And of Course, Hope - An Ash Wednesday Reflection from Rev. Dr. Christy Newton

Our mission is to plant ourselves at the gates of Hope —

not the prudent gates of Optimism, which are somewhat narrower; nor the stalwart, boring gates of Common Sense; nor the strident gates of Self-Righteousness, which creak on shrill and angry hinges

(people cannot hear us there; they cannot pass through);nor the cheerful, flimsy garden gate of “Everything is gonna be all right,”but a different, sometimes lonely place, the place of truth-telling,

about your own soul first of all and its condition, the place of resistance and defiance,the piece of ground from which you see the world both as it is and as it could be,

as it might be, as it will be;the place from which you glimpse not only struggle, but joy in the struggle —and we stand there, beckoning and calling, telling people what we are seeing,

asking people what they see.

— “Hope” by Victoria Safford

This day — Ash Wednesday — invites us to enter into the unfolding Holy Story. It invites us on a pilgrimage with Jesus toward Jerusalem. Then, as now, that journey is fraught with all kinds of geo-political landmines, sacred longings, and gluttonous struggles for dominion and dominance. We come to this day clear-eyed and free of delusions. We know the world we live in — its possibilities and pitfalls. And still, we come to this day with hope.

Over the next six weeks, we will hear some of the familiar Holy Stories, and we will encounter many of the accompanying emotions that run the spectrum from the highest of highs to the lowest of lows…big, intense, powerful, and possibly overwhelming emotions. These weeks are like the arc of a dance or the movement of a symphony, building toward the potent and forceful “Hosannas!” The defensive and bold, “Surely not I, Lord?!” The tsunami waves of love and longing, heartbreak and grief with “Take, eat; this is my body.” “Let this cup pass from me!” “I do not know the man!” And culminating with “Crucify him!” “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” “It is finished.” And still, we come to these stories with hope.

These stories expose and help us identify treachery, evil, and greed in our world. And when we confront them — when we come face to face with powers that would gleefully destroy love and goodness and justice — planting ourselves at the gates of Hope can be hard.

But even when the end seems close enough that we might touch it — that it might even swallow us up — hope is still possible. The gates of hope are never closed. Hope always finds a way to rise. For as we will see, once again, crucifixion is — by no means — the end of the story. “He is not here. He has been raised!” And we will witness the miracle of miracles — the undying, everlasting, unquenchable, boundless love of God. And this love cannot be killed. It cannot be deported. It cannot be abandoned. It cannot be robbed of its identity. It cannot be refused care. It cannot be shut up in a tomb. It cannot be limited or restricted or invalidated or detained. This love is the source and wellspring of our hope.

Cornell West says, “Justice is what love looks like in public.”  David Whyte argues that “Courage is what love looks like when tested by the simple everyday necessities of being alive.” And while I do not disagree with either of them, I believe that an extravagantly wide-open table is what love looks like to God. We are called to plant ourselves at the gates of hope, gather up our courage, lean into justice, and set this table. We are called to source our living with joy — actively pursuing the joy-filled, life-giving things that stand in direct opposition to the hatred and bigotry that threaten our communities. We are called to extend the lavish welcome. So, throughout this season — and throughout the weeks and months ahead — I invite you to set the table with expansive love, defiant joy, uncompromising welcome, munificent grace. And of course, hope.