again.
Hope remains when all else has been lost or taken.
Hope keeps going.
Hope keeps me going.
Hope is an audacious thing.
I sat in the summer sun with an elder. She was curled up in her wheelchair, puffing away on her cigarette and adjusting her hospital gown. She had had an accident that left her on a long path to recovery. Her body was bruised, broken and dislocated, and yet her soul remained steadfast. She had spent the first weeks of summer trying to gain an audience with the archbishop of the church. She just wanted to talk. She wanted him to hear her story, and she wanted to hear his. She was convinced that healing would come if they could just see and hear each other in a good way.
I asked her why she tried so hard, why she wanted to find a way in the church. I asked because I was on a journey of my own with the church. A complicated, heartbreaking, yearning journey with far more questions than answers. Between puffs of her cigarette, I saw the silver glimmer of Hope rise, and she said, “I know two things. People can be really terrible sometimes. And Jesus is real.”
* * *
I hung up the phone and looked around my toy-strewn basement. Evidence of my chaotic family life was everywhere. Discarded art projects, half-built Lego structures, an array of light sabers and knight shields and other miscellaneous kid debris were everywhere. The calendar on the wall told the story of field trips, gymnastic classes, Girl Guide outings and classroom volunteer commitments. The dryer buzzed, signalling that the load of towels was done, and I remembered that the shepherd’s pie I’d taken out of the freezer that morning was still on the ledge by the stairs waiting for a lift to the kitchen. All of this. All of this life, and the doctor just said a word that held death. Cancer.
I grabbed a crayon and a scrap piece of paper and wrote 11 words of questionable theology. “Jesus died for my right boob, so I don’t have to.” I read those words out loud, and I felt the tether of Hope swirl around my world and tie me to a future I couldn’t see clearly, but I knew was there.
* * *
I walked in the door, kicked off my snowy boots, took two steps into my living room and fell to my knees. I wept in silence. The twinkling of the Christmas lights was the only witness to my broken heart. Just days earlier, we had been excitedly chatting about our growing family. A fourth wee Forblette was on the way. A rainbow baby to help heal the grief of the loss we had experienced 7 months earlier. And now my womb was empty, my body aching, and my soul shattered. Not again. Why again?
I had always dreamed of having a large family. I wanted a house overflowing with life, and now I was sitting in loss. Not just the loss of this baby, but the loss of the possibility of this dream being realized. There would be no more wee Forblettes. There would never be a house overflowing with our family, an extended table at holidays, a crowded living room on a random weekend. My sobs gave way to shaky but more controlled breaths. I maneuvered myself into a seated position, dried my eyes on my sleeve and looked at my Christmas tree. I saw the ornament a roommate had given me years ago, and another made for me by a little boy I used to babysit and another from the mother of a friend. I felt that familiar tug of Hope as I caught a glimpse of how family is more than who carries your DNA. Family is made of those you hold in your heart.
Hope, this fine silver thread, is woven in and through all of these big, difficult happenings. It is also found in all of the in-between places. Hope is. It always is – we just don’t always know to look for it. But it’s there. It’s here. In this space. In this moment.
Isaiah names the coming Messiah Immanuel. God is with us.
That is Hope.
God is with us.
We are not alone.
Hope reminds us that we are not alone.
Not in our suffering.
Not in our grief.
Not in our despair.
God is with us.
Sometimes God appears as a Gramma in a hospital gown, giving perspective to the journey of life. Sometimes God is present in the sticky fingerprints of your children as a reminder of the abundance and beautiful mess of life. Sometimes God arrives with a lasagna and an offer to clean your house in the midst of your heartbreak. Sometimes God knocks on your door as a teen who needs a hug and a place to stay. And sometimes you carry God with you into someone else’s big happenings and in-between moments by just being present.
Maybe it is in this Not Aloneness where we find the Thrill of Hope.
My favourite song is O Holy Night. There are a thousand reasons I love the poetry, movement and sentiment of this song. But the part that gets me every time is He appeared and the soul felt its worth. A thrill of hope, a weary world rejoices. It is in seeing God with us that we are reminded of our goodness, and that gives space for Hope. It’s in remembering we are loved that Hope ushers in Joy. That is the God we carry with us. The living, breathing reminder that we are loved, and we are made to love.
Back to the song. In a later verse, we are reminded, Truly, he taught us to love one another. His law is love and his gospel is peace. We love as he loves. This is what we were created for. And the good news is peace. Peace for a broken heart. Peace for a shattered soul. Peace for a weary world. What a thrill in this Hope!
This audacious Hope.
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