Dare to Hope in a Time of Pandemic

By Rev. Dr Collin Cowan

SERMON AT THE ACADEMIC OPENING SERVICE OF THE FACULTY OF THEOLOGY AND RELIGION AT THE UNIVERSITY OF PRETORIA GENESIS 45: 1-11; 1 PETER 1: 1-7

We are living in a broken world, a world that is more and more being defined by distrust, discord and disruptions of all kinds. This is not the world that so many of us desire and it is not the world that defines the content of our character and the quality of our contribution to society. Nonetheless, we cannot ignore this fact nor deny the truth. We all know that something is radically wrong with the world as it is; and that we yearn for a flourishing life, amid the destruction. We live between pain and possibility. We struggle with the meanness of humanity as we search for the meaning of our humanity. We hurt as much as we hope. We know that, as US Vice President, Kamala Harris, likes to say over and again: “We are better than this”. It is in the context of such a world that my topic for today’s sermon finds grounding – “Dare to hope in a time of pandemic”.

Arundhati Roy, responding to the Covid-19 pandemic, says:

Whatever it is, coronavirus has made the mighty kneel and brought the world to a halt like nothing else could. Our minds are still racing back and forth, longing for a return to “normality”, trying to stitch our future to our past and refusing to acknowledge the rupture. But the rupture exists. And in the midst of this terrible despair, it offers us a chance to rethink the doomsday machine we have built for ourselves. Nothing could be worse than a return to normality.

Historically, pandemics have forced humans to break with the past and imagine their world anew. This one is no different. It is a portal, a gateway between one world and the next. We can choose to walk through it, dragging the carcasses of our prejudice and hatred, our avarice, our data banks and dead ideas, our dead rivers and smoky skies behind us. Or we can walk through lightly, with little luggage, ready to imagine another world. And ready to fight for it. Indeed, I agree that we are ready for this daring “imagination” and this hope-filled “fight” because we know that the coronavirus is only a glimpse into the pandemics that plague society today, snuffing life from all of us. In this regard, this imagination and fight are for the soul of our humanity and the integrity of God’s creation. Therein lies the basis for hope and the path to our freedom and future.

“Hope: the language of life” was the theme with which I started my journey with Council for World Mission. At our Assembly in 2012, we defined hope as a “statement of discontent”. We argued that such a statement speaks of hope as the language of life, the indomitable and audacious conviction… that with God all things are possible”. And we declared, with deep certainty, that we would “not settle for mediocrity or second best”.

In his book, “Dare we speak of hope?” Alan Boesak, who was the keynote speaker at that Assembly, rightly suggests that hope functions within the framework of fragile faith; and that

unless we are ready to acknowledge the reality of what his friend calls “the pitter-patter of little defeats”, we may forget too soon that hope is a gift of God; and that only in the assurance of God’s possibility can we dare to boast. Boesak is right. He has helpfully framed our affirmation in a series of heart-searching questions, which force us to divest ourselves of the pietistic, easy-going, unconsidered demands of hope; and to ground it, instead, in the suffering and struggle of those who constantly feel the knee of the oppressive system on our necks, chocking and snuffing life, or the quest for it, out of us.

George Floyd’s tear-jerking plea, “I can’t breathe”, is in itself hope speaking the language of life. “I can’t breathe” is another way of saying, I am being robbed of life; the system is on my neck, destroying me. I am aware of what you are doing, it hurts, I do not like it and I am calling for help to secure my freedom. “I can’t breathe” is a statement of hope, the language of life. It states that even in this dark moment of fear and helplessness, I will state my claim to life; I will continue to believe that there still remains “a soul of goodness in things evil” (Shakespare); and like the drowning man, I will hold on to that last straw as an affirmation of life.

In my introductory comments to the 2020 eDARE webinars of CWM, I said this:

The revelations of Covid-19 are stark. It has cast a spotlight on endemic societal issues of racism, poverty and gender-based violence. Covid-19 has exposed how grave inequalities in healthcare systems are closely tied to the contest to maintain ‘empire’s economy’. Indeed, I agree with those who see beyond Covid-19 a pandemic of inequality. Not much has changed for the better since. As the Covid-19 pandemic worsens, we learn that those most severely affected - those least able to self-isolate and to work from home; and those most likely to catch the virus and to die - are poor black and brown people. As the pandemic prevails, the challenges multiply. The extent of economic inequality and its impact on communities is enormous. The prolonged lockdown in several countries around the world, the new variant that is arising all over and the manner in which the vaccines are being distributed and applied, are among the issues creating untold tension, anxiety and discontent among the peoples of the world. We are seeing increased signs of psychological breakdown and social disintegration. As my term as General Secretary for CWM comes to its close, I look back with joy and delight at all we were able to accomplish; of the generosity of spirit and goodwill that emanated from every corner of our constituency; and of the unity, we experienced in diversity, the mutuality we embraced despite our differences and the conviction we shared that another world is not only possible but necessary. But let it be said that we are not absolved from the course of racial prejudice, white supremacy and the extent to which black people either “stand aside and look”, as spectators, or innocently collude with the privileged and the powerful. I have seen how racism, regionalism and the ugly side of politicking have injured us, immobilised us and threaten our integrity as a justice-focused mission agency.

And still, I hold on to hope as the language of life with no less audacity and determination. I try to combine Alan's provocative caution, born of experience with the struggle..., with Augustine's defiance, in naming hope as anger and courage combined. I have taken the time to observe Alan’s refusal to regard Augustine’s definition as an academic exercise, despite the views of some liberationists, who highlight the inconsistency of Augustine’s perspective of hope with his own contribution to the scourge of racism and slavery. Maybe this inconsistency will teach us how prone we all are to wander, how prone to leave the God we love.

In my own reflections, I have tried to look beyond personal flaws of Augustine to the power of his words. I hear him saying that hope is the dirty work of the Christian faith journey - not a pietistic dream and lofty expectations but hope that can only be expressed in action. It is the active working out and working through of the meaning of faith and of God in the midst of disruption, disappointment and discontent. So, I say to you, as long as I can feel anger, discontent, disappointment then I know that hope is alive, begging for its companion cousin, courage, to surface and to act, to do something about my anger, my outrage, my pain - if no more than to do what that Rwandan woman, in Boasak’s work, did as she tried to balance the calling of her name, as the next to die, with the words she heard from Jesus – “I will be with you, I will protect you”. In her book, “I heard the killers call my name”, referenced by Boesak, Immaculee Llibagiza jumped up, from her hiding place, and shouted to the group of women in hiding with her - as her killers stood just inches away from them - “We are safe, trust me, everything is going to be ok”. Tears came to my eyes as I watched Don Lemon break down on CNN as he listened to Harvard Professor of Public Philosophy, Cornel West, reject the notion that we could afford to stand aside as spectators and watch, for a whole nine minutes and twenty seconds, as a police officer murder our brother. “No, no, no”, says the professor. But yes, says reality. It happens every day. Most times to choose otherwise is too costly. That was the reason for my tears. But in “This is the Fire”, I hear Don Lemon saying: anger, solidarity and vision are the things that make change happens. I want to hold on to these words as I look for the change – anger, solidarity, vision.

I know deep down in my spirit that that which enables us to break through the bitter and agonising experiences of brokenness, discouragement and despair is hope, God's gift of resistance to pressure, resilience in the face of danger and resurrection certainty, despite the threat of death. The story of Job is such a story. He lost his children. He lost all his material possession. He is now wasting away with the worst kind of skin disease. His wife bids him curse God and die, because, according to her, death is far more gracious and generous a gift than this condition of life. His friends blamed him for his condition, seeing it as punishment for his sin; and accused him of failing to acknowledge the error of his ways. But Job refused to resign to any of these calamities that beset him. Instead, he declared: "For I know that my Redeemer lives and that at the last day he will stand upon the earth; and after my skin has been thus destroyed, then in my flesh I will see God" (Job 25: 19).

Easter Vigil 2021 (Quingua Church) during the COVID-19 pandemic. Image by JF Velasquez Floro.

Yes,” says Job, “My heart faints within me (19: 27) and I have reason to be impatient (21: 4). Of course, my complaint is bitter because it seems to me that God’s hand is heavy, despite my groaning (23: 2); but, despite all this, “As God lives… as long as my breath is in my nostrils, my lips will not speak falsehood and my tongue will not utter deceit (27: 2-4). Fragile faith, audacious hope (Alan’s framing). Whitney Houston captures well the psalmist’s fragile faith and audacious hope (34): “Long as I live and troubles rise, I hasten to the throne”. This psalm echoes the cry of the poor, the destitute, the downtrodden, the broken and those who struggle beneath the weight of a heavy load. The Lord hears our cry and pities every groan. Hear the psalmist in the negro spiritual: “I will not suffer, I will not beg for bread; the Lord is my provider, I will not beg for bread”.

St Peter, speaking to the exiles scattered throughout the provinces of Pontus, Galatia, Cappadocia, Asia and Bithynia, encouraged and affirmed them in these words: "In all this – suffering, grief, troubles and trials - you greatly rejoice, even though your faith, like gold, is refined by fire – tested and tried - may result in glory, praise and honour, when Jesus is revealed." The call here is to appreciate the value of persecution without yielding, perseverance without compromise, pressing on without giving in and even of anger without losing the plot. I need not emphasise that these are emotions through which some of us go every single day of our lives. And that which keeps us going is the “audacity to hope” (Obama). Fragile faith, yes; but never without the audacity to get up, and stand up for our rights and never give up the fight (Bob Marley).

"Discontent is the nagging of imagination" (Glennon Doyle, Untamed) – To imagine another world is to accept that something is wrong with the one we know and that we are discontented with it as it is. If discontent is the nagging of imagination then imagination is the nagging of courage and creativity, the spurring on of a fight for the change that is needed for another world, a different world, a better one. I see discontent and imagination as the capacity to see what is wrong and what is possible; courage as the will to fight for our dream; creativity as the power to explore alternatives to that which is wrong; and the change, we seek, as possibility alive and ready to be grasped, the outcome of our struggle, our hope in action.

The story of Joseph is an ugly one with a happy ending. It is okay; because that is the inspiration for hope - the capacity to consider the possibility, that another world is, indeed, possible; that heaven is better than this, that better days are coming; that we shall rise again. That which inspires us to hope is our suffering and struggle, our anger and discontent, our longing for something better and our getting involved in a “good fight” (John Lewis) – doing something about the system, which dehumanises us, tramples upon our dignity and steals our dream and our freedom.

Joseph and the entire family of Jacob is a story of hope. It is the long journey of piercing pain, persistent perseverance and promising possibility - the pain of brokenness, of jealousy, of betrayal, of enslavement, of deception, and of imprisonment. But no less so is it a story of promise, of possibility and of purpose. Theirs was a dysfunctional family from the onset, with Jacob marrying two sisters and favouring one over the other. As is expected the children of these sisters are split along the lines of Jacob’s favoritism –

Joseph and Benjamin on one side and the others on the other side. Joseph becomes the dreamer, or at least his dreams are given prominence, taken seriously and used as a weapon against his brothers. And his brothers reacting violently. And so, the long saga of brokenness and pain is recorded in Gen 37-45. The brothers are torn apart; their father is devastated; everyone is hurt. Even the reunion is painful.

But it is a story of hope and I am using it to encourage us to rise from the paralysis of pandemic. The story ends with Joseph, now a prominent figure in Egypt, confronting his brothers and revealing himself and them to each other. “We are brothers” he said. We belong to one another. All the fighting served only to divide and destroy us; we are no better for it. The pain of one is the pain of all and none of us is secure until all of us are. But we can kiss each other and weep together because now we know that God meant all of this for good. God looked way beyond the corridors of our limited horizons to this day of our reunion, renewal and reconciliation. God used our brokenness to open doors for us. As Arundhati Roy rightly suggests, “It is a portal, a gateway between one world and the next”.

According to Romy Hausmann, hope is the power to ensure that that which we believe never dies – that freedom is coming, that Babylon is fallen, that truth will prevail, that there is a way, even when there is no sign, at all, that there is or could ever be a way; that God is and that God is the comforter and protector of the brokenhearted. Hope is believing in the power of community, the gift of family, the joy of friendship, the possibility of embracing our common humanity, the energy to resist - hope is the power to believe that these things never die. “Dear Child: Her escape was only the beginning” is a novel. In it, Hausmann speaks of the grim experience of those in the story - abducted, affronted and abused in every conceivable way. This is a gripping story of hope alive, in which Hausmann presents the stubborn resistance, reminiscent of the trauma that so many of us experience and endure. Hope alive is the capacity to hold on; to reject abuse, scorn and indignity; and to claim strength to fight back in order to preserve that last speck of our inherent value.

The Covid-19 pandemic has revealed or rather has helped us to come face to face with other pandemics that are plaguing the society – the pandemic of inequality, of injustice, of systemic racism, of white privilege, of discrimination, all of which have contributed to the brokenness of the social fabric, the deterioration of human relationships and the destruction of the environment. But despite all of this, as the people of God, we are blessed with God’s gift of hope and the capacity to hope – the capacity to see beyond dangers, toils and snares and the courage to act for change.

Churches have done extremely well in responding to the challenges posed by Covid-19 and have demonstrated immense creativity, courage and commitment to identify ways to accompany the communities in which they are located. It is in this regard that the University of Pretoria must receive and embrace God’s gift of hope. The University is called and gifted to be a beacon of hope so that those who pass through these sacred walls; those you train for Christian ministry may lead the people of God, in this tumultuous world, to rise, sing and dance and cry to the song of hope. If indeed, they will find “the language of life in faith and politics, which CWM defines as hope and Boesak ” invites us to search for, then this is your task.

Dare to hope in a time of pandemic is a call to reframe the story - refuse to accept defeat as a possibility, resist the dream-stealers and death-dealers, defy the forces of death and destruction, reimagine life with dignity and purpose and reclaim God’s life-flourishing alternative as the measure and the standard by which we will live with others in community. Dare to hope, dare to imagine a different world, dare to enable life-flourishing communities, dare to be. Amen.