Called to Hope
March 21, 2010
Psalm 27
There are some weeks that you’d just as soon forget. We’ve all had them. Oh, I don’t mean the weeks that are truly tragic – horrific accident, deadly storm, death in the family. We don’t want to forget those, in truth. We honor them with our memories.
No, I’m talking about weeks in which the day to day just doesn’t go the way it should. Say you have a case of the sniffles. Or maybe your laptop suffers some bizarre malady that resists all efforts to cure. Maybe you sprain an ankle. Or, for a really forgettable week, maybe you hit that trifecta and, as a result, spend the entire week about three steps behind.
It was that kind of week in my little corner of Lake Wobegone.
There’s nothing at all unusual about that. We all have such weeks, and worse.
What keeps you going? Especially if week after week is like that? Especially when those weeks are mere prelude to those weeks of real tragedy?
What keeps the dull pain from becoming despair? What keeps the cares and burdens from breeding cynicism?
What keeps hope alive?
We are called to hope, but that call does not come with any promise of ease. Indeed, the gospel makes it quite clear that rather than ease, following the call of Christ to live into hope entails picking up the cross and carrying it.
What is the ground of hope?
It’s certainly not something that we will up on our own. It’s not the laptop or even the upgrade. It’s not playing basketball – as much joy as that may bring. It’s not the new car, though we may enjoy it a lot. It’s not the trip to the beach, as much as standing at the ocean brings me awe and wonder at the grandeur of God’s good creation.
It’s not something that we can find or manufacture on our own, because on our own we are too fearful to hope.
Think for a moment about the things that you are afraid of. I don’t mean things that go bump in the night. I mean things that are out in the bright light of day, and things that haunt us in the wee hours of the night. Fear that work might not work out. Fear that we are living up to parental expectations. Fear that we’re not living up to our own expectations. Fear that we might fail. Fear that we are not loved.
Fear that others might find out that we are afraid.
So we cover over our fear with false bravado or with deep cynicism – both of which serve to cover our fearfulness from … well, from ourselves.
And into the midst of the fear comes the call to follow Jesus to Jerusalem – to pick up our cross and follow – to give away what we have worked so hard to accumulate, and follow.
How is that the supposed to help us in our fearfulness?
Jesus understood fear. Certainly he felt it along the way as he was challenged, threatened and then face the full weight of the empire that killed him.
And he also understood that the way out of our own fear is through the suffering of others and in the solidarity of the suffering community. Picking up your own cross means precisely that. It is not ever a call to suffering for suffering’s sake, but rather a call to join your life with the lives of others who are also broken just as we are.
That is a profoundly difficult challenge, especially in a culture that would have you believe that self-reliance is the highest value, and that suffering can be overcome through consumption – if you purchase the right products you will buy happiness. We don’t usually put it so baldly, but that is the message. After all, every commercial is a salvation story.
But the salvation story of Jesus is completely different. Salvation comes through the patience, through sacrifice of self, through solidarity with the suffering of others, through trust in the one who promises to be with us always, and it comes as we walk through the valley of our own fearfulness rather than around it knowing that we do not walk alone.
The happiest people I’ve ever known – and I don’t mean surface happiness but rather a deep sense of being blessed – the happiest people I’ve ever known are the ones I’ve encountered along the way who have given their lives in service and who live in authentic, simple solidarity with others. They are relentlessly hopeful, though never in a Pollyahha-ish way, because their hope does not rest in the promise of their own work. They understand that their life’s work will continue long after this life is over, and they are at rest with that trusting the future to hands other than their own.
People like Harry Knox, who was with us last Sunday, who’s given his life to working for GLBT justice. Or Rick Ufford-Chase, who has been with us several times, who has given his life to peacemaking. Or Noah Baker Merril, a young Quaker friend, who has given his life to working with Iraqi war refugees.
I think of them, and others like them, who have answered the call to follow Jesus. When I consider their lives, I understand that Jesus’ call to pick up the cross and follow him is a call to hope. So as we follow the story of Jesus through Holy Week and to the cross, remember that the cross of Christ is finally a sign of hope. Lift high the cross; life into hope.
Psalm 27
There are some weeks that you’d just as soon forget. We’ve all had them. Oh, I don’t mean the weeks that are truly tragic – horrific accident, deadly storm, death in the family. We don’t want to forget those, in truth. We honor them with our memories.
No, I’m talking about weeks in which the day to day just doesn’t go the way it should. Say you have a case of the sniffles. Or maybe your laptop suffers some bizarre malady that resists all efforts to cure. Maybe you sprain an ankle. Or, for a really forgettable week, maybe you hit that trifecta and, as a result, spend the entire week about three steps behind.
It was that kind of week in my little corner of Lake Wobegone.
There’s nothing at all unusual about that. We all have such weeks, and worse.
What keeps you going? Especially if week after week is like that? Especially when those weeks are mere prelude to those weeks of real tragedy?
What keeps the dull pain from becoming despair? What keeps the cares and burdens from breeding cynicism?
What keeps hope alive?
We are called to hope, but that call does not come with any promise of ease. Indeed, the gospel makes it quite clear that rather than ease, following the call of Christ to live into hope entails picking up the cross and carrying it.
What is the ground of hope?
It’s certainly not something that we will up on our own. It’s not the laptop or even the upgrade. It’s not playing basketball – as much joy as that may bring. It’s not the new car, though we may enjoy it a lot. It’s not the trip to the beach, as much as standing at the ocean brings me awe and wonder at the grandeur of God’s good creation.
It’s not something that we can find or manufacture on our own, because on our own we are too fearful to hope.
Think for a moment about the things that you are afraid of. I don’t mean things that go bump in the night. I mean things that are out in the bright light of day, and things that haunt us in the wee hours of the night. Fear that work might not work out. Fear that we are living up to parental expectations. Fear that we’re not living up to our own expectations. Fear that we might fail. Fear that we are not loved.
Fear that others might find out that we are afraid.
So we cover over our fear with false bravado or with deep cynicism – both of which serve to cover our fearfulness from … well, from ourselves.
And into the midst of the fear comes the call to follow Jesus to Jerusalem – to pick up our cross and follow – to give away what we have worked so hard to accumulate, and follow.
How is that the supposed to help us in our fearfulness?
Jesus understood fear. Certainly he felt it along the way as he was challenged, threatened and then face the full weight of the empire that killed him.
And he also understood that the way out of our own fear is through the suffering of others and in the solidarity of the suffering community. Picking up your own cross means precisely that. It is not ever a call to suffering for suffering’s sake, but rather a call to join your life with the lives of others who are also broken just as we are.
That is a profoundly difficult challenge, especially in a culture that would have you believe that self-reliance is the highest value, and that suffering can be overcome through consumption – if you purchase the right products you will buy happiness. We don’t usually put it so baldly, but that is the message. After all, every commercial is a salvation story.
But the salvation story of Jesus is completely different. Salvation comes through the patience, through sacrifice of self, through solidarity with the suffering of others, through trust in the one who promises to be with us always, and it comes as we walk through the valley of our own fearfulness rather than around it knowing that we do not walk alone.
The happiest people I’ve ever known – and I don’t mean surface happiness but rather a deep sense of being blessed – the happiest people I’ve ever known are the ones I’ve encountered along the way who have given their lives in service and who live in authentic, simple solidarity with others. They are relentlessly hopeful, though never in a Pollyahha-ish way, because their hope does not rest in the promise of their own work. They understand that their life’s work will continue long after this life is over, and they are at rest with that trusting the future to hands other than their own.
People like Harry Knox, who was with us last Sunday, who’s given his life to working for GLBT justice. Or Rick Ufford-Chase, who has been with us several times, who has given his life to peacemaking. Or Noah Baker Merril, a young Quaker friend, who has given his life to working with Iraqi war refugees.
I think of them, and others like them, who have answered the call to follow Jesus. When I consider their lives, I understand that Jesus’ call to pick up the cross and follow him is a call to hope. So as we follow the story of Jesus through Holy Week and to the cross, remember that the cross of Christ is finally a sign of hope. Lift high the cross; life into hope.
posted by David Ensign at
1:45 PM
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