The Hope that does not Disappoint
Hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts.
Preparing for a recent train journey to London, I glanced at the rather over-large pile of books I have bought but not got round to reading, and picked up one by a woman priest in the United States who, in that country, has a leading reputation as a spiritual writer*, duly buried myself in it as the train sped through Northamptonshire and Bedfordshire. One of the chapters which struck me most was to do with the enduring of pain and of being alongside others enduring pain - and particularly the kind of pain that we know leads to an imminent death. At which point the writer slightly broke off from the main thrust of a powerful and helpful summary of the book of Job - which, as I am sure you know, is often felt to be the one of the most relevant and helpful books of the Bible on the topic of suffering - to acknowledge her own inadequacy, by saying, I have to be careful here, or I will sound like on of Job’s pious friends. No one who is not in pain is allowed to give advice to someone who is. The only reliable wisdom about pain comes from the mouths of those who suffer it...
As I sat down to write this sermon, those words came back at me with a vengeance this morning, as they are a very strong reminder of the perils faced by me and others who have the daunting task of preaching upon this day of all days - the day we commemorate the faithful departed (and even the not quite so faithful departed) - the day we have come to call All Souls’ Day. Because I guess one of the things that we all have in common as we celebrate this particular Eucharist together is that we have suffered pain - the very particular pain of losing a close friend or a member of our family. And that is a difficult pain to address, because the particular quality of that pain is unique to each one of us.
Although with his medical background, John might feel the need to correct me, it seems to me that there is, at least to some degree, a commonality about some physical pain. Doctors recognize that certain medical conditions or illnesses bring corresponding pain of a certain intensity in particular parts of the body, and there are drugs and therapies which have been evolved to deal with specific kinds of pain. The loss of a loved one, however, brings in a quality which is unique, as it is fashioned around our relationship with the person who has died. The pain and longing created by the ultimate, final absence of that person in our life has a distinctive shape and feel, because it relates to who that person was to us, and how we related to them and spoke to them and lived alongside them.... and loved them.
So the first thing I need to say today is that, although, most particularly, I have lived through the death of both my parents, whom I loved very dearly, and, of course, there have been others whom I have loved who have died, there is a point beyond which I can offer no wisdom that will speak directly to the loss of the ones that each of you, in particular, have loved - for I was neither the lover or the loved one. I have shared with most if not all of you the pain of losing people I have loved - but in ways that will feel subtly (or even vastly) different to each of you.
But, for all that, you and I, and all who are drawn to Requiem services today in churches around the globe, we come together not only conscious of the pain which we will have felt, whether recently or many years past. And what we share together more readily, perhaps, than the individual quality of the bereavements we have known, is the communal quality of the hope that draws us together in this service. For it seems to me that there would be little point in coming to church ever, and, certainly, very little point indeed in coming to church on All Souls’ Day, if we were not people of hope. And it is that hope that allows me to dare to say something out loud that might speak not just to myself, but to each one of you - for hope does not disappoint us.
Hope does not disappoint us... it can challenge us and it can disturb us, and it can feel unfulfilled at times. Hope, like its closely related cousin which we label faith, does not always make for an easy life. For hope, like faith, is not knowledge or certainty. And, especially when talking about matters to do with life, death and eternity, that can be very frustrating. But, as St Paul reminds us in another, and even better known letter, knowledge will come to an end - and today’s service is about things which do not come to an end. And Paul is keen to remind us that hope...does not disappoint us. So I want, very briefly, to make sure we know why it is that hope does not disappoint us, especially on today of all days...
In a sermon that John preached at St Michael’s about a month ago, he spoke of his recollections of some less than fortunate people he had encountered during his years as a GP, including a small child who had, very evidently, had harsh and unloving parents, and, as a result, seemed incapable of showing any tenderness or love to those around him. He mentioned this child to make a point about learning love by receiving it, and without receiving it, how difficult it is for us either to love or to trust other people. And, while human love can be complex and sometimes painful, I guess that we are all here today because, as best we could, we loved, and were probably loved in return, whether as spouse or parent or child or friend or colleague - and our sense of loss and grief is built around the love for those we remember today, and the pain of losing that love from our day to day lives.
And that is the clue, of course, to what St Paul is talking about - for he tells us that Hope does not disappoint us...because God’s love has been poured into our hearts... And, as he, goes on to explain a couple of verses later, God’s love is a uniquely extraordinary love, for he proves it by the gift of his Son to the world - his Son who shows us God’s love by dying for us - dying for us while we were still sinners. So Paul is clear - despite the individual nature of our lives and our earthly loves, and therefore despite the individual nature of our griefs and losses - we are bound together by possessing a hope that is linked to God’s love, shown by the life of Jesus, and made personal by being poured into our hearts. And this is the point when I want to turn round to the powers that be in the Church of England, those who determine what bits of the Bible are read day by day and week by week in our services, and I want to tell them off for starting this remarkable reading in the middle of a paragraph at verse five of Romans Chapter Five. For we have missed out on the final link in this remarkable passage, which is that our hope is actually meant to be about. Because, back in verse two, to start us off down this wonderful track, Paul explains what this hope is all about - he says, brashly, confidently, remarkably: we boast in our hope....of sharing the glory of God.
In other words, the life and the death of Jesus show us something unique about God’s love for each and every one of us - a love so deep it takes us to death and beyond death - and, as a result, this love gives us a hope which cannot disappoint us, no matter how challenging it will be - and the hope is that we - you, and I, and every one of the 111 names I will prayerfully read out in a few moments time - the hope is that all of us will share the glory of God.
Christianity is not the only religion in the world to speak of life after death. What sets Christianity more clearly apart from other faiths is not the language of some kind of life everlasting - it is the language of Incarnation. To strip away theological terms, what I mean is that Christianity, uniquely, talks of a God so involved with the world that he demonstrates divine love in flesh and blood. That is why, as the culmination to this service, we will eat bread and drink wine that we believe is not just bread and wine, but body and blood. For God trusted flesh and blood to bring divine love to earth - and he did so, quite simply, to give us this hope that St Paul is not just talking, but shouting, almost raving about - this hope we have that we might share the glory of God.
And if your hope should falter, whether today, or in the days, weeks and years to come; if there should be a moment when your faith wavers, and the pain of grief and loss look as if they might blot out that hope, just consider this. As I read out those 111 names in just a few moments time, I am certain that in the great mixture of emotion that this may bring to you, the most powerful and poignant feeling you will experience is the recognition of your love for that person, and the realization (should you need it, which I doubt) that that love did not die when that person died. That your love lives inextinguishably within you.
And if you and I - mere human beings, capable of sin and fallible in so many ways - if we can keep the fire of that love burning, do not doubt, even for a moment, that God who loves us all so much more powerfully than we can begin to imagine - do not doubt that God’s love for those whom we remember today burns just as brightly and strongly as it did and always has done and always will do. And if your loved ones live on in your heart and mind, just remember how much more they live on in and with God.
For ultimately, Hope does not and cannot and will not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts and we can boast in our hope of sharing the glory of God. Amen.
Dominic Barrington, 2nd November, 2009
*Barbara Brown Taylor, An Altar in the World, Canterbury Press, 2009
