On hope, part two

I don't like hope very much. Maybe it's because my mind dwells near-exclusively in the future, and my heart is much more responsive to what might be than to what is. Whatever the reason, I don't like hope very much.

When I looked up, in an online concordance, occurances of the word 'hope' in the Bible, the first one was from Ruth. The second was from Ezra. The next fifteen were from Job.

That's right, folks, barely a mention in the first third of the Bible, and then it's all over Job. The pattern continues, too. The word is scattered all through the psalms and the prophets-- then it all but disappears in the Gospels. Barely a mention of hope when Jesus is present. There wouldn't be, of course... he is the fulfillment. What need for hope when the bridegroom is present? Hope returns, though, starting in Acts and all through the letters.

This should tell you something about hope. Hope comes with pain, with loss, with incompleteness. It has to. There's no need for it otherwise. Is it any wonder I'm not a big fan?

Hope deferred makes the heart sick.

Those of us who like to avoid pain would do well to shun hope. As I experienced in the football game, the higher the hope, the more bitter the letdown. Sure, it pays off beautifully if the hope is fulfilled-- in fact nothing, no experience, is more beautiful to me than seeing an agonized, uncertain hope fulfilled. But it's a gamble, and I am no gambler.

My heart has been sickened too many times by the deferral of hope. It's too much. Far, far easier to make my expectations subside. There's a little game I learned to play with myself, when I found out I was hoping too much for something that was too uncertain. I would quickly come up with a list of all the good things that could not happen if the hope was fulfilled, and set myself to hoping for them too. That way, I had hedged my bets. Either outcome was okay now. There was no bad result, no disappointment to be had. I was safe. And I like safe.

To allow hope is to admit that I live in Job and not in John. It's to admit the existence of pain, loss, and incompleteness. You might say, "Well of course there's pain, of course there's incompleteness... what difference does it make whether or not you admit it?" But that would be vastly underestimating the power of the mental gymnastics I am capable of. I can command contentment in nearly any situation. Just stick me in a prison cell and watch what I do with it. Give me a couple of hours to think over the situation, and you'll find me quite at home. Just don't make me hope for release. That would be agony.

And now, Lord, for what do I wait? My hope is in You.

It's a lie, of course. And I don't like lies. Also it allows me to fall into a deceptively gentle complacency. I could live my entire life this way, calming my expectations, denying pain where there is pain, insisting so loud and so long on my utter satisfaction with the situation that I begin to believe it. I could do it. I am quite capable of that much stubbornness.

But it's a lie. And more, it's crippling. For I find, when I refuse to hope for anything on earth, I rob myself of the ability to hope for anything in heaven either. I'm okay with hoping for heaven: that is a certain hope. It's the one thing I allow myself to depend on. But that hope becomes pale, shadowy, hollow and distant, when I am deadening all earthly hopes in my heart. So, too, does any expectation I have from God in the here and now. I cannot abide in Him... cannot receive any comfort or joy or strength from Him... when I am refusing to hope. Why this is I'm not entirely sure, but it seems that, for my spiritual health, I must submit to the ebb and flow, the throbbing of hope and disappointment and, sometimes, fulfillment.

I have set the Lord always before me: because he is at my right hand, I shall not be moved. Therefore my heart is glad, and my glory rejoices: my flesh also shall rest in hope.

This is not easy. It requires constant dependence on the God from whom all blessings flow. (Dependence, by the way, is another thing I'm not too keen on.) More than that, it requires the continual surrender of the protective complacency that I know is there for me, ready to be called up at a moment's notice. It's stepping into the fire, again and again.

"The Lord is my portion," says my soul, "therefore will I hope in Him."

The good news is this: there is ultimate fulfillment. In the end, it will not be disappointment for me, not looking back over dashed and futile hopes. In the end, it will be victory, it will be joy, it will be that elation that only comes after a night of sorrow. In the meantime? The Lord is my portion. I may, and shall (for I am commanded) hope for many earthly things, but at the beginning of the day and at its end, I know where my good lies. When blessings fall, I shall receive them with praise. When they are taken away, I shall weep before the Lord. And my eyes shall behold him. The Lord is my portion.

"Safe? Of course he's not safe...

...but he's good."