Ridicule of Hope

It seems odd to say, especially to an American, that as a culture we ridicule hope. But I think there’s something to it.

As a nation, we are good at remembering, but this can be a tow-edged sword. When a soldier facing battle calls upon national memory, is it images of Iwo Jima that stir to action or recollection of the debase inhumanity of the jungles of Vietnam? In the same way, when we sit in our staff and elder meetings, do we remember that we serve the God who released the slaves from Egypt and rose Jesus from the dead, or do we remember the last program that floundered despite the time, emotional energy, and financial resources we dumped into it? Or perhaps, most crippling of all, we busily recollect what God did twenty years ago, wandering why he’s done nothing since, unable to own up to the fact that in our minds we’ve been riding past success while around us the world is dying and our ministries are crumbling for lack of new life.

All too well I remember the pain of sitting in meetings listening to long-time members bemoan the fact that twenty years earlier God worked in mighty ways through a building project at the church. People gave sacrificially, many taking out second mortgages on their homes to free up money to give to the project, others giving valuable time and energy to use their skills to help with construction, maintenance, or anything their hands could find to do. I naively thought that this would be the very memories that would stir to action in a desperate hope to see God do it again. Instead, it turned out to be nothing more than the screen behind which to hide from any hope for the future. Like the tired, middle-aged man losing the love and affection of his teenage daughters because he’s too wrapped up in the “glory days” of high-school and college ball to see the joy right in front of him, so the Christian who has forgotten what it’s like to be a Christ-follower, unwilling to hope that God could do it again, all the while losing the affections of the young people in the church but complaining to the youth pastor about “kids these days.” Hope is unwanted because it requires new action.

Speaking personally, I would rather sit in my easy chair and take phone calls from people telling me what a great sermon I gave last week than get on my knees before the sun comes up desperately seeking God’s face for the message he wants to bring next week to a hurting, dying world.

Hope also requires risk. What if it doesn’t work out? It’s so much easier and, even more compelling, safer to either rest on what I have or feel sorry for myself for what I don’t have than to engage in the risky business of hope. A friend of mine has trouble even praying for God to give her anything, even things she knows from the Bible God wants her to have, because asking God for something would mean risking the disappointment of not getting it. It’s easier for her to not hope, and therefore not ask, than to take the risk involved in hoping for a better future. Besides, the present isn’t so bad, so why not just be content? (There’s a fine line between contentment and complacency.) It sounds so spiritual, but after years of not hoping, she’s having to come to grips with the fact that her fear has crippled her.