Nurturing Hope

Posted on by joynow23

Have you ever had a friend or family member who seemed to throw water on every new idea you had? For every upbeat thought you offered, they offered three or four discouragements, reasons your hopeful plan wouldn’t work. Those same people—and we may love them very much—probably mean well, offering words of caution so we won’t get our hopes up about something that might fall flat. It also could be that they have trouble seeing the possibilities of life because they’ve been disappointed many times, and those negative experiences created a chronic condition. They’ve lost their hope. They are the ones who say, “Oh, just watch–someone will come along to mess it up,” or “Just wait and see, these things never work,” or “Don’t get your hopes up—people will always let you down in the end.”

And, granted, if we just look around at the world today, we’re sure to find a lot to be discouraged about. Crises upon crises upon crises. Unrest, inhumanity, and war spreading around the globe. Food insecurity, climate concerns, challenges to freedom, enrichment of the few at the expense of the many: it all seems to be rampant. Who can we trust? What can we do? What can we believe? We are prone—and perhaps we are primed—for discouragement. Hopeless people also feel powerless, unable to create real and lasting change. They don’t organize and mobilize; they don’t see possibilities; they resign to their fate. The world grays.

When we come up against overwhelming and seemingly insurmountable—unfixable—challenges, it may seem like a naïve and Pollyannaish thing to say that what we most need is hope. But I stand by it. It’s true. We need an eyes-open, this-is-worth-believing-in kind of hope, the kind that gives us a place to stand and connect and see more clearly. That kind of hope, nurtured and fed, contains the energy to gather a community and begin to set a course toward creating the world we seek. We believe it is possible. We see our actions counting for something. Small successes encourage us onward and lead to bigger ones. It all begins with hope.

Friends Committee on National Legislation (FCNL) has this vision statement posted on their website. It’s a big one:

We seek a world free of war and the threat of war.
We seek a society with equity and justice for all.
We seek a community where every person’s potential may be fulfilled.
We seek an earth restored.

That just about covers it, doesn’t it? Picture a world free of war and any threat of war. A society where the rule of law creates boundaries and safety and accountability for every person, no matter what the circumstances of their lives or the color of their skin. A beloved community where the deep, reverent value—that of God—in everyone is seen and honored and given the space to grow. A beautiful, verdant, abundant, and thriving planet where we live harmoniously with all life and appreciate and tend the great gift we’ve been given.

Sounds like heaven, doesn’t it? How do we get there? The starting point is hope.

You know what Emily Dickinson says about hope:

“Hope” is the thing with feathers-
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops – at all -

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chilliest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.

Hope is the birdsong, beginning long before any daylight is evident in the sky. Hope is the stirring of crocus bulbs, still frozen on the surface by winter’s harsh blast. Hope is the newborn calf, the buds on trees, the lengthening of the days, the new idea that dawns, just when we need it. Hope is trying again, simply because we have to. Holding on because what we have is too good to give up. Good building on good building on good.

A new world is emerging, and we will see it if we can just keep our courage up and our hearts open. We have to be able to recognize the possibilities. And that takes hope–a radical act of faith. Hope is a creative energy that must be present—must be the foundation—for any continuing progress. Without hope, we give up. Without hope, we go silent. Without hope, we let ourselves sink into despair. Without hope, our world, our systems, our lives languish.

And with a respectful nod to the genius of Emily Dickinson, I might modify her last thought just a bit to say that, true, Hope doesn’t ask anything in return, but it does need something from us in order  to strengthen and grow. In its tenderest, newborn stage, hope needs to be protected and nurtured. Wherever hope first arises, it needs a guardian, someone who recognizes its fragile beginning, its vulnerability, and keeps protective arms around it until it is strong enough to stand on its own.

Think of the new seeds we’ll soon be planting in our gardens soon. I like planting peas and green beans because they are so fun to watch (not to mention, good to eat). Within just a few days of planting, in the right conditions, the soil pushes up and a tiny green shoot pops through. Within three or four days that tiny seedling will double in size and by the end of the week, perhaps begin to wrap around anything we’ve put there for it to climb.

But in the earliest days of its young, tender life, that seed is vulnerable to many things. Hungry squirrels could come along and it could be lunch. If the seed was planted too deep, in soil that’s too wet, or out of the reach of sun, its growth might be stunted or its constitution weakened. All new life is fragile and needs tenderness at the outset. We protect and care for this new life—baby birds, baby humans, baby ideas—by providing safe spaces, listening hearts, and loving care; conditions that are favorable for all growing things.

The hope in us also needs our protection and care so that it can grow enough to help us respond to the heartache of our world with grace and light. We all know the challenges: Bad news hits us fast. We can feel momentarily encouraged by something we hear and then quickly four more things come to drown the tiny seedling and drag us back to discouragement. The more this happens, the more discouraged—even resistant to hope—we can become. We become one of the folks who throw the water: “Just you watch, this will all fall apart in the end.”

We need a way to recognize and protect the seeds of hope within us and be intentional about protecting and preserving that hope in its tenderest state. In our Old Testament reading today the psalmist presents something that helps him when all the challenges and upsets of the world get to be too much. Perhaps in a moment of anxiety or fear, worry or discouragement, David wrote,

Yes, my soul, find rest in God;
my hope comes from him.
Truly he is my rock and my salvation;
he is my fortress, I will not be shaken.
My salvation and my honor depend on God;
he is my mighty rock, my refuge.
Trust in him at all times, you people;
pour out your hearts to him,
for God is our refuge.

Here David relates the hope he finds for his worried, restless soul, to the strength and protection of the God who knows him deeply. God to him is a rock, a fortress, a refuge. A place of being, something solid and reliable—perhaps a state of mind—where his emotions won’t be shaken, his goodness as God’s child stays intact. He finds comfort in the dependability of the goodness of life; God has been his guide all along and isn’t going to fail him now. Seeing that, claiming it, creates a space for his hope to grow. Calm returns. A sense of balance restored.

Kate Davis, in a 2018 article in Friends Journal entitled, “A Quaker Perspective on Hope,” wrote about her struggle to keep hope alive as she worked as an environment policy analyst for the city of Toronto. In response to the toxic waste dump in Love Canal, NY, she had been asked to present a plan for clean up and recovery to the city council. It was a big job. The situation went from bad to worse and she began to experience what she called “environmental hopelessness.” She said even though her Quaker faith helped sustain her, she slipped into despair, finding it impossible to live out George Fox’s invitation to, “walk cheerfully over the world, answering that of God in everyone.” She was sad and angry, blaming those who were responsible for the environmental damage their corporations were causing.

Recognizing that her hopelessness was changing her way of being in the world, Kate began to study hope, and she learned something significant. She first discovered that we often hope for things we believe we don’t have—that things will get better in the future, that we’ll lose the weight, that we’ll find the job, that our health will improve. That kind of hope is tied to the future, as we yearn for something that is missing in our lives just now. She calls this kind of hope “extrinsic hope” because it depends on something outside ourselves. In order to realize that hope—and not be disappointed–we need the world, or our families, or our bodies, or our governments to do what we feel needs to be done.

Kate also discovered a second kind of hope that isn’t shaken by whatever the world does or doesn’t do. She calls this “intrinsic hope” and suggests it is something more in line with what the psalmist found in his own search, something lasting and dependable:

“This older and much less common meaning is about trusting life, without the expectation of attaining particular outcomes anytime soon. This type of hope has a quiet but unshakeable faith in whatever happens and in the human capacity to respond to it constructively. It is a positive, but not necessarily optimistic, attitude to life that does not depend on external conditions and circumstances.”

She adds, “To me, intrinsic hope is also that of God in everyone; the inner light; the quiet, still voice; and the experience of the Great Mystery.”

When we connect with our inward, intrinsic hope, we remember that life can be trusted, that we have more help than we know, that the human soul is drawn with kindness and depth that ultimately shines through and can be counted on. Intrinsic hope enables us to say yes to the changing conditions of life, whatever they may be, knowing that we will respond with the best that is in us because that spirit of goodness within is always present. It’s a constant. We just need to give it the protected breathing room to grow.

In the Epistle to the Hebrews, the writer points his hearers inward, encouraging them to recognize the anchor of hope at the center of their souls. The book of Hebrews, which some scholars think may have been written by a wise woman named Priscilla, who was Paul’s friend and student, is all about encouraging those in the young church to hold onto their hope as they live through a time of persecution and instability. Societal and governmental forces—and the weight of long tradition—were stacked against them. Some were considering giving up and going back to their Jewish faith. It was all too much. They couldn’t see where it was going. The book of Hebrews was written—perhaps originally as a sermon–to help struggling, frightened, discouraged people reconnect with their hope. They needed hope if their community was to ever stabilize and grow.

In the passage we heard this morning, the letter begins with the promise God made to Abraham when, scripture says, God “swore by himself, saying, ‘I will surely bless you and give you many descendants.’ It’s a funny idea, isn’t it, God swearing by himself, but the idea is that a standard had to be set. We make our promises by the highest values within us. We reach for the greatest good to affirm our choices. Abraham waited patiently and continued to hope and trust and believe in God’s promise to him, and ultimately, as he persevered, the good arrived.

Paul (or perhaps Priscilla) continues:

“God did this so that, by two unchangeable things in which it is impossible for God to lie, we who have fled to take hold of the hope set before us may be greatly encouraged. We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure. It enters the inner sanctuary behind the curtain, where our forerunner, Jesus, has entered on our behalf. He has become high priest forever, in the order of Melchizedek.”

This inward, intrinsic hope is our soul’s anchor, drawing “that of God in us” into the holiest of places—the place human eyes can’t see and everyday experiences can’t reach. It is there in the inner sanctuary of the heart where the light of Christ awaits to encourage and comfort, lead and guide us. That’s where we find the vision for moving forward. That’s where our hope strengthens, takes root, and grows, stretching toward the blossom of peace and goodness, mercy and love.

In this time when we are adrift in a media sea of stories that frighten, upset, challenge, and outrage us, it is more important than ever that we find the hope that anchors our souls in the experience of the divine. We can have confidence that the promise of Good proves true and lasting. And we can look back over our lives to see evidence of the ways we’ve been helped, the problems that worked out, the answers that came. We can purposely create a space to safeguard our hope and give it a chance to grow, blocking out cynicism, turning away from discouragement, avoiding the voices that paint dark and dreary pictures of the world, a world without hope.

And just as important, we can resolve not to be those voices for others. We can catch ourselves when we would offer discouragement and choose instead to safeguard their hope, to protect their vision, to do our best to see the good that they see. It’s how our collective hope gets nurtured, and nourished, and strengthened. It’s a vital first step in creating the world that we seek.  

In closing I’d like to share a beautiful poem by Kentucky farmer poet Wendell Berry, who writes clearly and beautifully about a return to hope. This poem is called, “The Peace of Wild Things.”

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the last sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their life. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world and am free.

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I'm a hospice chaplain, Quaker pastor, bereavement coordinator, adjunct seminary professor, editor, writer, mom, and nana. I lead groups and workshops on mindfulness at the hospital and am the pastor of Noblesville First Friends. For Moving toward Joy: I'm also a grieving daughter and know grief from the clinical side as well as the inner, heartbreaking side. I do know that grief is a force, an energy, a momentum that must be lived and honored, and eventually it resolves into something soft and peaceful and even beautiful, if bittersweet. But we need lots of support, patience, and gentleness as we go through the allowing grief requires. That's the why behind this blog. I hope it offers you a soft place to fall when your heart is hurting.