Advent: Hope

The first Sunday of Advent surprises us a little, sneaks up on us before the calendar can change over to December, before we have quite had a chance to clean the Thanksgiving leftovers out of the fridge. And, there's something perfect about that.

Surprised by Hope.

My 5th graders lit the first flickering candle this morning, and there is a giant piece of string art in the sanctuary that spells out the word in endless loops of thin white thread.

The littles help me to draw a swirling Jesse Tree onto the back of a cardboard collage of "God's Heart," and we spend the last of our small group time coloring and cutting two dimensional ornaments for our two dimensional tree.

One by one, they point out their piece and take it in turns to tell these familiar stories. Genesis stories. Exodus stories. Beginnings and in betweens and no-one-quite-knows-what-is-happening-yet's. Messy humanity surprised, over and over again, by Hope.

Hope that turned out to be a baby, a rescue, a victory. A long and restless waiting for the One who would be all of those things and more.

"By faith Abraham..."

The youth pastor talks to the high schoolers about faith forged through trials, talks about the hard things in his own story with greater transparency than he ever has before. Challenges them to do business with God about the hard things in theirs. Challenges them to trust. To be open, to be honest, to tell the stories of when brokenness gave way to Hope. The mountains that were moved after they came to the end of themselves. The broken pieces that make them real. Make them human.

And, they do. They have those God moments that ripple from one to another until it settles over the room, a blanket of Holy presence that would be stifling if it weren't lit by that same flickering candle of Hope. Hope that changes their attitudes and puts a spark in their eyes.

They pray and they sing and we split off into conversation groups where my few trace the carpet with thoughtful fingers and promise to find someone, this week, to tell their story. Not here. Not now. Not in this room that seems to swallow their words and muffle them into silence. But, sometime.

Here, we are stories just by being, their past and their present tangled up together in the messiness of knowing that who they are here, tonight, may not who they appear to be tomorrow, or even a few hours from now. Hopefully, knowing that it doesn't matter. Hopefully, knowing that they are loved. Strong or weak. On top of the world or being crushed beneath it. This is the sort of place where we just keep picking up one rock and then another and another and another. Until, eventually, we look behind us and discover that the mountain has shifted.

Surprised by Hope.

These few are hesitant to close our time in prayer, worried about stuttering or using the wrong words, knowing full well that I won't let them out of this room until someone does. They avoid eye contact, barely moving, as if that will help them blend in with the couch.

"It can be super short." The stubborn in me keeps pushing, "Just, 'Jesus, help us to find someone to tell our stories to this week.'"
"Oh!" one of my sophomores lights up with sudden confidence, "I know what to say."

Surprised by Hope.

The tension melts from his shoulders, and we bow our heads to pray.

And, we come back together talking about ministry trips, Bridgetown kids near the wall, Haiti ones near the pews, spilling over with memories and plans and the powerful sense that, the last time that they felt this sort of Holy, they were somewhere else. Somewhere where it was okay to be broken. Somewhere where God's people worked together to heal.

Something deep in these kids has built a connection between service and the Holy. Between hard stories and the Holy. Learned to see God in the eyes of a person who is homeless, in shooting stars and giggling littles.

Discovered that they can find that same God here.

When you don't have all of the answers and you can't work hard enough to solve all of the problems. When there aren't enough hours in the day, and when you fall asleep not knowing what comes next -- except that you are surrounded by family that is walking this same path. When God shows up anyways.

These are the stories we tell.

Washing feet under an overpass. Cramming into a room filled with sweaty volunteers. Bouncing along in a bus. Wiping down dusty floors. Twining together orthodoxy and orthopraxy into a worship that is as simple as breathing.

Sometimes they have to find the Holy in the unfamiliar before they can have the eyes to see it here. Before they can dig through the mess of our broken humanity and find themselves surprised by the audacity of Hope.