“Mythic Time”

A sermon preached with the people of St. John’s Episcopal Church in Oakland, California.

On Thursday, Rabbi Amichai Lau-Lavie was interviewed about the experience of celebrating Hannukah this year, amidst war and grief, and conflict, even within families and friendships. He said:

“We light candles on Hanukkah as a human act of resilience, to pause and get lost in the flames for only a few minutes so that we're not in this time but that we are in mythic time. We are in the big time. The arc of history is long. I believe the arc of justice is bending where we want it to bend - towards justice for all. But it is long, and right now we feel small. So being lost inside the flames is a way to be found within the longer arc of the possible.”

Rabbi Lau-Lavie’s beautiful words really grabbed me. Because this practice – this experience – of reorienting ourselves in time, even just for a moment — is what I really love about Advent.

During Advent, time bends and voices from long ago, from longer ago, and voices yet to be heard, mix together. They quote one another, reference one another. They harmonize.  

This morning Mary sings:

He has cast down the mighty from their thrones, *
and has lifted up the lowly.

He has filled the hungry with good things, *
and the rich he has sent away empty.

Mary is mixing and matching her words with a still more ancient voice from the Book of Samuel; the voice of Hannah, his mother, who sings:

The bows of the mighty are broken,
    but the feeble gird on strength.
Those who were full have hired themselves out for bread,
    but those who were hungry are fat with spoil

And this morning John the Baptist announces:

I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness: ‘Make straight the way of the Lord’

John is mixing and matching his words with the voice of a still-more ancient Prophet Isaiah, who says;

A voice cries out:
In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord;.
    “make straight in the desert a highway for our God.”

Mary and John are allowing time to stretch out behind them and before them – to mix together and to bend. Mary and John are allowing themselves to enter mythic, big time, and inviting us to do the same.

Entering into mythic, big time is what allows us, in this season to await the coming, promised birth of the Christ Child … an event that happened over 2000 years ago. Entering into mythic, big time is what allows us to say:

“Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.” And to hold it all at the same time.

And, ultimately, crucially -- entering into mythic, big time is what allows us to hope.

Earlier this week I found myself wondering, “what would John the Baptist think if he re-emerged from the wilderness today? If he appeared on the banks of Jordan today? Now. If he looked around, and saw the destruction, the chaos, and death in that sacred, electric piece of this planet?” And I asked myself, out loud: “would this break John the Baptist? Would he fall to his knees in despair, and then crawl back to the wilderness?

[a moment of silence]

I don’t think so.

I think John would, yet again, enter mythic time – even just for a moment. And I think he would orient himself on this small dot belonging to the vastness of time. I think he would once again call on still more ancient voices to reassure and strengthen his. Not to give himself permission to look away from the injustice, the death, and the tragedy.

But to give himself the courage and wherewithal to be located within the “longer arc of the possible.” To give himself the courage to hope. And to give himself the strength to act out that hope.

Because the project of John the Baptist, and of Isaiah, and of Mary and of Hannah Is. Hope.

Hope that we will prepare the way for God and God’s dream for us. Hope that parents will no longer lose their children to state violence or to war. Hope that factions will no longer fight one another needlessly.

Hope is one of the many words that gets “Hallmarkized” and understood as something sweet and tame and safe. But hope is daring. It is often counterintuitive and even unpopular. It is sometimes lonely. Hope is hard work. It is active, not passive.

As writer and vlogger John Green says, “Hope is the correct response to the strange, often terrifying miracle of consciousness. Hope is not easy or cheap. It is true.”[i]

John and Mary’s words of hope are not soft. They are clear and strong. They speak of revolution.

Hope can look like caretaking, or protesting, like organizing or speaking out, like donating or advocating.

Hope is seeing a new heaven and a new earth before us. It is what leads to the progress we have made as this weird little species. To things like the development of antibiotics and vaccines to the daily acts of fierce human generosity and kindness.

Hope is daring to believe in “the longer arc of the possible” and to act on it. To believe in the vision that Hannah and Mary sing about; that Isaiah and John call us to prepare for.

This is a hard year indeed to be anticipating and celebrating an event that took place in a West Bank town.

But I don’t think that means we should blow out the candles and shut off the lights – though some are, and that is okay.

I choose to enter into this season of sparkle, and flickering candles, and smiles, and special treats, and music, and togetherness, remembering that these things – these rituals — help us, just for a moment, to be “not in this time but in mythic time.” They help us orient ourselves in a vast storyline, and to be found there within the “longer arc of the possible.”

To believe we can make straight the way. To take actions grounded in that belief. To activate that hope.

My activated hope may well look different from yours. This season of Advent, I’ve used the Episcopal Public Policy Network’s online tools to call on my representatives for peace; for ceasefire and de-escalation. I’ve made donations to support the Episcopal Diocese of Jerusalem and their work on the ground. I’m trying to be diligent in resisting and naming anti-semitic, anti-arab, and anti-muslim sentiment and action. These are very small things. I’ll keep working. It’s hard work, this hope thing.

So, on this “Joy Sunday,” I really want to say:

Please allow yourself this season to get “lost in the flame,” if that feels right to you. Please allow yourself, in these sparkly moments, to be “not in this time,” but in mythic time. Please allow yourself to be found within the “longer arc of the possible.”

Please, allow yourself to hope.

[i] From The Anthropocene Reviewed” (n the entry titled “Harvey”).