I’m very excited to be kicking off a 5-week sermon series at my church this weekend, based on my book, Hopecasting. I’m preaching the opening weekend, and am looking forward to hearing how the senior pastor and youth pastor handle the other four weeks. As I started to prep, I remembered that I’ve had this excerpt from the book in my blog drafts for a long time. So I thought I’d get it up and out there! A funny little story from my own pre-teen years.
We all experience exile. And we all want Hope. So if I’m correct that Hope comes to us in exile, why does Hope seem so elusive?
When I was about ten years old, my family stopped by my dad’s office on our way to some sort of church gathering. I distinctly remember what I was wearing that day (brace yourself): white dress slacks, white shoes and a white belt, nicely accented with a maroon dress shirt. I was the perfect picture of a 1970s preteen, dressed to impress.
My dad’s office was in the middle of some woods, but there was a subdivision being built nearby; and what preteen boy can resist the pull of exploring a construction site? I had a friend with me that day, and we asked if we could explore while my parents did whatever it was they needed to do. My mom’s cautious approval came with a clear directive: “Only if you do not get dirty.”
Off we went, fully intending to keep the white pants white.
On the construction worksite, we found a mostly-frozen-over mini-pond of awesomeness. A muddy area had apparently been partially flooded during the winter months, and was actively thawing on this springtime Detroit Sunday. There was a large ice island in the middle, with a bit of a causeway leading to it. Of course, I quickly found myself planting a stake (literally) in the ice island and claiming it for the motherland. Only then, amidst the revelry of conquering, did I notice that the causeway had disintegrated after I’d crossed to the island.
I panicked. Do I stay out here on this ice-island, maintaining the whiteness of my clothes and the purity of my intentions to behave as instructed? What other options were there? I didn’t want to be on the island. But both staying put and doing anything else seemed to only have tragic outcomes.
I felt a shift under my feet. At first, I thought the island might be breaking into pieces; but instead, the whole berg was slowly sinking under my weight. Brown, muddy water started flowing over the edges toward my outpost in the middle.
My friend was trying to help, I’m sure. But when he pushed a large, floating wooden door toward me and yelled, “Use this as a raft,” neither of us were thinking very clearly. Needless to say, I took a mud bath that day.
I was on that exilic island by my own doing (our exiles are sometimes, though not always, due to our own choices). But I quickly wanted out. In my panic, I jumped for a promise that couldn’t deliver.
When we’re in the midst of the pain of exile, Hope can seem impossible. We’re desperate, and therefore highly susceptible to the lies our culture tells us about how to extricate ourselves.
Really, since an influx of Hope is about opening ourselves up to the influx of God’s presence, the enemies of Hope are wolves in sheep’s clothing, encouraging us to retain control.
We humans have developed myriad ways of keeping God at arm’s length during our times of exile. We buy into these false solutions because we believe they’re less risky than completely opening up to a faithful confidence that God continues to author the story.