Signs of Hope
Learning to be astonished
May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. Amen. – Romans 15:18
Advent is a season of hope. It is also a season of risk. It is always risky to acknowledge the deep longings of the heart, the desires that we dare not speak aloud for fear that they will not come true. The trick is to acknowledge and be guided by our hope, without become attached to outcomes.
Hope is not the same thing as expectation. Hope says, “I desire that such and such becomes true, but my happiness does not depend upon it.” Expectation says, “I cannot be happy unless such and such becomes true.” Expectation has a quality of driveness about it fueled by fear and desperation. Hope has a quality of spaciousness fueled by trust and freedom. Expectation grasps at the future to fill what is lacking in us. Hope holds the future lightly with a sense of abundant possibilities emerging from within us.
If you pause for just a moment, and consider the hopes that your parents had or have for you compared to the expectations that your parents had or have for you, you will feel the difference in your body. It is the difference between being inspired and being manipulated. The light of hope illuminates the future quite differently than the glare of expectations.
The prophet Isaiah illuminates the future with the hope of the peaceable kingdom, a human community living justly, peacefully, and sustainably in harmony with the larger earth community. This is a hope that has only grown more compelling over time. It is an invitation to perceive and realize the deeper harmonies and unities that lie beneath our conflicts and divisions. The prophet Isaiah speaks of this hope as a return to Eden, to the Creator’s original vision of the creation perceived as very good: beautiful, whole, and complete, like any great work of art.1
A much later prophet, John the Baptist, picks up Isaiah’s vision of hope for the renewal of creation. “Repent,” he proclaims, “for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” The peaceable kingdom is visible already – here and now – to those who have their heart and mind attuned to the right frequency. He warns us that the fulfillment of this hope is up to us, dependent upon our level of consciousness. Pedigree and ancestry do not matter, so drop your sense of privilege. Hope doesn’t just come to us. It flows from us, when we burn away the chaff of fear and control that obscure our capacity to perceive and realize the peaceable kingdom.2
We are the root of Jesse - the root of hope. We are the tree blooming with the promise of good fruit. Christ, the messiah, the longed-for king who will fulfill our hopes, does not come from outside of us, but from within and among us. This is what Jesus keeps trying to tell us. We keep looking for signs of hope outside of ourselves. But we are the generators of hope.
Hope begins with seeing that, not only is the cup of life not half empty; it is overflowing. “My work,” wrote poet Mary Oliver, “is loving the world./ Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?/ Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me/ keep my mind on what matters, which is my work,/ which mostly is standing still and learning to be/ Astonished.”
Learning to be astonished is the basis of hope. When we perceive the deeper harmonies and continuities and meaning all around us, we relax into the power of the Holy Spirit within us, filling us with joy and peace.
There is a Hasidic tale about the Jews of a small town in Russia, who were eagerly awaiting the arrival of a Rabbi. Here was the sign of hope they had been looking for! This was going to be a rare event, so they spent a lot of time preparing the questions they were going to put to the holy man. When he finally arrived and they met with him in the town square, he could sense the tension in the atmosphere as they prepared to listen to the answers he had for them.
He said nothing at first; he just gazed into their eyes and hummed a haunting melody. Soon everyone began to hum. He started to sing and they sang along with him. He swayed and danced in solemn, measured steps. The congregation followed suit. Soon they became so involved in the dance, so absorbed in the movements that they were lost to everything else on earth; so every person in that crowd was made whole, was healed from the inner fragmentation that keeps us from manifesting hope.
It was nearly an hour before the dance slowed down and came to a halt. With the tension drained out of their inner being, everyone sat in the silent peace that pervaded the village. Then the Rabbi spoke the only words he pronounced that day: “I trust that I have answered all your questions.”3
Hope is fulfilled in learning to flow again, to relax into the life that wants to live in us, beyond our expectations and fears and grasping need to fix and control. We want to bend the future to the shape of our will, rather than bring our will in line the unfolding of life. We already have everything we need to fulfill the heart’s deepest longings. Even so, it can take time to realize this. Hope requires patient listening.
The poet May Sarton imagines hope as a bird.
The phoebe sits on her nest Hour after hour Day after day. Waiting for life to burst out From under her warmth. Can I weave a nest for silence? Weave it of listening. Listening, Layer upon layer? But one must first become small. Nothing but a presence. Attentive as a nesting bird. Proffering no slightest wish, No tendril of a wish Toward anything that might happen Or be given Only the warm, faithful waiting Contained in one’s smallness. Beyond the question, the silence. Beyond the answer, the silence.
To which the Rabbi might add, “Beyond the question, the dance. Beyond the answer, the dance.”
In the silent assent to life, hope emerges as the gift of our self to the future. The shape of hope is found in our life together. It cannot be forced, but it can be discovered. It is ever-present, ever-new. Pay attention. Listen. The messiah is waiting to be born in you.
Isaiah 11:1-10.
Matthew 3:1-12
This story is adapted from Anthony De Mello’s Taking Flight: A Book of Story Meditations.
Hurray! Thanks for sharing this. So many great nuggets in there. Love the image of relaxing into the power of the Holy Spirit within us, relaxing into the life that wants to live in us.