Fear and Hope, a sermon delivered in Christ Chapel by the Rev. Charles James Cook '74, professor of pastoral theology, on September 29, 2004

The distinguished cleric, Harry Pritchett, tells the story of what might be called an apocalyptic event in the life of a close friend. It seems that his friend traveled to Oklahoma in order to attend a small church conference, hosted by the congregation in a town named Broken Arrow. It was a time before the completion of the interstate highway with its easy exits and access roads, and so after renting a car at the Tulsa airport, this well-intended pilgrim soon found himself on a dirt-layered farm-to-market road that would eventually take him to his destination. After just a few miles, the inevitable happened-a flat tire-and so he pulled the Chevrolet over near the ditch at the side of the road, and put on the brakes. After a thorough and careful examination of the trunk, he discovered that indeed the author of Murphy's Law was probably an optimist, for there was not a spare tire to be found. It was the darkest night of the soul in the midst of a very hot Oklahoma day. He stood there for a moment, looked over the horizon and down the road, to right and left, and there was nothing -- but silence, heat, dirt, a cloudless sky, and miles of barbed wire fence.

Gathering some inner strength, he quickly remembered that this was a moment when it was important to be a pastor with a plan. He turned on the automobile's emergency lights, grabbed his suitcase from the back seat, and sat by the side of the road, waiting patiently for the bus to come his way and give him a ride. Time moves slowly in early afternoon, on a deserted country road, when it's just you and the wide-open spaces. One hour went by, then another, and he knew that he was well into the third watch when suddenly on the top of the hill, he could make out an object moving slowly towards him, kicking up dust along the way. The old pickup began to slow down as it got closer to the car and thankfully, came to a dead stop, right along side where the stranded pilgrim was sitting. The driver-along in years and weathered-the farming or ranching type-perhaps both-rolled down the passenger side window of his truck and asked the question, "What are you doin'?"

Somewhat surprised at that question, the stranded one replied, his voice full of new hope and expectation, "I'm waiting for the bus to Broken Arrow " The old man in the truck thought for a minute or two and said, "Interesting. But son, let me tell you somethin' -- there ain't no bus to Broken Arrow." With that, he rolled up the window and simply drove away. Astonished, shocked, and not a little bewildered, the one left by the side of the road, watched in amazement as the pickup truck sped into the distance until it completely disappeared from sight. At that moment, the revelation occurred; the pastoral plan changed. He picked up his suitcase, swung his jacket over his shoulder and began to make the long and necessary walk. It was the only choice given to him-no one could change the situation or make the trek for him. With each step, those prophetic words rang in his ears -- "There ain't no bus to Broken Arrow "

Harry Pritchett says that his friend did a lot of thinking about the meaning of that event and especially the chance encounter with the driver of that pickup. After the anger, disappointment, and embarrassment had sufficient time to melt away, he decided that he had, for the first time in his life, an encounter with an angel. A divine messenger, in human form, who delivered not a word of comfort, but the painful and honest truth-not just about the lack of public transportation, but the truth about himself. No one in this life -- including the clergy -- can ask anyone else to take his or her place on the peculiar, unexpected and unknown roads that we are given.

Today, we celebrate the great festival of St. Michael and All Angels. Angels have a rich history in our religious tradition. Gabriel brought the first news, a heavenly angelic choir sang the good news near the birth-place in Bethlehem, and angels fed a famished and exhausted young messiah after the tempter had departed the wilderness. Buechner, perhaps a little overly intoxicated with mystery, once wrote that "Angels are powerful spirits whom God sends into the world to wish us well.' That is probably true -- we all long for a guardian angel -- but this could certainly only be a partial definition. The angelic message often has the edge of truth, and thus, wishing us well, may sound more like the ironic philosophical phrase from the Far East -- "May you continue to have interesting times." Ask Jacob, Sarah and Abraham, and they will all tell you this is true. Divine messengers wish us well; they also demand a response, a course of action, which often includes change, conversion and not a small amount of sacrifice. Just ask the disciples. Yeah, the old man was right. There ain't no bus to Broken Arrow. And as Jesus of Nazareth, that remarkable messenger, whose words both sustain and convict us, might say -- There ain't no taxi or coach or club car on our own metaphorical road to Jerusalem either. That's the really newly revised standard version But in whatever form or translation, destiny calls. We've got to pick up and get moving. The message is clear.

Like you, I spend a good deal of time thinking about what message our church has for the world today. We're not angels, to be sure, but we are Christ's messengers. While the theologians are helpful -- some more than others -- given our own peculiar moment in history, I've been given some encouragement and a few clues from the late Southern novelist, Walker Percy. Percy was trained to be a medical physician and never practiced medicine -- he wrote novels. Shortly before his death, he declared that the role of the contemporary novelist was like that of a physician who examines a patient, looks for signs and symptoms of the disease, and then offers a diagnosis -- one that will eventually lead to the restoration of health. For the novelist, Percy believed, the patient is contemporary culture. The real challenge, almost in overwhelming dimensions, is, unlike a patient coming to a physician in order to get well, the contemporary culture doesn't know it is sick. The writer must attempt to awaken a dying culture into at least an awareness of its condition-and offer an alternative way of being. Not a small task, but certainly one worth pursuing.

My own conviction is that the role Walker Percy assigned to the novelist is exactly the one given to us as leaders of the church. We find ourselves placed within a culture that is gripped both psychologically and spiritually by fear. It is moving through almost every sector of society, including the church, and it long ago transcended the limits of what might be called a healthy neurosis and reached pathological proportions. Fear of others, fear of loss, fear of losing power and control, fear of giving in or up or over, fear of being found out, fear of tomorrow, fear of change, fear of death, and perhaps even fear of no longer being fearful. Fear is the dominant force in our national life, so much so that it has become the most influential component in determining the election of our President. Every opinion poll substantiates this claim. Politicians who are able to mine and take advantage of this pervasive sense of fear seem to be gaining the upper hand. Their promises of protection ring empty; for they are grounded in a belief that this fear is so overwhelming that it cannot be overcome -- it is simply a given. Franklin Roosevelt's reassuring words, spoken more than sixty years ago, in a time of deep crisis on so many levels, that we have nothing to fear but fear itself, seem but a distant memory.

It is time for us, as priests, pastors, lay leaders, and the community of the faithful to offer a diagnosis to a world, of which we are very much a part, that states we have a disease and don't know it -- a disease called fear, that if not acknowledged and recognized -- has the potential to eventually destroy us in so many different ways. But in making this diagnosis, we must also offer an alternative course to pursue, and that is called hope. We gain our strength from remembering the words of those holy angels who sang, "Fear not…for we bring you good news of great joy" We recall Jesus' first words to his frightened followers following his crucifixion, "Peace be with you" -- an invitation to let go of fear. This is not a superficial hope, but a hope that rests in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ -- one that demands a response from those who would dare embrace it-a response that intentionally chooses to express, in how we live with one another, that fear and death have lost their power and no longer have dominion over us. This will require drawing on some emotions that are too often in short supply among religious leaders. St. Augustine wrote, "Hope has two beautiful daughters. Their names are anger and courage; anger at the way things are, and courage to see that they do not remain the way they are." Perhaps a little anger and some courage will allows us to once again invite people into the radical alternative-becoming a community of hope in the midst of a kingdom of fear.

I do not suggest for a moment that this is an easy task. The fear that subsumes the culture is also in the church. But the reassuring corrective is that in holding up Christ's hopeful and life-giving presence, daring to speak of it, bring the message to speech, remarkable things can occur in spite of our own fear, reluctance, and timidity. William Sloan Coffin makes this point when he states:

"The Church, of all the institutions in society, interprets the memory and proclaims the message of the coming kingdom. The Church may distort Jesus into a white middle-class pillar of American respectability; it may pervert his image into that of a religious Babbitt, pushing the cult of successfulness; it may distort and pervert his image, but the Church cannot forget Jesus. And in spite of its best efforts to domesticate that Jesus, the Church knows and frequently fears that his message will be rediscovered. The Church cannot help but keep the name in circulation, and where the name is remembered, there is hope."

And for that hope we rejoice with angels and archangels and all the company of heaven. World without end. Amen.

Resources:
Coffin, William Sloan. The Heart Is A Little To The Left: Essays on Public Morality. Dartmouth/New England Press. 1999

Coffin, William Sloan. CREDO. Westminster John Knox Press. 2004

Percy, Walker. "Diagnosing The Modern Malaise" Signposts In A Strange Land. Farrar Straus Giroux. 1991

The story attributed to Harry Pritchett is my own embellishment of his original that I read long ago in the St. Luke's Journal of Theology.