Many years ago I invited three clergy friends to preach for me on three successive evenings. I gave them a curious assignment. I said, “If you had but one sermon to preach, what would it be?” I know how I would address that same opportunity, given the chance. My message would be on the theme of “hope.” 

The first sermon I ever preached (before I went to seminary, while I was still in college) was preached in a little farm community somewhere in southeastern Pennsylvania. I don’t remember the title, but I remember the text—I Peter 3:15: “Always be ready to give an account for the hope that is in you.” 

I am a creature of indefatigable hope. Do you know the definition of “indefatigable?” It means “incapable of being tired out, not yielding to fatigue.” God has placed in my heart a message of hope. I like the way our choir sings it sometimes: “I have hope like a river in my soul.” 

I feel duty-bound to share that hope. Some of you know one of my favorite quotations is from the French philosopher Teilhard de Chardin: “The future belongs to those who give it the greatest hope.” 

I’m not sure what is appropriate for Christians to observe on New Year’s Eve. Some may observe it quietly. Some may observe it reflectively. Some may have dinner out with friends. Some may have a gathering of friends in a house somewhere. Some people observe New Year’s Eve on their knees in prayer, as many of you did last night here in this church. I’m not sure how we celebrate New Year’s Eve, but I think I know how we celebrate New Year’s Day, especially when it falls on a Sunday. We do it as a celebration of hope. 

In these days we need to be reminded of our hope over and over and over again. Years ago a bishop was presiding over the Annual Conference in West Virginia. In those days there was a custom to roll call the clergy, and each clergy would stand and announce how many conversions he or she had had in the past year. Now preachers are notoriously generous statisticians. Preachers have no problems giving exaggerated counts. About two thirds of the way through the roll call, the bishop said, “Ladies and gentlemen, do you realize that you have already announced the conversion of more people than currently reside in the whole state of West Virginia?” 

One old preacher rose to his feet and said, “Yes, Bishop, but what you have to understand is that down here people need to be converted several times each year.” 

We need a conversion of hope on a regular basis. A circus came to a small town. Each of the three shows on each day packed the house. Part of each show was a live Bengal tiger act. The trainer entered the cage and in the midst of considerable danger, carried out a suspenseful routine. 

One night the trainer entered the cage and the doors were locked behind him. The spotlights came on. Suddenly there was a power failure. All the lights went out. For 20 or 30 terrifying seconds the trainer was locked in the cage with the tigers. By the nature of these animals, the tigers could see him but he could not see them. Finally the lights came on. The trainer was obviously unhurt. The show was completed. 

Afterwards reporters rushed up to the trainer and asked him, “How did you feel when the lights went out? What happened in there?” The trainer responded this way: “I must admit that I was terrified at first. But then I remembered that while I could not see the animals, they did not know I could not see them. So I just kept talking to them and cracking the whip until the lights came on.” 

Sometimes life is a little like fighting tigers in the dark. But we hold on with hope—trusting, believing in our God. 

In a Swiss restaurant somewhere, the wine menu has a message on it in rather awkward English. It reads, “Our wines leave you nothing to hope for.”  We, on the other hand, have a great hope. As the Psalmist writes, “On the day I called you answered me, and my strength of soul you did increase.” (Ps. 138:3) 

2005 certainly had its setbacks and problems. We had a terrible tsunami just before the beginning of the year. Twenty-six major storms came our way in 2005, several of them violent hurricanes. A devastating earthquake rocked northeastern Pakistan. Fuel prices at home soared and then retreated a bit. More pension plans went under. Personal debt rose markedly. We fight three wars right now—one in Afghanistan, one in Iraq, and one against terrorism. Someone said recently, “We are a country at war pretending not to be at war.” The nation’s economic outlook is uncertain at best. 

We have seen problems in the past year—some of them almost unimaginable. Yet I believe we as a Christian community must lead with hope into the new year. When we believe in Jesus, we can live and celebrate hope. 

A friend of mine came across a bit of poetry for the New Year. He’s not sure of the source. Some attribute it to Virgil, although he doubts it. The poem goes like this:

I have tried but reached only disaster;

I’ve battled but broken my lance,

I am bruised by a pitiless monster,

That the weak and timid call chance.

I am old, I am beat, I am cheated

Of all that youth urged me to win;

But name me not with the defeated,

For tomorrow I begin again. 

I like the breathing space in that last part of the poem—a little space between today and tomorrow. Today we hear the message of hope. Tomorrow—which is a holiday for many—we gird ourselves with hope. And then the next day we begin again. 

Is that not the message and promise of Jesus? 

I want to read you part of a true story this morning. It reads far better than I can tell it. It took place during the dark days of apartheid in South Africa. Archbishop Desmond Tutu (now retired) was preaching in the Cathedral of St. George. It was an ecumenical service and he was in the middle of his sermon. Suddenly the South African security police broke into the cathedral and began lining the walls. Listen to the description of an eyewitness to that event.

The incident taught me more about the power of hope than any other moment in my life. Bishop Tutu stopped preaching and just looked at the intruders as they lined the walls of his cathedral, wielding writing pads and tape recorders to record whatever he said, and thereby threatening him with consequences for any bold, prophetic utterances.

After meeting their eyes with his in a steely gaze, the church leader acknowledged their power. He said, “You are powerful—very powerful.” But he reminded them that he served a higher power, greater then their political authority. Again he said, “But I serve a God who cannot be mocked.” Then, in the most extraordinary challenge to political tyranny I have ever witnessed, Archbishop Desmond Tutu told the representatives of South African apartheid, “Since you have already lost, I invite you today to come and join the winning side.”

He said it with a smile on his face and enticing warmth in his invitation. But with a clarity and a boldness that took everyone’s breath away, the congregation’s response was electric. The crowd was literally transformed by the bishop’s challenge to power. From a cowering fear of the heavily armed security forces that surrounded the cathedral and greatly outnumbered the band of worshipers, we literally leaped to our feet, shouting the praises of God, and began… dancing. (What is it about dancing that enacts and embodies the spirit of hope?) We danced out of the cathedral to meet the waiting police and military forces of apartheid, who hardly expected a confrontation with dancing worshipers. Not knowing what else to do, they backed up to provide the space for the people of faith to dance for freedom in the streets of South Africa.[i] 

Bishop Tutu says of the Christian community, “We are prisoners of hope.” Paul says something like this in one of his letters. He writes, “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.” (Romans 15:13) 

I like that. I believe that. I celebrate that on this New Year’s Day. And I invite you to the Lord’s Table today. I invite you to dance as you come. Come as joyous, celebrative, confident prisoners of hope. 

Amen.