Destination Bethlehem. J. Barrie Shepherd
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Snow upon the Desert’s dusty Face
Lighting a little hour or two—is gone.1
I was tempted to title this meditation, “A Shocking Hope,” because, in studying the Scriptures on this theme—and these Scriptures (particularly the New Testament) are filled with references to hope—I discover a vastly different picture. There is, in fact, very little of what today one might call “optimism” in the Bible, if there is any at all. The people who shaped these holy books, who compiled these ancient, living manuscripts within the context of their own lives, their daily wrestling with faith and fear, were not in any position to indulge in that kind of hoping. They usually had very little going for them, practically nothing really to build hope upon. They were among the earliest of Christians, the very fact of whose faith meant that they were living in the constant shadow of public denunciation, imprisonment, trial, and terrifying death. There was no way, no matter how they might have wanted to, to close their eyes to these grim realities that stared them in the face. They were just too close for that kind of comfort.
And so one finds here a different, an alternative kind of hope. Look again at how Paul described it in Romans:
. . . we rejoice in our hope of sharing the glory of God. More than that we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us because God’s love has been poured into our hearts.
“Suffering . . . endurance . . . character . . . hope.” That’s the route hope followed for Paul, that’s the family tree of this New Testament type of hoping: from suffering, through endurance, into character, and then, finally, achieving hope. This is a hope which, far from shutting its eyes, far from ignoring or fleeing from suffering, springs directly from the heart of anguish and pain; a hope which, far from any passing mood or momentary sentiment, any blind and easy optimism, is born within the soul that has endured, and in endurance has gained that—so rare—attribute of these times, character. And character produces hope.
On a wall in the darkest, deepest crypt of Germany’s Cologne Cathedral there are words traced by a trembling, yet still hopeful hand. Seven Jews lay hidden there during the darkest days of World War II, seven children of Father Abraham, their pitiful bundles of possessions gathered round them, concealed through the courage and faith of the Archbishop of Cologne. And sometime in the night, those darkest hours of human desolation and despair, one of them reached out and scratched upon that wall these words, not of optimism—that would be absurd, if not obscene in such circumstances—these words of genuine and authentic hope:
I believe in the dawn, even though it be dark.
I believe in God, even though He be silent.
This hope that arises from suffering, this miraculous hope born in the deepest of darkness . . . a shocking hope indeed among these merry marketing days of “Ho, Ho, Ho!” and holiday cheer. A bit of a downer, to be completely honest, this must seem for many today, considering the sought-after spirit of this season. But a hope, nevertheless, that folk can see, actually see with their eyes wide open, and therefore a hope that might last beyond the unwrapping of the last Christmas package, the popping of the final New Year cork. Paul described it as the hope that does not—as so many of these present passing hopes will do—disappoint us.
What is it like then, this shocking hope, this biblical hope, this hope that grows from suffering, through endurance, to character, and then blossoms into full-fledged bloom? The Hebrew word for hope has the root meaning of “to twist or twine” and is related to the word kivin, the word for a spiderweb. So much of our hoping has this spiderweb quality to it, this quality of surprising strength out of seeming weakness, of stunning beauty woven from the tiny, apparently insignificant strands of daily living. We live in, we live by, an interwoven network of hopes, each one lending strength to the others, and all of them, however fragile, somehow supporting us, leading us into the future.
I tramped the hills above my Scottish hometown several years ago. It was a chill but bright November morning with the northern sun barely rising above the trees. My mother was desperately ill, dying, as I had suspected was the case. But she was to come to church that Sunday, and I, home from America on a farewell visit, was to be the preacher. I was grappling for the words, words to preach the Gospel in a way that would speak to her, and to all who heard, about this gift, this experience, we Christians call hope. And then I saw it, glimpsed and knew the glory all about me. The grassy pasture field on my right hand was caught and held, illuminated at a curious angle, by that low-on-the-horizon winter sun. A breeze, chill but somehow playful, blew across the close-cropped surface of the turf. And there I glimpsed an astonishing spectacle, a shining, silken, network of microscopically thin spiderwebs all linking blade-to-blade-to-blade of grass. There must have been thousands upon thousands of them, forming a shimmering, gossamer blanket all across that ordinary/heavenly meadow, and moving, lifting, waving lightly in the wind. I sat beside the hedgerow spellbound. I’d never seen such a thing, never even guessed such things existed. And as I sat and watched I found a healing, and a hope renewed, a magic, in the best and holiest sense of that word, a firm and steady reassurance that glory—yes, the glory of the Lord—shall be revealed. And that our hope is not, will not ever be in vain.
It cannot be all that defined, this fragile, formidable, spiderweb we claim and cling to. If it could it would not be hope, but plan or goal, reward even; and true hope is not like that. It is an experience; and experience can never be fully described. It is a reality, not just a projection; and no one has yet come close to pinning down, explaining reality. Like those mysterious, bulky packages that appear and disappear around the home during this season, hope has to be unknown, or it wouldn’t be hope at all.
Yet there are a few things we can say about this hope, this hope we are given to get by with. It has something to do with birth—this much is sure—but with an unexpected, seemingly quite inappropriate birth, one that no one will believe is really true, the right one, in the right place, at the right time, under the proper circumstances.
It has something to do with peace—this too seems certain. But, once again, not the kind of peace that we desire, or think we hope for. It will be a peace that will surprise us, shock us, drive us to our knees, a peace that will demand nothing, nothing of us except our entire selves.
It has something to do with mystery—this cannot be doubted—prophecies, kings, and seers, astrologers and virgins, stars, shepherds, sheep, and angels. And this mystery, too, is hard to recognize, even to look for, in this eminently practical, common-sense, dollars-and-cents, all too literally down-to-earth world. It will boggle the mind when it comes, our hope, shock our rationalistic heads all the way through into eternity.
It has something to do with a baby—we know this much also—and so we should be especially attentive in these latter days to children, seeing in them a sign, a promise, a foretaste of this hope we are allowed to share without ever really grasping it.
It has everything to do with God—of this we can be certain—the power that gives us life and takes life from us, the source of all the gifts with which we bless and curse ourselves along the way. Hope has everything to do with God, and with trusting ourselves to God, and with recognizing, all around us, the life God pours out for us this and every day, until our hope is no longer hope, because it has become Immanuel—God with us.
A shocking hope. A hope born in the midst of suffering. A hope that finds its home within that fragile, yet enduring web of mystery and promise. Not much to hope for, to hang on to there, is there? Yet, think about it for a moment. Is this not the only kind of hope that can be hope in a world like this one, a world which cost the Son of God his life, still costs the lives of forty-thousand children who die of hunger each and every day? If it won’t play in a cancer ward, as a wise man once taught me, then whatever it is it is not the gospel. And neither is it hope, the hope we have in Christ.
Keeping your eyes open . . . That’s what that Anglo-Saxon root implies, and what Mark’s gospel tells us:
Watch therefore—for you do not know when the master of the house will come . . . And what I say to you I say