The Fresh Hope of Morning
A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, December 1, 2024, the first Sunday of Advent.
Texts: Jeremiah 33:14-16; Luke 21:25-36
This is a day of endings and beginnings. It is the end of the last liturgical cycle and the beginning of a new Christian year. It is the end of the season after Pentecost and the beginning of Advent. And in our Gospel, we have the traditional first Sunday of Advent installment of apocalyptic writing, in which, as scholar Fred Craddock reminds us, “The focus is on eschatology, the end of the world as we now experience it and the beginning of a new world. Usually the transition is described in terms of transformations cosmic in scope and nature, along with judgment of failed persons and institutions and the vindication of God’s saints… Major historical crises triggered apocalyptic thinking.” Seems appropriate for us at this time in our history.
And it was appropriate in the years following Jesus’s death, when some early Christian communities, living under tremendous persecution and the despair caused by events like the destruction of the Jerusalem temple by the Roman imperial colonizers, expected the world as they knew it to end at any moment; they expected Christ to come again with cataclysmic flashes of lightning and all the rest. Yet, as time passed and the injustice and oppression of the world continued, that expectation began to fade. Christians had to learn how to wait, how to not give up on the whole thing, how to remain a people of hopeful expectation in the tension between the historical events of Jesus’ life and the desire that God’s realm be fulfilled on earth.
• We find ourselves in that same place of tension. There is painful awareness these days of how far we are from the fulfillment of God’s realm on earth. In the weeks since the election, I’ve been part of many conversations about “not rushing to hope”—that is, the acknowledgement that we need time to grieve, to ponder, to be angry, to lament and all the other things that various ones of us are trying to attend to. As Pastor Ben acknowledged last Sunday, our diversities of race, class, gender and more put us in different places in terms of the impact of what’s happening in our country upon our own lives. That means we have different needs, we will all be trying to find our way—at our own pace and in our own ways—into a posture or practice or mindset that allows us “to not give up on the whole thing” and, ultimately, to a place where we can at least contemplate hope—even if we struggle to truly feel or embrace it.
But regardless of where we are with regard to hope in this moment, like the sun that rises every morning, bringing an end to night and the dawn of a new day, Advent has once again arrived with its first candle, its first light, the light of hope. What do we do with that? How do we hold it along with all the other things that we are holding right now?
This year, our Advent observance is supported by a resource developed by a wonderful organization that provides inspiration, scholarship, and creative tools for Christian community and worship. You’ll find a weekly devotional on our website and in your email inbox that provides reflections, prayers, activity suggestions, and several links to a podcast called “Poetry Unbound.” Short and unhurried, Poetry Unbound is an immersive exploration of a single poem, hosted by Pádraig Ó Tuama. Even if you are a person who thinks poetry isn’t your thing, I highly recommend that you check out Ó Tuama’s beautiful and insightful sharing of poems that help broaden our ways of thinking about the familiar texts and stories of Advent and Christmas.
One of this week’s poems from the devotional is entitled “A Portable Paradise” by Trinidadian poet, Roger Robinson. Robinson lives between Trinidad and London and his work reflects his experiences as a black man living in both contexts. The poem provides some insight about hope midst challenge. As I read the poem, think of paradise not as something outside the self, but rather as the most precious parts of life—or even as a person’s life itself.
“And if I speak of Paradise,
then I’m speaking of my grandmother
who told me to carry it always
on my person, concealed, so
no one else would know but me.
That way they can’t steal it, she’d say.
And if life puts you under pressure,
trace its ridges in your pocket,
smell its piney scent on your handkerchief,
hum its anthem under your breath.
And if your stresses are sustained and daily,
get yourself to an empty room – be it hotel,
hostel or hovel – find a lamp
and empty your paradise onto a desk:
your white sands, green hills and fresh fish.
Shine the lamp on it like the fresh hope
of morning, and keep staring at it till you sleep.”
There’s a lot going on in this short poem and, again, I commend the wonderful, brief commentary from the podcast to help you fully appreciate it.
But a couple of things strike me in particular for us on this day when we contemplate what to do with that little light of hope on our wreath. The poem is about holding onto paradise in the midst of an environment that seeks to steal or quash it. The grandmother encourages her grandson to keep his paradise “concealed”—“That way they can’t steal it.” Who is the “they” who try to steal a person’s paradise? Colonizers? Climate denialists? Bigots? Warmongers? Do you think you might ever be part of a “they” who have tried to steal someone’s paradise?
Whatever our social location or personal experience, as those living in an imperial context in which distraction, bread and circuses, the siren call of wealth, the addictive lure of social media and substances are prevalent and powerful, all of us to one degree or another are at risk of having our paradise stolen. And right now we live in a world under threat, with some of our lives directly under threat, and some of our livelihoods directly under threat.
What does that one little candle have to offer in such a moment?
In the poem, the encouragement is to recognize and acknowledge the “sustained stresses” of life, find a lamp in an empty room, empty your paradise onto the table, and shine the lamp “like the fresh hope of morning” upon the precious and beautiful things of your life. I receive this as another way of saying what our apocalyptic gospel invites: be on guard about what is going on in the world. Pay attention to it. But also stay focused on the good, beautiful, and true things in your life. Be alert to the promises of God that break into the text and into our lives like a ray of light: the Son of Man will arrive, a just reckoning will happen, the faithful will see redemption, and these words of promise will not pass away.
Be on guard, protect your hearts, protect and guard your lives, but keep your precious and beautiful self alert and accessible and available to receive the light of Jesus that doesn’t just show up on Christmas eve but is always drawing near, ready to reveal what you need to learn, to remind you of what is most real and important, to inspire your courage to not give up.
One small candle can dispel the darkness of a vast space. One tiny baby can bring hope big enough for the whole world. And even if you can’t hold the light of hope today, Jesus holds it for you, the church holds it for you. So just raise your head and allow the light of Christ to fall upon you like the fresh hope of morning, and stare at the gifts of your life that Christ’s light reveals until you find your rest and your strength to hold the candle for others.
