This morning, I’d like to talk about hope. I’d like to talk about hope because I am aware of finding it increasingly challenging to be hopeful.
I find it difficult to hold onto hope when I read of world leaders – and social media influencers – who seem intent on attacking those they have cast as their enemies, and in the process cause the suffering of so many.
I find it difficult to hold onto hope when one man attempts to murder another man in Belfast, and then people with powerful voices whip up feelings of fear, resentment, anger, and hatred that lead to nights of rioting on the streets of cities in Northern Ireland.
I find it difficult to hold onto hope when people in Edinburgh are living in poverty, hungry and with no means of making a meal for their children, sleeping on our streets with no secure place to lay down and rest tonight.
I find it difficult to hold onto hope, so I’d like to talk about hope.
In the late 1980s I lived in Northern Ireland, volunteering with an ecumenical Christian community committed to reconciliation called Corrymeela. In those years Northern Ireland was in the thick of the Troubles. British army tanks patrolled the streets of most Northern Irish cities, and in many border towns tensions ran high between different religious and political sectors of society.
Corrymeela was founded by Ray Davey, a Presbyterian Church minister in Northern Ireland, who was a chaplain for the YMCA during the 2nd World War. In 1942, Ray was imprisoned near Dresden and tasked with giving ‘spiritual comfort’ to prisoners of war in camps around Dresden. Late on 13 February 1945 he returned to his own camp, and that night witnessed the waves of aerial bombing that destroyed Dresden. Numerous civilians fleeing the Russian front were refugees in the city; estimates of fatalities on that one night range from 35,000 to 200,000. Witnessing this slaughter affected Ray profoundly. He was confronted by the futility, destructiveness, and pain caused by conflict that was fed and driven by fear, and devoid of any reconciling light shining on or within it. In those days, a foundation stone was laid for what was to become Corrymeela.
After the war, while travelling with a group of Northern Irish students, Davey witnessed people in Italy and Switzerland working to build foundations for world peace by building community and trust, and he returned home determined to do the same at home. And so, in the mid 1960s, in a rather chaotic, one might say naive, way, the Corrymeela Community was born. At the opening, Ray Davey spoke of his hope that Corrymeela would be known as ‘the open village’, open to all who are willing to ‘meet each other, to learn from each other and work together for the good of all’.
Through the 60s, the Northern Ireland Troubles became more violent and widespread. In August 1971, internment was introduced; the British Army’s ‘Operation Demetrius’ resulted in over 7,000 people being forcibly removed from their homes, over 1,700 people being interned, over 340 of them on day one. Frightened and angry communities responded immediately, perhaps inevitably, with unrest and violence, leading to hundreds of children needing hasty evacuation.
Following an urgent phone call from a social worker, Corrymeela immediately began minibus trips to remove those fleeing the violence. One young mother, who later joined the community, recalled fleeing with her seven children; walking past the British Army roadblock and getting onto the minibus to escape. She spoke about her arrival at the Corrymeela Centre in Ballycastle. ‘I was greeted by a tall gentle looking man (who) took my hand to help me. His words will always be implanted in my mind; ‘You will be all right now’ … although I am a devout Catholic, it was my first real experience of Christianity. From then on I began to live and think reconciliation’ (1993: 87).
The Corrymeela Community still works tirelessly for reconciliation today – I recommend that you explore their website – it is filled with powerful stories of their ongoing work, stories that help me to be hopeful. I remember Ray Davey talking of his longing for the day Corrymeela was no longer needed. And so, as I saw images of the violence on the streets of Northern Ireland this week, I found myself in tears.
I had been there and seen vehicles burned out in the 1980s, to a backdrop of murals that shouted hatred and violence. Many of those murals have since been painted over with images of hope, and there are tourist tours of the city to see the city’s murals, of which there are over 300.One of them has the single word, ‘Unite’ with two faces, one a white woman, the other a woman of colour in a hijab; another has images of war and peace, with the words ‘peace cannot be kept by force, it can only be achieved by understanding. We look to a better future.’ But this week, the voices of hope were drowned out by acts of hatred, and those who seek to benefit from them.
In our Gospel reading this week, Jesus commissions his twelve disciples to liberate and enliven the “harassed and helpless.” Seeing the multitudes of “sheep without a shepherd,” Jesus is deeply moved, and so he tells his disciples, “Go.” Go and proclaim the good news of the kingdom. Go and cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, and cast out demons.
Go and touch. Go and heal. Go and resurrect. Go and make peace. Go and make believable, go and become, the compassion of God. It’s a big ask. I feel like I’m saying this a lot in my sermons as we travel through Matthew’s Gospel – the Gospel of Jesus Christ asks a lot of us. And it is a lot. It can feel overwhelming, impossible, especially when we only see the big worldwide picture. Because what can I, living in Davidson’s Mains, Rector of Holy Cross, do to make any kind of a difference when confronted with so much terrifying news across our world? When I ask the question of myself like that, it is almost impossible to be hopeful.
But when I hear a story telling of a hand held out to someone fleeing their home; when I hear the few spoken words of comfort that became a lifeline that changed someone’s life, then a spark of hope is ignited. When I see the people who arrive at St Salvador’s Community Food Initiative with an empty bag and empty stomachs, sitting and enjoying a mug of coffee and good conversation before leaving with food for the week ahead and smiles on their faces, that spark of hope becomes a flame. We are called to be people of hope. But that doesn’t mean ignoring the pain and suffering around us.
Fred Rogers, the American television personality, Presbyterian minister, author, and host of the preschool television series Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, between 1968 to 2001, said “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping. Because if you look for the helpers, you’ll know that there’s hope'” (From A Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood)
Jesus showed us how we are to respond – we are to go towards the world’s pain and suffering and do the little we can to change it, even in small ways. Look for the helpers, and add to their numbers where we can. We are called to make belief in the kingdom of God credible for the world where we are living. And we are called to do this, not just when it feels easy, but also, perhaps especially, when belief and hope feel so very difficult.