Sermons

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Hope

Text: John 3: 1-3See what love the Father has given us, that we should be called children of God; and that is what we are. The reason the world does not know us is that it did not know him. Beloved, we are God’s children now; what we will be has not yet been revealed. What we do know is this: when he is revealed, we will be like him, for we will see him as he is. And all who have this hope in him purify themselves, just as he is pure.

Sermon:In those big moments of life that transcend our grasp or control—those moments where life itself and the world we live in seems to change—it is truth expressed simply and honestly that becomes the catalyst to meet those moments and have the chance to live in and through them. Whenever we gather for a funeral or a memorial service, we remind ourselves that the only thing that works on a day like that—a day that is beyond our grasp where we wrestle with the mysteries of life and death—the only thing that works on a day like that is truth. For we know that from the story of our faith and from the story of Jesus. Those big moments that change who we are and how we live can rarely ever be solved. Instead they need to be gently settled into with compassion and company. For in such big moments when our whole world changes, the reality of the truth that’s discovered explodes not just out in the open for that day or the next day—or the day after that—or the month after that—or the year after that—but it shatters the very container in which we’ve been living and invites us to recreate another vessel to hold our being, to hold our understanding and to hold our lives.

When I came out to my parents, there was no going back. There was a whole new way of living, relating and imagining the future—no matter what would happen after that moment, the container had been shattered. There was no putting it back; instead, what we had to do was to find a new way forward. From conversations with both of my parents, I learned that in the instant that I shared it with them, that what was most on their hearts and minds was what it meant for the future—what would it mean for me, for my life, for my family and for the prospect of having children—and for all the things in life that were suddenly made unclear. And I know that if we had sat down in that moment and tried to figure it all out that it would have failed miserably, because as Rilke tells us—we cannot have the answers, we need to live our way into the answers. So they offered instead the most important thing that could handle that moment—and just as importantly—invite us all into the future that would have to be rewritten. What was it that they offered? Simple truth in three words: I love you. That truth was enough for us to take the next breath, and for us to imagine the next step, even if we had no idea what it would look like or no idea where it would take us.

I know that when a diagnosis is unveiled to us in a significant way—that what we want and need and yearn for from the doctor—is something as simple and clear as possible; we need the unvarnished truth. And it’s not because it makes those troubles go away. But in the midst of simple truth, we can be present for the moment. We can imagine the next moment, even if everything has changed. What we have learned when a loved one passes away is that to understand the simple truth that we are not alone is the most critical ingredient. That truth is often expressed in few if any words, but rather through card, casserole and compassion. Yet the meaning is unmistakable. Knowing that we are surrounded by this cloud of witnesses—knowing that we are surrounded by love doesn’t make that hole in our lives or in our hearts go away—but it does remind us that we’re surrounded by enough love that we can simply let that hole be for a while, knowing that somehow impossibly and miraculously that we will heal, that we will move forward, and that we will find a new way of living even as we carry that loss with us and even as we remember joys moving forward.

As I think back to those who have had a meaningful impact on my life, who have since departed this world—I miss them deeply and greatly, and yet what I tend to remember about them is depth and goodness and wisdom and teaching. I have a hard time remembering small, petty that I know may have bugged me at some point; instead all of that is replaced somehow by truth, by simplicity and by honesty. This passage for today from John is among the most simple and honest and heartfelt truth about all of our Christian faith within these three verses. It is almost all we need to know in order to face this moment and any moment. At the heart of this reading are these ideas of “already” and “not yet.” Friends, this passage makes it perfectly clear. You are—we are—already the beloved children of God. We are fully beloved; there is no more belovedness that will fit in us; there is nothing else that we need to do. We are claimed by God. We are already there. And yet this passage also makes it clear that somehow miraculously, impossibly we are also growing—growing as people of faith—growing in God’s love.

On any funeral on any day when we remember a loved one, we talk over and over again about the mysteries of life and death, and this passage helps us handle those mysteries in a beautiful way. For what it reveals is that for those who have gone before, their act of becoming has already been made full. For God who has fully known and loved them now unveils God’s self and now they know fully too. It is a beautiful and wonderful miracle that should give us hope. And that brings me to what I think is the key to this entire passage; it comes in verse three, and it is the only time in Johannine literature that this particular word hope appears. Only once. Friends, this hope is not some fleeting thing that we hold on to. It is not the hope that we will win the lottery; it is not some wishful thinking, but this word in Greek literally means a depth of hope that we can count on something already accomplished.

In the part of John’s Gospel that we will read on Christmas Eve, which is only a few short weeks away, it describes Jesus as the light that has come into the world—the light that the darkness has not put out. It is the same sense of meaning there, which is that the light shines and the darkness has tried repeatedly to put it out, and it continues to try, but it has not and it will not, and it cannot. This hope that John is talking about is that we ground who we are in the life, the birth, the death and the resurrection of Jesus—the one we know as Christ and Messiah. What this passage talks about which is critical for this All Saint’s Day and for this election week coming is that we pin our hopes nowhere else but on Christ. What is says here is that by doing so, that is how we actually purify ourselves. It is not through labor or justice or acts of service—even though those are all critical—it is by grounding ourselves in the hope of Christ. It is being able to understand that that hope is unshakable; my hope is built on nothing less than Jesus Christ and his righteousness.

Friends, on this day of so much mystery—of loss and of depth—and of this week where there will be stress and hope simultaneously—where there will be promise and possibility—this passage reminds us of two things. Don’t ever forget that you are God’s beloved, not for anything that you have done but simply for who you are, and then let your hope—that hope grounded in Christ—the one who has already come and is with us right now and who will welcome us to that heavenly home—let that guide you safely this day and every day.

Amen.

Rev. Brent Damrow