In His Word Is My Hope

Upon first reading the texts for this week, my reaction was to shout with frustration, WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?! The empty room, unfortunately, did not answer me.

I got some help from Brother Bede, the prior of Holy Cross Monastery. In his sermon last Sunday, he said that Jesus was not working miracles, but creating signs.

This is a good way to look at our two stories this week: a valley of dry bones, which the Lord God re-forms into intricate living human beings; and Lazarus, dead, buried, and mourned, who is called back by Jesus for a dramatic re-entry into the land of the living. These strange and wonderful stories are signs.

A sign is something which points outside itself. It is not complete until it refers us elsewhere, where we see another layer - when we read it, essentially. These strange happenings are signs because they point us towards God. The point of the blind man's healed eyes is about the light and truth found in God. The point of Lazarus' return to life and of Ezekiel's lively valley is about the hope which is found in God.

But to speak about hope, we must first speak of its opposite: despair. Despair is how both stories start, and the Psalmist speaks from a place of despair. He or she says, "Out of the depths have I called to you, O Lord... I wait for the Lord; my soul waits for him... My soul waits for the Lord, / more than watchmen for the morning."

What is it like, to wait in the darkness? It is waiting for God without knowing that God is there, doubting that God is even God. I think it's like walking into a dark room, with the door shut behind you. You expect to find a light switch, but you cannot find it. Your hands move along the wall, slowly at first, but as the darkness seals your eyelids, your fingers frantically search for something other than bare, cold walls. The room is empty, or seems empty at least—seems profoundly empty. It is cold, and silent, and dark; you were expecting to meet someone, to find a well-lit room. But you cannot see anything. You cannot know what is in the darkness, in the cold void; is there a friend, with outstretched arms, looking for you? If so, they can't be found. Is there something unfriendly, something like the monsters of our nightmares, creeping about? Or maybe there is nothing at all; maybe you are just alone, in a silent dark room in a series of silent dark rooms, in a silent dark house.

You who have experienced despair will perhaps recognize what I'm speaking of. Despair is an odd mix of both sorrow and a kind of panic - a sense that the world has fallen out from underneath your feet, and you are falling, and you don't know how long you will fall, if you will ever stop falling, or where you might end up. Despair is the opposite of hope because it is the conviction that you will always live in this cold darkness.

I have found two kinds of despair - one which we create for ourselves, and another which seems inherent in the world. Here is one example of a "dark room" which I have created for myself. I have struggled and continue to struggle with being judgmental. My dark room is a place where no one can do anything right, where people are defined only by their faults, and nothing, absolutely nothing, is good enough. On a small level, it is the pain of self-contempt, because this perpetual judging cannot only be directed outwards. On the larger level, it is the most basic pain, of the absence of love - the pain of not loving others, the pain of living apart from God in this area of my life.

Judging people is a dark room, but it is one that I myself have built. I cannot find God in this room because God is not there - I built it without involving Him! In Matthew chapter seven, one of the readings from last week, Jesus gives a list of "dark rooms", so to speak— places without God which we ourselves construct, from our own hearts. It includes "evil thoughts... adultery, coveting, wickedness, deceit... envy, slander, [and] pride". This kind of behavior - being judgmental, being arrogant, speaking cruel words, using others—is a place of despair, because it is a place without God. We fear that we will never be able to change, we will never really be able to love, that this sin will always be in us.

And there is also another kind of despair, a hopelessness about the world which does not come from our own sin, but which seems to be built into the world. We see it in the newspapers, in the lives of those around us, and in our own lives and communities. Governments and individuals will always be unjust; diseases will cause sickness, and suffering, and death; innocent people will always be killed; children will be abused; mental illnesses will disrupt and change people's lives; and people will continue to live in impossible poverty.

Goes does not intend for people to suffer. God does not plan for each person a life of pain and grief. When we cry, and when we cry out in pain, I believe that God cries with us.

It is this despair which the voices in Ezekiel respond to. In despair, we and they say "The wonder in the world is gone. We are surrounded by death." In despair we say that even hope has died, and that what we see around us now - an entire valley of death - will never change. We say, God is not here, and He will never be here again. In despair we say, I will never be able to change these habits of selfishness, of pride—these sins of not loving. We are all far from God, and we will always be far from God. "Our bones are dried up, / and our hope is lost; / we are cut off completely."

Faced with this image of hopelessness, it's not clear that even Ezekiel know how to respond. God asks, "Look at this - Can this change?" Ezekiel says, ambiguously, "O Lord God, you know." God, however, knows what God is doing.

We ask out of a hopeless valley, "Can we change? Can the world change?" and God answers, "Yes." Our soul says, "All hope has died," and God replies, "Your hope is here." Martha says, "You came too late; our brother has died, our hope is gone." And Jesus says, "Your hope is here." The Psalmist says, "Here, in the depths, in chaos, there is no hope. But I know that the Lord hears my voice, and with him there is hope. The Lord will come as surely as will the sun." God says, "Your hope is here. I will put my spirit within you, and you shall live, and I will place you on your own soil; then you shall know that I, the Lord, have spoken and will act." Romans echoes Ezekiel, saying, "You are in the Spirit, since the Spirit of God dwells in you."

But what does this mean, to have the Spirit of God in us? What does this mean, that our hope is in God?

I believe, that in the case of hope and despair, this means that God loves us. God loves us so much that he has given of himself to every person, and lives in us. He loves us so much, that even when we cannot see him, even when we cannot feel him, when we are certain that we are alone, in the dark, God is there.

Knowing this however - being told this - does not necessarily help someone in the midst of despair. I can't stand here, say "Just be hopeful!" and expect to banish the pain of the world. You see, in Christianity, hope is a virtue. (Remember that verse, about "Faith, hope, and love"?) Hope is a virtue, and just like the other virtues, it is something which we must cultivate. Like the other virtues, it takes time to develop, over the course of our spiritual journey, this sense of hope. And it's not easy. In the end, I think it's about consciously remembering that God is in us, and affirming our trust in this even when we are uncertain.

But while we struggle to develop this sense of hope, there is something else we can do. In such a world, and in such times in our lives, we must try to continue to love God. Theologian and mystic Simone Weil talked about loving in the midst of affliction, when even our souls seem dead. She says, "The soul has to go on loving in the void, or at least to go on wanting to love, though it may be only with an infinitesimal part of itself. Then, one day, God will come to show himself to this soul and to reveal the beauty of the world to it..." ("The Love of God and Affliction", Simone Weil).

Weil's last sentence sounds a little like the refrain throughout Romans - Through the Spirit of God, we move out of death, into life.

If despair is a cold dark room, I'm not entirely sure what it looks like when hope enters in, or when God shows up. Maybe there's a big window in the room that we can't see, and we're waiting, longing like the Psalmist, for the clear, warm morning sunlight. Maybe, we are waiting for our friend to find us and reach out to us, to enwrap us in their safe arms, to assure us of their presence. Or maybe, we are like Lazarus, and in the cold darkness a voice will suddenly echo from down the hallway, calling us out into the greater world of light, calling us from death into life.

So let us say, with the Psalmist, "I wait for the Lord; my soul waits for him; / in his word is my hope."

Amen.