It takes so much courage to hope.
When I visited Palestine a year ago, someone had scrawled a message on the concrete wall that
divides the West Bank from Israel. It said; “Hope against hope.” When I was
there, we met with a young woman from Bethlehem who had been educated in the
U.S., but decided that it was her mission to return to her hometown. She works
with Dar al-Kalima, a Lutheran program that offers art and education to young
Palestinians in the West Bank. She talked about how her role was to hold hope
for her people. I was struck, in that room that day, surrounded with the
stories of people’s suffering, just how much courage it takes to hope.
That has stuck with me. It stuck with me largely because I
feel like that is what I do, what we do, in our ministry. Hold hope.
I started Chaplains on the Harbor in September of 2013, on a
hope and a prayer, while I was a deacon assigned in Aberdeen. After being away
for the better part of a decade, I started this ministry very close to my own
hometown, in the county I grew up. It is the kind of place that none of us who
leave ever intend to come back. I didn’t expect to ever return.
But here I am. We split our time between Aberdeen and the
little fishing town of Westport, where we have our church building. Grays
Harbor County is one of the poorest counties in the state, with about half of
our residents accessing social services to survive. We have the highest
incarceration rates of minors for non-criminal offences in the country. We have
hundreds of people on the streets and hundreds more couch surfing. It’s a place
that has been poor and desperate for a very long time.
It is a place that finds it hard to hope. All the time, I
hear people say how dark Aberdeen and the harbor feels. How difficult it is to
survive there. Most of the folks we work with are in their 20s and 30s. They
have grown up on the harbor, as our industries collapsed. Many of them went
through the foster care system or through juvie. Most of them have been in and
out of jail, on and off the streets, ever since. As I minister with people, as
I am their pastor, on the streets, in the jails, in our community meals and
services, we talk a lot about hope.
The gospel reading this morning is Luke’s introduction to
Jesus’ ministry. Jesus is claiming this beautiful text in Isaiah to explain his
mission.
To bring good news to the poor
To release prisoners
To heal the sick
To let the oppressed go free.
And he doesn’t preach this as some kind of glorious future.
He stands in Nazareth, a poor village on top of a mountain, preaching to the
folks he grew up with, a bunch of poor villagers and farmers. And he is bold
enough to say; “Today.” This mission is now. Not in a future heaven. Not in a
future kingdom. But now. Today. We can hope today.
The lectionary stops there for this week, but we have to
note that the rest of the story doesn’t go so well.
You would think that this news that Jesus brings, this
mission that he preaches would go over pretty well in Nazareth. But it doesn’t.
When people realize what Jesus is saying, they get scared. And angry. They
literally run Jesus out of town and try to throw him off a cliff.
The message is too dangerous, too scary. They live under
occupation and if they let Jesus keep preaching, they could be in danger. (And
keep in mind: they are not wrong. Jesus is executed only a few years later). I
wonder, too, if it is just too hard to hope. Too hard to hope that things can
change. That was not the main response to Jesus’ teaching. Great crowds in
Galilee follow him everywhere. But, for the folks in the synagogue that day,
hope was too much, too dangerous to ask.
There are times that hope can seem too dangerous on the
harbor. Poverty pits people against each other. People are afraid to speak out
because they could go to jail or get picked up on their warrants or lose their
apartment if they complain about how bad things are for them.
But, I have to say, as dark as things can get, most of what
I see is courage. It takes so much courage to hope.
I walk with young moms who have been on the streets most of
their lives, who fight for their children. They fight to get clean for their
kids, they fight to find a place to live for their kids, they fight against
impossible odds to try and regain custody and make a family they never had. It
takes so much courage to hope.
I walk with young kids in jail—many of them in the their
early 20s—kids with felonies for sleeping in abandoned buildings when its cold
or self medicating with opiates for chronic pain or shoplifting—whatever it
takes to survive-- and they fight to imagine a better life. Like small towns
all over the country, there are few legitimate jobs and most of these kids have
never had one. They dream of getting out and making a better life for
themselves. It takes so much courage to hope.
I walk with elders and young people on the street as, this
last year, they created Aberdeen’s first organized tent city. They were called
names by the city, they’ve had police raids and giant rocks thrown at them, but
they have stayed the course. They believe that the work that they do is
important, that they are bringing the crisis of homelessness to the public eye
and that they deserve to be part of building a better future. It takes so much
courage to hope.
I walk with a community in Westport, a community where
nearly 70% of the adult population is out of the workforce. People with
disabilities, people who work in the canneries or clean fishing boats, people
who live in trailer parks and abandoned buildings and in tents on the beach—all
of us together build a community where we eat together and pray together and
provide space for each other. We never do it perfectly and sometimes we drive
each other crazy, but we are learning to love and care for each other. It takes
so much courage to hope.
These are my heroes. These are the men and women who dare to
hope. Who dare to imagine a world where the prisoners are free and the
oppressed liberated. Who dare to stand up to city councils and public opinion
and police raids. Who dare to hope. Who dare to do what the Nazareth community
was not ready to do when Jesus first showed up. Who dare to do what Jesus led a
whole rabble multitude to do in Galilee.
We dare to hope.
Dr. Raheb, the pastor of that Lutheran community in
Bethlehem, said that hope was like planting olive trees. He said; “We plant
olive trees so that there will be trees for the children to play in. So that
there will be oil to bind up their wounds. So that there will be branches to
wave for the prince of peace.”
We hope like that. We eat together in the hope of a world
where no one goes hungry. We visit each other in jail in the hope of a world
where all our children are free. We worship together in the hope of a world
where all are given the dignity and respect they deserve as children of God. We
build community in the hope of a better world.