Editor's Postlude: Guardians of Hope
The news was disturbing as we drove to church: American stealth bombers taking out nuclear sites in Iran. Hunger and death mounting in Gaza. More drone strikes in Kyiv. A hurricane, flooding, wildfires, and the list went on.
We began the service, and for a moment, it seemed so absurd. We were singing of joy, hope, and compassion even as bombs dropped and mass starvation was allowed to continue. Were we naive? Were we insulating ourselves from reality in our little cocoon of worship?
As we sang “I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy, down in my heart” and “I’ve got peace like a river” during this intergenerational service, I looked out at the people gathered. Young and old alike, they were people who knew grief and tragedy in their lives. They were not gathered in worship to protect themselves from the realities of life. There was something more going on.
I am always drawn to the first verses of Paul’s letter to the Philippians: “If, then, there is any comfort in Christ, any consolation from love…any tender affection and sympathy” (2:1). Paul did not live in isolation from the struggles and suffering of life. He understood what it is like to live with pain. He knew grief. Yet he wrote these words of hopeful encouragement: “Look not to your own interests but to the interests of others. Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus” (2:4–5).
In times when we need encouragement and consolation, Paul’s answer was not to turn inward and isolate oneself from grief and tragedy. Paul’s answer was to open our hearts in compassion. The word compassion literally means “with suffering.” We tend to think of compassion as love, but it is more. It is a love that is willing to come alongside, to accompany another person in their suffering.
Suddenly I realized that what we were doing in worship was something profound. We weren’t hiding from the devastating realities of life unfolding around us. We were daring to proclaim hope and joy even knowing those realities. Having received the morning news, we were declaring that we do not believe that death and destruction have the final power. We were offering ourselves, shoring up ourselves, as people who choose to live with hope-filled compassion. We do so because we “let the same mind be in us as was in Christ Jesus.”
Consider the Lenten gospel stories. Jesus is tempted in the wilderness but does not give in. He quietly shares with Nicodemus the wonder of a God who loves the whole world. He engages in conversation with a Samaritan woman and offers her living water. He contests the myth that physical challenges are caused by the sin of ancestors. He weeps with Mary and Martha at the death of their brother, Lazarus.
While we might get caught up in the acts of healing and raising from the dead, there is something more profound that Jesus is offering. He is offering hope-filled compassion. In each situation, he is inviting people to discover that there is something more, that there is possibility and promise that comes when we are willing to lean into our faith in God and then reach out in hope-filled love.
What we do in worship is no small thing. It is essential even if it seems absurd—declaring joy and hope and love, as bombs drop and tragedy and devastation rain down in too many places. But we are not isolating ourselves, pretending that none of that exists. We aren’t hiding in a bubble of denial.
We are there to remind ourselves and each other that there is a hope-filled, loving way of living. We are there to practise that hope-filled way of living. And then, having surrounded ourselves with the loving hope of God and community in worship, we are ready to head out into the world as ambassadors of hope, as guardians of hope in a world that needs to be reminded that hope-filled, compassionate living is possible.
Susan Lukey, Editor
