Keeping the Vigil Alive

Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith ...
—Hebrews 12:1-2

For two and a half years I have lived in this land of windmills and sparkling canals, and I have learned much from the tenacious, stubborn realism of the Dutch. Towering, dark clouds, persistent rains, and a ceaseless wind are the taken-for-granted elements within which the Dutch move and live. The character of this people is shaped in part by their age-old battle to hold back the raging sea that threatens to engulf the countryside.

Recently the Dutch have been striving to hold back another impending calamity that is historical rather than natural: the placement of Pershing and cruise missiles on Dutch soil. With fierce persistence the Dutch peace movement has worked painstakingly to build a dike of popular resistance. My participation in this effort to stay the tides of NATO "modernization" has changed me. It has also changed my understanding of hope.

After the massive demonstration in Amsterdam in 1981, I would have stated unequivocally that the missiles would never come to the Netherlands. The resistance seemed too mighty, the no too thunderous. Since that time this resistance has spread and deepened. More people than ever filled the streets of The Hague in October, 1983, in protest of the proposed missile placement. But just as Pharaoh's heart hardened as the cry of the Israelites became more adamant, the heart of the NATO establishment seems only to grow more callous and heedless of the cries of the European people.

I have witnessed time and again how the earnest longing for disarmament is discounted and trampled on by the powers that be. I have grown more sober in my predictions and less optimistic about the possibility of staying the tide of nuclear encroachment. But I am no less hopeful, because I have also witnessed the resilience and endurance of human beings who refuse to submit in the face of overwhelming historical odds.

I have come to see hope as akin to keeping a vigil in a dark time. A vigilant, stubborn spirit is required of those who refuse to surrender and who persist in living the prayer of hope: "thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven."

I do not mean to romanticize the struggle or to minimize the spiritual as well as the physical threat that the placement of the missiles poses. If and when the missiles come to the Netherlands, surely some people will lose heart and give in to bitter resignation. But it is evident that others are already seeking ways to nurture a deeper, irrepressible hope that does not depend on the whims of the powerful but looks to the pioneer and perfecter of our faith.

If a vigil of hope is to be kept alive in these hard times, then we are going to need one another as never before. We will have to find the courage and the vulnerability to confess our hunger for a sustaining and supportive community. A solitary vigil of undaunted hope may be possible for the heroic and the saintly, but it is short-lived for the rest of us. Who among us is exempt from periodic exhaustion, the onslaught of despair, or the temptation to retreat into distractions?

Hope is not a private virtue. It is a gift of the Spirit to the gathered faithful. I am convinced that hope, like laughter, can be contagious if we devote ourselves to nurturing it. Devotion, forbearance, and hard work will be required as we seek to find the words, sing the songs, and celebrate the sacraments through which our hope can be expressed and kept alive.

Storytelling is one of the ways we can keep the vigil of hope alive. Insofar as I ever run the race with perseverance, it is in part through hearing the stories of that cloud of witnesses who have gone before, risking disrepute and sometimes even death by clinging to the dream of a new heaven and a new earth. I take hope that it is possible to live humanly, speak truthfully, and resist the false gods of this generation when I hear the stories of others who have done the same in their own time and place.

Recently, for example, I have been strengthened in my work as pastor here by hearing the story of a Dutch pastor who lived and worked in a nearby village during World War II. He was an "ordinary" Dutch Reformed pastor who had worked for years conscientiously carrying out his pastoral tasks in a small rural community. Like many Dutch citizens, he attempted to continue his work despite the hardships and restrictions imposed by the German occupation.

But when he learned that Jews were being systematically deported from the north of Holland, he went from house to house warning his parishioners that fascism was an affront to God and counseling them that non-cooperation was an act of Christian discipleship. The Germans, hearing that he had departed from the acceptable definition of a pastor, arrested and executed him. The pastor's son told me this story at a retreat after I had shared how a congregation in Chicago had given "unlawful" sanctuary to Salvadoran refugees. Across miles, cultures, and generations, the two stories intersected to renew our hope.

When I was first asked to speak to Dutch church and peace groups about the U.S. peace movement, I was inclined to attempt a systematic theological and political analysis. I long ago abandoned this method in favor of simply telling stories of real, ordinary men and women in the United States who have been willing to pay a personal price for the sake of peace.

I have learned that stories, more than concepts, statistics, or detailed analyses, inspire and sustain the vigil of hope on both sides of the ocean. By passing on the stories of former generations, we resurrect the hope of their lives here and now; by sharing the stories of the living, we take courage in the fact that we are not alone. We are surrounded by a much greater cloud of witnesses than we ever imagined or dared to hope. For their sake, and for the sake of those to come, we must keep the vigil alive.

Melanie Morrison was a Sojourners contributing editor and United Church of Christ minister living in the Netherlands when this article appeared.