“Rehearsing Hope”

All Saints’ Sunday

November 5, 2023

Revelation 7:9-17

Matthew 5:1-12

Every year, on All Saints’ Sunday, we lift up the names of loved ones who have died. We hear scripture passages that remind us of our hope in Christ—that we already know how it will end—filled with light and peace and wonder and worship. We sing songs about the faithful who have paved the way for us. And we pray, again and again, over the world’s brokenness. We pray, again and again, for the promise of heaven to enter into this world in real, tangible ways. We pray, again and again, to know the presence of God in the midst of the pain and the struggle.

Every year, on All Saints’ Sunday, we practice the language of hope. Actually, we do this every time we worship. Every time we gather. Every time we pray. Every time we look to God, we rehearse hope.

I grew up in a musical house. My sister and I played 3 instruments each. We went to lessons weekly. We practiced…weakly. So, when I think of rehearsal, I automatically go to the groups I spent so much time in—band, orchestra, choir. And I believe that rehearsing hope isn’t much different than rehearsing within such a group. And much like musical talent, hope isn’t something you have, it’s something you do.

First, it’s important to learn your part. Paul tells us we are each a member of the body of Christ—much like being a member of an orchestra. But the body only works properly when each member knows what they’re doing. It means spending time alone or with a partner working out the kinks of the music.

This past week, I began talking to the Catechism students about learning the Small Catechism. I asked them why they thought it might be important to memorize things like the 10 commandments or the Lord’s Prayer or various scripture passages. One student said that when you’re going through a tough time, it’s helpful to have these elements of comfort ready and available when you need them. We practice the prayers and passages that bring us hope for those moments when it feels like we are beyond words. When we know them so well that they are written on our hearts, we no longer have to think about each word. We can let the words wash over us.

I recently heard part of a lecture by Wayne Muller who told the story of his friends who take a trip around the world every year. Each spring, they leave their home in Santa Fe, NM and travel the world. And along the way, they purchase little crafts and gifts and souvenirs that they send home. When they return home, they prepare the items for a garage sale they hold near Christmastime. Their garage sale funds their next year’s trip.

One year, they sent home a teapot from China. The teapot was over a hundred years old, and would had been passed through many generations, used by everyone along the way, every day. Legend said that one would no longer need to use tea leaves in the pot because the tea was so embedded in the vessel that you only needed to heat the water, and the pot would make the tea. That’s what it’s like to know your part by heart, so that when the time comes, it simply flows from you. But it doesn’t happen naturally or overnight. Hope isn’t something you have, it’s something you do.

The second part of rehearsing hope is to play the pauses—play the rests. In music, the rests are just as important as the notes. In band, Seth plays tenor sax, and his least favorite songs are the ones where the tenor sax part has very little to do. It’s hard to be patient while everyone else gets to show off and fill the room with music. But it’s how we handle the pauses or rests that prepare us best to play.

I’m generally not one to rest very well. Even if I’m not physically working, my mind is going a million miles a minute. I'm thinking about Advent and Epiphany. I’m planning for the patio furniture on our new deck. I’m pondering what to make for dinner. I’m trying to figure out how to help my mom move to Lincoln. There’s too much to do and too little time to do it. And I feel like, if I stop moving, stop thinking, stop planning…everything will crumble. I can’t take time for proper rest. It’s too risky. Or sometimes too boring.

But when we can stop for a moment and listen, what might we hear? Can we hear God’s quiet voice in the wind? Will we listen to the love softly offered by a friend? Can we simply pause to let the Spirit catch up and let God fill the void with deep meaning?

In John’s revelation, he sees the throne surrounded by the martyrs of faith—those persecuted and killed for following Christ. They surrounded the Lamb in worship. This is the promise God offers in the midst of suffering: God will wipe away every tear from their eyes. This is the hope to which we direct our gaze—the great pause in the chaos of the world. We rehearse this hope when we stop all of our running and doing and can simply BE in God’s presence. Hope isn’t something you have, it’s something you do.

And finally, it all comes together as we gather again before the conductor. We have learned our part by heart, letting God’s Word seep into our bones. We have learned to play the pauses, honoring God’s silence between each note. But it doesn’t work together unless we look to the conductor for our cue. The conductor—in this case, God—is the one who makes sense of the noises that we create and brings out of us the beauty of the piece.

Without the conductor, we might conclude that the other parts aren’t necessary. Who needs the second violins, anyway? But Jesus, in today’s gospel, reorients our values and lifts up the smallest parts as the most important. The music isn’t complete without the second violins, or the violas, or the triangle, or the cowbell. Hope makes room for the undervalued and unexpected—even the unwanted experiences that we wish we could avoid. Hope can be found there, too.

So, we rehearse our hope. We rehearse for those times when it seems beyond us. Because Hope isn’t something you have, it’s something you do. And so we rehearse and learn our parts by heart for the days when the music is just too hard. We honor the pauses to make room for other melodies. And we rehearse with our eyes to the conductor, trusting them to lead us through and create beauty from our struggles and joys.

How will we rehearse this hope today? Let’s take some time in the silence to breathe, to reorient ourselves to the good news of Jesus, and to prepare to watch the Great Conductor for our cue.

Pastor Tobi White

Our Saviour’s Lutheran Church

Lincoln, NE