Somewhere Over the Rainbow Deuteronomy 34:1-8
Total Page：16
File Type：pdf, Size：1020Kb
Somewhere Over the Rainbow Deuteronomy 34:1-8 Well, amidst the craziness and turmoil of these times, Opening Day for the 2020 Major League Baseball season occurs this weekend. One might think I’d be delighted to take in Red Sox games and enjoy even a pandemic-shortened season. I mean, baseball is baseball. Beach volleyball will only go so far. I shouldn’t complain, though, the 21st century has been abundantly generous to Boston professional franchises and fans. For two decades, we have enjoyed titles and championships nearly every year in one sport or another—Red Sox (2004, 2007, 2013, 2018), Patriots (2002, 2004, 2005, 2015, 2017, 2019), Celtics (2008), Bruins (2011), while the New England Revolution soccer team has successfully lost the championship game five times (2002, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2014), which means anyone under twenty has been eagerly awaiting their chance to sit at a sports bar and cheer on their favorite team. Unfortunately, this year the bars are closed and the teams stink. Even if the world gets vaccinated overnight and rowdy, raucous crowds become something other than a show of partisan defiance, the Red Sox are still fielding what amounts to a Minor League team, the Patriots have devolved into a fallen empire, the Celtics are in a Disney bubble trying to complete last season, while the forlorn Bruins had their championship run knee-capped by the coronavirus. And the Revolution? They’re just hoping they won’t completely suck. The annual Duck Boat parade we fans have grown accustomed to has finally capsized in the Charles! The glory years are over. The 1 pandemic moratorium, one might say, comes as a blessing in disguise. Obviously, we’ve known better days…and seasons. In 2020, New Englanders are mired in misery, strangely familiar. We’ve been here before. The Northeast was the region most impacted by the 1918 pandemic and Great Depression (the parallels between the first quarters of the 20th and 21st centuries are eerily striking). Our ancestral fatalism is returning to its rightful place. Born from 400 years of Puritan-inspired hardship, from stony fields and ocean storms, we’ve never expected too much out of life. Hardship is our default setting; expecting the worst, a mere custom. The feckless and rosy optimism of lightweight platitudes has never seemed authentic to those whose lives are forged through the crucible of long winters and fickle springs, encamped in depressed mill towns and rural backwoods. Yankees (not the Bronx type) are used to harsh hits of reality—even coming up short when odds lie in our favor. We celebrate with the best, but we know the pendulum eventually swings back. “Hope springs eternal,” a merry old English Pope once wrote, but here in New England a more familiar proverb is, “winter’s coming early this year.” I jest, of course, yet in some ways, I don’t. We aren’t naïve about how life can turn, nor are we dreamy idealists for the most part. We tend to feast on skepticism to bulk us up for when the chill of reality sets in. Even religious faith is commonly hedged by a measure of agnosticism and prudence. A part of living faithfully, for many, is living fatefully, recognizing not everything one wishes for comes true. Not every dream is fulfilled. Not every prayer is answered in the way 2 one expects. Hence, faith retreats from the presumption of life’s good fortune toward a hope for the mercy of God’s grace, heeding 18th century revivalist Jonathan Edwards’ stern warning: “There is nothing that keeps wicked men at any one moment out of hell, but the mere pleasure of God.” It may not be something we swear by, but we live like we do. However, I won’t overstate the case. The present outlook among most is not all rooted in Catholic guilt and Protestant gloom— as if the pandemic is some sort of divine plague or retribution. Most view it as akin to dealing with a hurricane: you button down the hatches, make sure there’s enough supplies, and wait it out. That’s why we’ve done so well over these past several months. We expect there will be loss and damage, but there’s always a reason to look forward to the future when this, too, shall pass. “Wait ‘til next year” isn’t merely a cliché for non-title seasons in Beantown, it’s a common outlook gained from seeing how life frequently plays out. All parties must come to an end, but then hardship resolves to happier times. It’s like a pendulum swing. We know that. Although right now we may feel like everything is a bit of a nightmare, what keeps us going forward is the notion that things eventually will be worked out promising a better day. It might be a maelstrom in the present, but somewhere over the rainbow skies are blue…even for the Red Sox. For as long as I can remember, I’ve believed in the trajectory of hope. Maybe it comes from the song made famous by Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz. My favorite version of it was sung by Eva Cassidy, a folk singer who died much too early of cancer in 1996. Perhaps, for that reason, it’s not been difficult for me to associate the 3 dream of a world over the rainbow with the Christian message of life beyond death, though, in Eva Cassidy’s view, it was more likely to embracing hope amidst the disappointments and sorrows of life. In the beloved story, Dorothy Gale wanted something more than her small Kansas barnyard life—a wanderlust that took her to the land of Oz, though it was merely in a dream. Yet, she represents all sorts of yearnings in people, who look beyond their present situation to envision a more perfect one. If hope becomes a deeply held desire, it’s not unlike the conviction of faith reflected in the inspiring words of Hebrews 11: Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. Indeed, by faith our ancestors received approval…All of these died in faith without having received the promises, but from a distance they saw and greeted them. They confessed that they were strangers and foreigners on the earth, for people who speak in this way make it clear that they are seeking a homeland… (Hebrews 11:1-2, 13-14) That’s what hope is—a yearning for a better place or state of being. Biblically, hope is based on the belief that God will make good come to pass even when humans won’t. It is a deeply-held spiritual belief that God acts even if humans can’t. The dream’s fulfillment is what compels one to move forward, never finding satisfaction in the status quo, but seeking a better place, a better state. Hope is much more than optimism; it’s what sufferers sense, when God is their only strength, whereas optimism is what most feel when they think good fortune will eventually come their way. The difference being, those who hope typically don’t see better times come their way without divine help. They depend more than others on the power that transcends their world. 4 This is a fertile moment for each of us to explore what hope means in our own personal lives, as well in the broader experience and context of our diverse society and world. If you have issues related to health or aging, a better place or state of being will likely mean a release from pain, anxiety, confusion, or weariness. That’s what you hope for. If you are concerned about the welfare of your children, a better place or state of being will be a future time when they are doing well on their own and your worries and daily support will diminish. That’s what you hope for. If you are perplexed about your finances or employment, then blue skies over the rainbow will likely be solvency and security. If you are struggling with addiction, depression, or lingering loss, hope is best sensed in imagining when you are buoyant and refreshed with energy to finally embrace each day. More immediate for all of us, though, is finding our way through the present pandemic safely and, hopefully, well. That’s what we all hope for. However, God may bring meaning into this particular moment through something much greater than our personal concerns and wellbeing. Jesse Zink, in an article published this week in The Christian Century, offers a timely word: Part of the difference of this time…is that the pandemic is eschatological time. As a citizen, I am called to live now in a new way—socially distant— that will one day succeed, even if it is painful and difficult now. To do so, I need to give up many common habits and patterns of life and relationship—no matter how appealing they may be—because I know they will not curtail the spread of this virus and reduce its devastation. The fundamental eschatological virtue is hope, the belief expressed in confident action that God will act to transform our world…Eschatological living not only gives Christians hope for the future, it also allows us to cast a critical eye on the way we live now. If we know how God will act to fulfill all things, we are called to live now like we believe the future will one day 5 be. It is a future of new creation, right relationship, and the overthrow of oppressive regimes.