We begin with hope.

The goal is just peace: a liberated, flourishing, sustainable cosmos. We start with hope.

I have a vision . . . and you can see it here. In gloriously cheesy sparkly color.

A theology of just peace that provides a Christian foundation for the work of “peacebuilding”: a flexible approach to holistic justice that involves education, dialogue, healing, reconciliation, and action, all pursued within community, listening to the voices of those who often go unheard. 

The vast majority of the Western world is losing faith in its institutions, including the Church. So many think Christianity is about exclusion, or division, or even hatred. People are leaving in droves. They’re seeking spaces that echo what they desire: a more just, sustainable, peaceful world. But so many are also seeking the spiritual, the mystery, encounters with something beyond themselves.

What if churches could provide both?

Peacebuilding is a way congregations can reclaim the “third space,” between the public and private spheres, uniting God’s vision of love for all with the desire to reform worldly institutions to align with such a vision. Aided by community input, Christians will become aware of the internal and systemic changes that must be addressed to achieve liberation for all. Strengthened and sustained by spiritual practices proclaiming God’s promises, they receive the hope necessary to pursuing peace over the long term. 

And so we begin with hope. Because it is the hope that guides us to a place where we can believe in God’s vision of a holistic, sustainable peace, and the hope that enables us to work for the justice and liberation necessary to make that vision a reality—even in a world where darkness is closing in, where violence reigns across the land, where we are deemed naive for believing we can reorder the cosmos into a space graced by light and draped in beauty.

Restore us, O God of hosts;

    let your face shine, that we may be saved. (Ps. 80:7)

Advent is all about faithfully waiting, anticipating God’s promises will be fulfilled in the Messiah that God's people have been assured will arrive. In Psalm 80, God is furious that the people of the covenant have broken it through the injustices they have committed—their desire for power and willingness to uphold inequitable systems have led them to the brink of destruction. The Lord feeds and waters them only with tears, and has made them an object of scorn amongst their enemies and their neighbors alike.

The Psalmist has seen God’s wrath and is aware of God’s impending punishment. Yet hope remains: restore us, save us.

Yet how can we feel hope when pollution clouds the skies, when our lungs struggle for air, when artillery fire falls like stars, when basic freedoms are being denied?

the sun will be darkened,

    and the moon will not give its light,

and the stars will be falling from heaven,

    and the powers in the heavens will be shaken (Mk 13:25)

The Gospel reading that kicks off this liturgical year, kicks off the season of faithful waiting, feels almost as though it's describing the current state of the world.

Can we somehow find hope here? The writer of Mark assures us that our expectations will be fulfilled as “‘the Son of Man coming in clouds’ with great power and glory.” He goes on to claim, “this generation will not pass away until all these things have taken place.”

Sometimes I wonder if the people who assembled the Common Revised Lectionary included this reading in Year B as the setup to a grand joke. Two thousand years have passed and “the elect” have not been gathered from the ends of the earth. No glorious, powerful figure descended from the heavens. 

To me, the hope lies in the surprise. God subverted the faithful’s expectations. Rather than an earthly king draped in dazzling robes and adorned with jewels, a little brown baby was born to an unwed mother and a poor father, tired and scared immigrants on a long journey, seeking a place to rest.

That baby’s mother, “favored by God,” steeped her son in Jewish values, teaching him the importance of inclusivity, hospitality, justice, celebration, communal life, and caring for the poor and the marginalized. He was the opposite of the earthly king Israel had been promised: while he came to destroy the systems the oppressive Roman Empire installed and upheld, he was not backed by armies or powerful allies. He died at the hands of that empire, humiliated and broken.

The story of Jesus reminds us that hope can arise from almost anywhere. A baby born in a barn! It shows us that justice arrives in the most creative ways. A risen Jesus overcomes the injustice of his death!

There is no denying that the world is wearying. That the world is heartbreaking. It feels as though we are wading through an unbroken stream of defeat and despair. Hope is naive. Hope is disingenuous. Hope is hopeless.

I agree. If we’re waiting on one shining savior to snap his fingers, defeating evil and establishing a new promised land, a safe space extending throughout the universe, brimming with nourishing food and abundant water, “hope” becomes an abstract, unreachable thing, a fantasy that may provide comfort at times, but typically serves as a means to distract us from creating change ourselves.

But the “faithful expectation” of Advent is about having hope in a creative God. The God who originates creation, sustains creation, and directs creation is a God who is present with us and active in our lives. This creative God is one who is ready to surprise. To provide new solutions to the horrors we witness and the crises we face. To participate alongside us as we live out that hope and make it evident in the world.

That hope may feel like a faint spark at times. A dim light playing at the edges of our eyes. But our knowledge that the darkness is not able to overcome it is what sustains us as we work to create the world God envisions.