Readings 1 Samuel 1:4-11, 20; Mark 13:1-8
‘Here is our hope’, we sang this morning – ‘in the mystery of suffering is the heart beat of Love.’ Hannah’s story is an example, of that hope from within the Jewish faith tradition.
As we turn to hear a word from the Christian tradition, a word of warning:
Many people have used this morning’s Gospel reading as a way of talking about the signs of the end of the world (in my opinion, neither helpful nor hopeful – but rather an irresponsible way – of listening for God’s word of life for today).
So, I invite you this morning to hear it differently – to place this text in conversation with our own context, and within this morning’s theme of finding hope even in the midst of suffering.
We might, for instance, place the opening verses within the context of Deacons’ Court meetings, where we struggle with the very serious and difficult questions about how we continue to maintain our beautiful, but incredibly and increasingly expensive buildings. You might imagine Jesus present at those meetings – and joining the Deacons, as they go outside into the carpark, and before returning home, pause to gaze up at the floodlit spire. “Look Teacher”, we might say, “what large stones and what a large building!”
And we listen for the Teacher’s word of hope – and it doesn’t sound very hopeful.
Buildings will be destroyed. World leaders will deceive people – promising theirs is the way of the future, when we know they bring no real hope for the world.
We listen for a word of hope, in the midst of present realities of war, famine and earthquake throughout the world…
And it all seems quite hopeless – unless we listen for - and cooperate with – that heartbeat of love found in the midst of the suffering. If we listen carefully, we will hear Jesus’ reminder that suffering and destruction are real, but they do not have the last word; new life can and does emerge out of anguish. It may not be the life we are expecting; it does not in any way discount the pain; but we can attest to its truth that new life does come out of suffering. We see this demonstrated most clearly, day after day, in the Queen Mary maternity ward just down the road.
Yes, the Teacher says, the contractions have started, there’s no getting out of this … the pulse of new life is upon us. We listen to the Gospel....
Writing to the Church in Rome, speaking out of his own personal suffering, the Apostle Paul could also be talking about our present 21st century situation.
“At the present moment all creation is struggling as though in the pangs of childbirth. And that struggling creation includes even those of us who have had a taste of the spirit. We peer into the future with our limited vision, unable to see all that we are destined to be, yet believing because of a hope we carry so deep within.”[1]
In reflecting on this letter of Paul, Marina Wiederkehr[2] writes about her own personal experience of being born.
“My own birth into this world”, she writes, “began with a proclamation of death. I was proclaimed dead ... set aside as not living. The nurse, I am told, took me, worked with me, believed in the spark of life in me. She convinced me I could breathe.
Meditating on this story, I am filled with a mixture of anger, tenderness, gratitude, and hope. How easy it would be to throw someone away right in the middle of their birth. I speak not only of that first birth, but of the many ways we are born each day.
Our vision is limited. We need so desperately to learn how to hope more completely in all those little bits of life scattered through our days. We need to be so very careful lest we throw someone away because of our lack of hope in their potential, their possibility to be. We need to believe in that mystery within, even when the mystery seems so pale and small we can hardly call it by its true name, life....”
Wiederkehr offers a reflection, which she offers as an encouragement into hope.
“There was a day in July
many mornings ago
(7.15 A.M. to be exact)
when my hope was so small,
I didn't know I was alive.
The doctor placed me aside
and announced the sad news of my death
right in the middle of my birth.
But God was good
and gave someone enough hope
to believe in me.
She leaned forward,
believing in darkness
what some folks refused to believe
in the light.
She believed in me;
and she held me as though
the stirring of the eternal
had just begun,
as though the mystery within
was just being born.
And the joy of it is:
She was right!
Because of her hope in me
I live!
And ever since the day in July
the mystery within me has grown.
The eternal within keeps stirring anew
like a fountain of living water
like a spring that never runs dry.
Could it be true
that some folks die
because our hope is too small
to bring them forth?
It is good to remember:
We do not give birth to ourselves.
We give birth to others
by believing in that first, small spark of life
the spark we can barely see.
It is called hope.
It is immensely helpful
at birth.”
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