By the Rev’d Hilary Willett

Season: First Sunday of Advent

Readings: Jer 33:14-16 | 1 Thess 3:9-13 | Luke 21:25-36

Four years ago, Kit and I decided that we would adopt our first cat. We had only been married for six months at the time, but in that short time, Kit had learned one very important thing about me. I love animals. I was the kid who ferried spiders out of the shower so they wouldn’t go down the drain, who rescued mice and birds, who cried whenever an animal died in a movie. Actually, I am still that kid, to be honest. Some people avoid scary movies; I avoid anything with a whiff of animal discomfort. I may not be 100% certain of all of my theological beliefs but on the question of “whether animals go to heaven?” I am a solid 200% convinced. Of course, they do. I will die on this hill. As far as I’m concerned, there ain’t a heaven without animals in it. Glad we sorted this out.

Anyway. Kit and I decided to adopt a cat. In the year leading up to this decision, I had worked at Animates, and I knew that there were some cats that never got adopted. Adult cats, particularly ones with behavioural issues, rarely get adopted. So which one would I adopt?

I contacted a cat rescue centre and asked them, “Which cat are you struggling to find a home for?” They pointed me to Soleil.

Soleil had had a tough start in life. She had grown up a stray. Possibly mistreated by people and so was incredibly skittish. She was pregnant at six months and highly malnourished when she was brought in. She’d been adopted out into a home for two weeks but had been brought back because she’d spent the entire time hiding in their bathroom. When she was brought back, the comment made was: “What’s wrong with her?”

So we went to visit. I’d said to Kit, “If she’s aggressive, that may be a problem, but if she’s just afraid, we can work with that.” When we arrived, we were shown to her pen. I got in the pen and sat next to her. I held out my hand for her to sniff. After a few moments, she came over and put her head in my hand. We took her home. Later she put her head in Kit’s hand.

I don’t know why Soleil chose us. She had no reason to trust us after everything she had been through. But she did. A small moment of animal hope that meant she found a home. It wasn’t easy for her in the beginning. We had to spend lots of time with her, getting her used to us. It was a year before she let us pat her back and two years before we could pick her up. Now, though, she’s a cuddle-bug.Still sometimes nervy, but she always wants pats and to be nearby. She is honestly the sweetest, gentlest animal I’ve ever had.

Today is our first Sunday of Advent. We have lit the first Advent candle, the candle for “hope.” And today, I want to talk about hope a little more deeply because sometimes I think we make hope into a very grand thing. The “hope of Advent,” the “hope of Christmas,” the “Christian hope.”

We use these words and phrases, and they sound really inspiring. Having this flawless, impenetrable kind of hope means that we never doubt, or feel afraid, or feel uncertain. If our hope is shaky, then clearly, we don’t have enough faith, we don’t trust God, or we will miss out on good in the world.

But when hope is such a big, majestic thing, it is very easy for hope to get shaky. In a weird way, hoping in this way can become very heavy, sometimes even a source of pride. “Despite all the darkness of the world, I hold onto hope.” Sometimes hope can be portrayed as very black and white, that you either have hope, or you don’t. In this paradigm, if you have hope you are a good Christian and if you don’t… well… you get the picture.

But I would like to suggest that hope can be a little more… mild than this. Soleil didn’t know what the outcome of putting her head in my hand would be. She didn’t hope for a home. Her life had been a hard one. She just hoped that the human who had gotten into her pen next to her would be nice to her. She couldn’t have predicted a life of two, rather overly doting humans who would buy her toys and treats and her very own cubby. That was too big a hope for a little animal. So, she hoped as much as she could. And it was enough.

Last week, I mentioned that we are not done yet, that the church is not done yet. Because Christ reigns. But I’m conscious that hoping in that reality might have struck some as “too big.” And they would be right, in many ways. It is a huge, lofty hope. When disconnected from our everyday context, it is an ideal that might feel good in the moment but unachievable in the day-to-day. So I would like to suggest that hoping in the church, in this place, in us and in the God who is with us, can be made up of small, intentional movements. Perhaps we choose to hope in this reality by joining the prayer team. Perhaps we hope by continuing to help fix and clean this building. Perhaps we hope by planting vegetable gardens on the lawn. Perhaps we hope by starting a family, or reaching out to a disconnected friend. Perhaps we hope by telling one person about our faith. Perhaps we hope by getting out of bed each day.

All of these little movements are moments of hope. Moments of small, animal hope. The kind that Soleil had. It is not less worthy for being small. This kind of hope is strong, rooted in our actual experience of the world. And over time, these hopes can build us new realities, refreshed understandings of God.

I think God understands when “big hope” is too big. In Advent, we look toward a God who was also a little animal once. There are so, so many things that are too big for a baby. Who Jesus would grow to be, was too big. All Jesus could do, as a little animal, was depend on the kindness of his parents.

Small animal hope is sometimes the most we can give. In the face of everything that is happening in the world, the wars, the violence and disagreements, sometimes all we can do is something that requires just a little bit of trust. This is enough. It was enough for Soleil. It’s enough for us, too.