A Year of Favor

I have said it often enough lately that you may be tired of hearing me say it: it has been a difficult year. Thankfully, it is drawing to a close, and it does seem as if good news is coming. The first approval for a vaccine has now been given, and so perhaps we can begin to see the light at the end of the tunnel for this pandemic. Of course, it hasn’t ended yet, and we know there will still be difficulties ahead; nonetheless, I imagine we all will be very ready to turn the page on this year and start fresh in a few weeks.

I have remarked to a few people that I hope 2021 is everything that 2020 has not been. Can you imagine if instead of what we experienced this year, when it felt like there was wave after wave of difficulties and discouraging news, instead we had a year of good news, happy occasions, and one long continued celebration? Maybe we can even imagine what particular thing we would want to happen, or whom we would like to visit with, or what blessing we would want to receive. To have a year of favor would be a blessing indeed.

In the first reading, the prophet Isaiah announces just such a year to God’s people. What he prophesied was more than just the end of sorrows: it was a revitalization, a spiritual and moral renewal that would touch every part of their lives. And it would be ushered in by a particular messenger, a righteous one through whom God would act – the Messiah, the Anointed One. It is he who will come “to bring glad tidings to the poor, to heal the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to captives and release to the prisoners, to announce a year of favor from the Lord and a day of vindication by our God.” If that passage sounds familiar, it is because it is claimed by Jesus, who in the Gospel of Luke quotes this very passage from Isaiah in his home synagogue in Nazareth. Jesus is the fulfillment of what Isaiah prophesied; it his coming into the world which communicates God’s favor and revitalizes his people.

And yet, Isaiah didn’t live to see that day; Jesus was born several hundred years later. John the Baptist, about whom we heard once again in the Gospel, did live to see Jesus, but he didn’t live to see the revitalization that Jesus began; it’s only after John’s arrest by King Herod that Jesus begins his public ministry, and of course he is executed shortly afterward. And even us today – who live 2000 years after Christ, who believe that he is the Messiah, the Lord’s Anointed, the very Son of God – we have not yet seen the full manifestation of his power and glory, the final restoration of all things. We believe that is coming, but in the meantime, we wait.

Domenico Ghirlandaio, The Preaching of John the Baptist (c. 1490)

In order to wait well, we need something, something that John the Baptist had, something that Isaiah had. It’s a virtue that could be said to sum up the entire season of Advent, maybe even the entirety of our lives as Christians: hope. The word “hope” today often is used to mean little more than wishful thinking. We say, “Let’s hope so,” or “I hope that’s the case,” and we mean a vague notion that perhaps what we want will come true. But that’s not what Christian hope is. St. Thomas Aquinas defined the virtue of hope as “the certain expectation of future happiness.” The hopeful person believes, and believes with *certainty*, that the good thing they are waiting for *will* be fulfilled. They believe it so completely that they have, to a certain degree, the joy of that good thing. It hasn’t come yet, but because it surely will, it already brings joy to those who have hope.

Maybe we can think of this in relation to what I mentioned earlier: about what it will be like when this pandemic comes to an end and when life can go back to normal. We’re not there yet, but even now we can feel a whisper of joy at the idea. Hope is always that way; it must always involves something that hasn’t yet come to fulfillment. As St. Paul says in the Letter to the Romans (8:24-25) who hopes for something they already have? No, hope has to involve an act of faith – to believe, to fully *expect* that happiness is coming, even if it can’t yet be seen.

Isaiah had hope for Christ, even though he never saw his coming. John the Baptist did, too, even though he never saw the extent of his power. Hope is always what sustains us – through this long and difficult year, but also in any form of suffering, public or private, that we have to endure. To hope is to believe that despite the sufferings of the present moment, God will surely give us happiness. Perhaps we ask – but what about those things that we can't hope for: a relationship that has has broken, a loved one who has passed away? How can I hopeful about those things. For the Christian, hope is never rooted in a particular good – a thing, even a person, – but must be rooted ultimately only in the happiness of the life to come. It is only in salvation, in the happiness of eternal life, where sorrow and suffering will be no more. 

Perhaps, therefore, a good exercise for us at this point in Advent is to ask ourselves a few questions: What am I hoping for? Is that hope related to Jesus? Where in my life do I need to be revitalized, to receive what God can give me: glad tidings, healing, liberty, favor, vindication? Do I expect to receive those things, or does it just seem like wishful thinking? Can I trust God enough to believe that he will give me what I need – maybe not always what I want, but what will bring me closer to eternal life?

Friends, in a year as difficult as this one, it may seem hard to be hopeful, and even harder to be joyful, especially with the many difficulties we face. And yet that’s what the Church bids us today – to be renewed in hope, to be joyful. Whatever the new year will bring, nothing will happen that is not permitted by God, and so we can be hopeful, even joyful, because we know he is faithful. May this Eucharist strengthen us to endure the sufferings of the present so as to anticipate with joy and hope the salvation that is to come.