17 Feb The kind of hope that will see us through.
Have you ever found a stray kitten…? Maybe you’re taking out the garbage one evening and hear a commotion and turn and there, in the corner of your yard, a kitten. Like all kittens do, it looks adorable. So you approach, crooning, “Hey kitty kitty…what’s going on with you?” in your highest pitched and kindest voice.
You reach out your hand to touch, and things get ugly…real fast. There’s hissing, lashing out, scratching, that little ball of fur becomes a raging ball of fury. And in a matter of seconds you learn the definition of feral.
I’ve been thinking about feral kittens lately, especially when it comes to the state of things in our country, in our world.
I think it’s fair to say most of us have a sense lately that things aren’t going well.
Those of us who identify as Christians may find ourselves looking wide-eyed at the world around us, overwhelmed by the disconnect between the pain and uncertainty around us and the better way our faith tells us the world can be. We’re witnessing a collapse of ecosystems. There is a deeply divided political discourse eroding our trust in each other and our faith in community. It’s a time of uncertainty and upheaval in our country, our world and, for many of us, in our personal lives as well.
We know the church is meant to be that space where the world can see a glimpse of a community reconciled, a better way to be human. But when we are witnessing violence, abuse, racism, and death almost daily on our phone screens, simply hoping that things will get better, that this is just a cycle our civilization is going through, that eventually everything will be okay…that kind of hope starts to feel a little…safe…passive…de-clawed…tame.
A sweet, fluffy domesticated kitten kind of hope doesn’t feel like enough for this moment we’re living.
Tame hope relies on forced optimism to silence the pain of those who are hurting. It answers cries for justice with “look on the bright side” and tragedy with “everything happens for a reason.” Tame hope deflects instead of defends, explains instead of acts, and values comfort over necessary, sometimes sacrificial change.
This moment demands more than tame hope. It needs the kind of wild hope we find woven throughout the oppression, mourning, and revolution in our scriptures. A hope that’s a little more feral.
A hope that’s boldly untamed.
As we enter the season of Lent, our community will journey back nearly two thousand years to listen again to the words of John of Patmos. As we explore his Christ-centered writing in the book of Revalation—some of the Bible’s most mysterious, untamed, and unexplored territory—we will take part in a great exodus from the unjust empires of this world and their systems of domination.
In place of a tame hope that asks us to play by the rules, keep a positive mindset, and pretend that everything is fine, we will hear the divine call to repentance and transformation, to unflinching honesty, to holy rebellion against the status quo in the name of our neighbor, our love, and our God. The untamed hope that pulses at the heart of Revelation will remind us that in times of tyranny and oppression, God is with the Church, strengthening and equipping us to walk courageously and faithfully toward the river of life – even amid turmoil, uncertainty, and polycrises.
Each Sunday, we will be drawn into a hope-filled vision for all creation. Revelation is a book saturated with worship and praise, carrying us into the very heart of God’s dream for the world. And, in the book’s vivid imagery, we encounter a clear and compelling expression of God’s will for the healing of the nations and our wounded world. We’ll be invited to see, as empires collapse and as the world turns and changes, that God is calling us to an untamed hope for a new earth and a new heaven. Not a far away place in the clouds that leaves this world behind, but a new way of being that heals, helps, and redeems the streets, cities, and country we call home.
John of Patmos struggles because he has an idea of what the world should be, and he knows it’s a far cry from the way the world is. He feels the pain of not being able to see all the changes that he would like to see promised by God, the kingdom coming in its full beauty.
But he doesn’t give up.
He labors and struggles and writes and calls the church to be the church.
He hopes with wildness, with intensity, with fierce commitment to a better way. He looks directly into the darkness around him and remains determined to reconcile it to the kind of hope that can find light in the darkest places.
The kind of untamed hope that will see us through.
Let’s promise each other that our church will be a place where no one is asked to look away from the darkness around us. Instead, we’ll come together to practice a hope that’s able to hold the depth of our current reality and still say “There’s so much better that’s possible here.” Untaming our hope might be unsettling, it might be uncomfortable, and it might ask more of us than we expect, but we won’t come to this practice alone.
We will come to our untamed hope together, inspired by the book of Revelation, in alignment with the founding leaders of our faith, and in the courage of our unflinching and all-loving God. We will come with our neighbors, our families, our friends, and our city.
And together, we will find not a yawning, overfed lap cat kind of hope but a fierce, scrappy, alley cat hope and maybe we’ll also find out how much good a wild and untamed hope can do.
Join us every Sunday, starting February 22nd through Easter Sunday, April 5th for our Lenten series, Practicing Untamed Hope.
