Absurd Hope [Lent 2C]

The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Genesis 15:1-12, 17-18

Absurd Hope

I wonder if the first step was the hardest. Or if it was the next. Or the next. Maybe every step felt hard. Each step toward hope was also loss. Each step in pursuit of the promise meant an old dream had to die. Each step created more distance between him and everything upon which he had come to rely. Each step was a step he would never get back. He was leaving his homeland; he was leaving his family; he was leaving the protection and provision of his father's house. And for what?

Because he heard the voice of a God? Is that enough? Abram had nowhere to go. He just went. The first words God whispered to Abram in the book of Genesis dismantled the patriarch's life: “Leave your land, your family, and your father's household for the land that I will show you. I will make you a great nation and will bless you.” And he went. Now, let's be clear: the offer sounds appealing, to be the father of a great nation is a pretty big deal, but there was no proof that those promises would come true. Abram left home with no children, no place, no idea. And no evidence. Just a promise. Just hope.

In the 9^th century, a young monk named Anskar was called to take the Gospel of Christ to the Scandinavians. It was a dangerous and daunting mission. Despite the best efforts of his concerned friends, despite their earnest advice and their severe warnings, he eagerly accepted the call. He left his homeland, his brothers, and his house to preach the Gospel to those his fellow monks called, “unknown and barbarous folk.” He left with nothing, to follow a promise – a promise that God would grow the Kingdom through his efforts. Anskar's first missionary period among the people of Scandinavia yielded exactly zero converts. No evidence. Just hope.

We dare to hope at great personal cost. Because hope does not deal in guarantees. We hope in things we cannot see; we hope for a future that might never come. In fact hope shakes us to the point of loss; it dismantles us. It calls us to leave our comfortable places. It demands we risk our hearts for “unknown and barbarous folk”. Walter Bruggemann says, “Hope...is an absurdity too embarrassing to speak about, for it flies in the face of all those claims we have been told are facts.”¹ Hope is hard because it doesn't make sense. But hope is powerful because it gives us the strength to believe in impossible futures.

At the beginning of his journey, Abram had a choice: he would be defined by his loss or by his hope. He left a lot behind; he left a life of security and comfort behind; he left the familiar behind. And that loss could have defined him. His story could have been the story of what lived in his past.

But Abram believed the Lord. He believed in what he could not see. He hoped for a future that might not come. He believed the promise despite the evidence. In our Old Testament reading today, long after leaving his land, and his family, and his father's household to chase a promise, nothing has changed. He still has no children, still has no place, still has no idea. And he still has no evidence that anything will ever be different, no evidence that God's promise will ever come true. But still hope. He still had hope. His life was defined by that hope – by an absurd hope too embarrassing to speak about, a hope that flied in the face of all the claims he was sure were facts. His wife was barren; the land his non-existent children would settle was already settled: those were the facts. He probably should have cut his losses and gone back to Ur of the Chaldeans but he hoped in a promise.

Anskar gave up everything for nothing. He should have been discouraged – and probably some days he was. But he kept clinging to hope. He refused to give up on the promise. Long after leaving his homeland, and his brothers, and his house to chase the promise, nothing had changed. No one fell in love with Jesus; the Kingdom did not grow. There was no evidence that his efforts made any difference. He had nothing left and nothing to show for it. But still hope. He still had hope. His life was defined by that hope – by an absurd hope too embarrassing to speak about, a hope that flied in the face of all the facts. He probably should have cut his losses, admitted the brothers were right, and gone back to the monastery but he hoped in a promise.

And you know, Anskar died still chasing the promise. It took a long time, but over one-hundred years after his death, his dream came true. The seeds he planted started to bear fruit. A few generations after his work, the descendants of those “unknown and barbarous folk” came to Jesus. He is today revered by the Scandinavians as their apostle – as the one God used to grow the Kingdom. He followed the promise until it came true. The absurd hope to which he clung so stubbornly changed the world.

You probably know how the story of Abram ends. Most of us know him by the name God would give him later in his story: Abraham. He is today, still today, by Christians, Jews, and Muslims called Father Abraham. And through his descendants came God's plan for the world's salvation in the person of Jesus. He followed the promise until it came true. The absurd hope to which he clung so stubbornly changed the world.

We are called to be people of absurd hope. We are the people who stand at the grave singing our songs, through the tears, because we have hope. We are called to hope for the coming Kingdom of God even as the world falls apart around us. We are called to hope for peace even as the nations rage. We are called to hope in love even though hatred seems so strong. We are called to cling stubbornly to our absurd hope even when things seem hopeless – not because we are naive or dishonest – but because God is faithful. We are called to chase the promise – a promise that God has a dream for this world, a dream that will one day come true – a dream that life will finally conquer death, that peace will overcome our violence, that love will be all that remains – one day.

And we might not live to see the day. We might never see the fruits of the seeds that we plant. We might die chasing the promise. But we are called to cling to our absurd hope anyway. Because God can do an awful lot with a little absurd hope. 

 

1Prophetic Imagination: Revised Edition