Foolish Hope

In our weekly campus ministry night, one of our students shared a prayer that she found when she was a teenager and often read for her youth group. It covered a lot of ground as it asked God to give us discomfort with unhealthy relationships, to give anger at injustice and oppression, and to give tears that stem from compassion with those who suffer greatly. But it was the final stanza that has really stuck with me since Wednesday, “may God bless us with enough foolishness to believe that we can make a difference to this world, so that we can do what others claim cannot be done.” It’s one of those prayers that continually draws my mind toward a hope that is so improbable that the only way to describe it is foolish.

And this week, in our passage from Romans, Paul talks about Abraham’s foolish faith as he believes that he will become the father of many nations, even though, as Paul tactfully puts it, he is “as good as dead.” Abraham “hoped against hope” despite his and Sarah’s ages that this could be possible, though they had not had children yet even though he was near 100 years old. This is the sort of hope that leans not away from the improbable but towards it. In this passage, Paul is relaying to the people at the church in Rome that it is not the rules or the law of Christianity that will allow God’s promises to be realized, but faith. It is the hope against hope shown by Abraham that illumines the path. In so many ways it requires a foolish faith about things that are as good as dead being brought to new and vibrant life.

There are a lot of things in this world right now that feel as good as dead, and I often find it hard to hope against hope that new life can come from them. Yesterday marked two years of a ground war in Ukraine. In Oklahoma this week, a nonbinary teenager, Nex, died the day after a fight in their school bathroom. In Georgia, a nursing school student was murdered near campus, and reproductive rights are again facing legislation that is divorced from the hopes and realities of the people who may carry new life in their wombs. When I look around the world today, or I talk with my transgender or nonbinary friends, or I lament with friends who have undergone IVF treatment, it’s been a hard week for me to have any sort of hope, even one that is as foolish as Abraham’s.

But as I read and prayed through the texts for today, I was stuck, again and again, by how bizarre it is to let an improbable hope grow in a time where hope feels unavailable. It reminded me of what Deacon Ken Casey refers to as the “bright sorrow of Lent.” There is something so wholly and completely foolish about letting our sorrow be bright and hopeful. Because when we take a step back, the oppressive ways we treat each other, whether in war, politics, or while driving down Scottsville Road, is truly shocking.

It is convicting in light of this to think through what it could look like to let the all that we carry take on a tinge of bright, sorrowful hope. It is compelling to me that no matter the heaviness of the world around, no matter how “as good as dead” things feel, no matter how many ways we continue to fail each other, it is the call of Lent to carry an improbable and foolish hope about this world.

I wish that I could tell you a step-by-step plan for how we could collectively and individually build up this bright Lenten sorrow that hopes against hope. I wish that I could point to one correct path that would lead us toward a faith like Abraham’s. I wish that I could clearly articulate the ways in which hope will feel easy and all the ways in which it will feel impossible. But, since I cannot do any of these things in good faith, let me tell you where I do see sprouts of hope.

I see hope flourishing in events like our Quiet Day yesterday; events where people come together to orient themselves to God and to each other as they tend to their own Lenten journey. I see hope in an interview[1] with Ukrainian architect and designer who is beginning to dream about rebuilding his city, Max Rozenfeld, in which he says, “They say it’s very irresponsible to sit in a shelled city and dream about the future.” And I see hope in the tiny little tulip buds in my front yard.

The thing about hope is that is doesn’t have to solely be stories of resilience in the face of grotesque violence and oppression, hope can be seen and felt in ways that are almost impossible to articulate. The key, I believe, is that hope comes from God’s presence in our world. It can be seen in actions or relationships or in the beauty of nature, but in times where hope feels hard to see and impossible to believe, I think we are especially called to do the hard work of cultivating a foolish hope.

Cultivating hope requires us to see the world with curiosity and compassion. It requires us to have faith like Abraham, even when things are as good as dead. Cultivating hope requires foolishly admiring the green blades of tulips even as the world rages. Cultivating hope is foolishly believing that we can maintain and hold relationships that can bear the weight of political differences even as narratives around us demand our division. And cultivating hope requires that we foolishly let our bright Lenten sorrow hope against hope. So, while I can’t offer you a checklist this week on how to cultivate hope, I do offer this prayer: “may God bless us with enough foolishness to believe that we can make a difference to this world, so that we can do what others claim cannot be done.” And may you have a truly foolish hope that rests alone in God.

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[1] https://www.kcbx.org/npr-top-news/2024-02-24/after-2-years-of-war-in-ukraine-6-cities-hold-out-hope-under-fire

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