‘Tis the Season of Hope
A few weeks ago I had my annual physical with my new family doctor. The physician I used to see retired and referred me to one of his colleagues and this was my first visit with him. The physical didn’t last very long, but when the doctor found out I had spent my adult life as a pastor, well, he couldn’t stop asking me questions. He was curious as to what I thought about an array of ethical and moral issues--the increase in teenage suicide, the widespread cases of adult depression, anxiety and stress related problems and the deplorable state of public education.
I must have been in the examining room for close to an hour. I tried to find a tactful way to excuse myself so he could see other patients, but he assured me that I was his last patient before lunch and, if I had the time, he had a few more questions.
My doctor had been practicing medicine for over 20 years, and had never seen as much distress in peoples’ lives as today. I asked him what he thought was the reason behind so much emotional pain, and he mentioned a number of things—breakdown of family, drugs, political tensions, the 24 hour news cycle—but one particular thing he said caught my attention. Several times he repeated, “People have just lost hope.”
Eventually, my visit with the doctor ended and I made my way out of the small examining room. As I left his office and walked to my car, I continued to think about what he said. He had been caring for people for over two decades, but he had never witnessed so much suffering in the lives of his patients as today. His comment that “People have lost hope” haunted me as much as it did him.
Hope is essential for well-being. Without hope we lose the will to live, to engage with others and aspire to be our very best self. Hope is the breath of life. Without hope we die.
But where can we find hope in such a dysfunctional and sick world?
One hot summer day years ago I was walking through a hospital corridor on the way to visit one of my church members when a local artist exhibit captured my attention. On the walls of one of the hallways were dozens of paintings by community artists, one of which caught my eye. I’m a pushover for landscape scenes that depict mountains, forests and cold wintry weather, and this painting had it all.
Jagged, snow-covered mountain peaks formed the background of the artwork, and above the mountains, heavy dark clouds were pelting everything in sight with a driving snow. The angle of the falling snow was whipping across the canvas almost horizontally, making it clear that a blizzard was in the works. Below the mountains was a valley dotted with pine trees whose branches were caked with the white icing. Here and there I could see the tops of fence posts, hopelessly surrendering to the inevitable frigid blanket that would soon engulf them. The painting may have depicted a late winter afternoon or maybe even a bitterly cold early morning. Studying the scene sent a chill throughout my body, even though the temperature outside was close to 100 degrees.
In one corner of the painting, nestled between groves of tall pines, I spotted a small, rustic-looking cabin. The snow was raging with such fury that I had to look closely to even see the cabin. But the more I examined the picture, the more detail gradually began to emerge. I could see wispy smoke rising from the chimney, and a light could barely be seen in one of the small windows. On one of the sides of the small cottage a large mound of firewood had been stacked, ensuring warmth through the long winter nights.
While I could not see the inside of the house, in my mind’s eye I pictured a family, perhaps singing Christmas carols or decorating the tree or drinking hot chocolate. I envisioned a mom, with a tray filled with just-baked cookies, offering her tasty treats to excited and happy children. The father placed another log in the fireplace, beside which a large yellow dog was lazily dozing. I lingered before the artwork not wanting to move from the picturesque scene. In the frame before me, I had discovered a place of hope, peace and love.
I realized it was only a painting, an artist’s imaginative interpretation of the world, or maybe it was my imaginative interpretation of the way I wanted the world to be, like a Thomas Kinkade painting that depicts the beauty of a world that could be but is not yet.
When I moved away from the painting and continued to make my way down the hall, I felt a bit lighter, a little less stressed and more eager to tackle the day. The refuge within the stormy winter scene had somehow put a bounce in my step and made me feel, well, more hopeful. Maybe, I thought to myself, there are places of refuge where we can find love, peace and joy in the midst of our troubled world. Places of hope.
We shouldn’t have to look too far, though, for places of refuge and hope. The manger in Bethlehem gave birth to hope long ago, and whenever and wherever people follow the Jesus way—a way defined by unconditional love and grace, we find that refuge, that place of hope, at least we can see a glimpse of the way the world was meant to be.
Hope is so very near.
