by Marguerite M. Rourk

Granted, the apostle was suffering because of his faith in the Lord Jesus Christ and because he fearlessly preached that faith and spread it all over the place. Our suffering is not of his circumstances, yet from the heart–side of suffering, it all looks and feels pretty much the same. Suffering is rotten because it blots out joy in life; suffering can be lethal because it invites despair of life. To my mind, suffering is much to be avoided, yet I know perfectly well that we can do no such thing. At some time or other, everyone suffers. Suffering happens, but grace happens, too, and it is grace that connects us to God at the intersection of suffering and hope.

Some years ago in the supermarket parking lot I found a pamphlet tucked under my windshield wiper. It was a religious tract placed there by someone from a local Pentecostal congregation who probably had a lot more missionary zeal than I do. In great red capital letters emblazoned on the front page was one sentence: If Jesus came back today, what would he say to you? Standing in that parking lot, my mind’s eye and ear could see Jesus look around and hear him say, "This place is a mess."

Being human, we often ask ourselves, "How’d we get into this mess?" Dear friends in Christ, I submit that we did not "get" this way: we are this way. As "children of a fallen humanity,"1 we are sinners, and, therefore, inheritors and perpetuators of the mess. We are born into this mess, and we do our part to keep it going. So the questions for us become: "How do we live amid the suffering caused by the great mess of this world?" and "How can we even muddle through the world’s mess without giving up on the business of living?"

For Christians, the answer is hope, yet that answer may well lead to more questions. How do we differ in our hope from those annoyingly cheerful and perpetually perky Pollyannas who oh–so–sincerely tell us that "everything will turn out fine," even though they don’t have a clue about your suffering or mine? How do we maintain our hope in the face of the vacuous, smiley–face pseudo–optimism that is packaged and peddled just about everywhere today, even by some Christians?

Our younger son, Matthew, is a Marine sergeant redeployed in Iraq.
Some people have actually told us (not in our congregation, thanks be to God) that Matthew is there because it’s God’s will and that we must accept God’s will for him and for us. Others have said to us that he is a hero for going there and bringing freedom and democracy to Iraq (we think he’s a hero anyway; Matthew has a very different opinion about the entire matter). Those folk say that we must "pray harder" — whatever that means — and keep on "thinking positively" — whatever that means — and on and on, ad nauseam. Believe me when I tell you: That stuff imparts a whole new dimension to our dear Lord’s words from the cross, "Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do" (Luke 23:34).

As awful as it is to have a loved one at war, this circumstance does not make our family’s suffering unique. Many of you are in the same situation or another just as dreadful. Iraq is one of the world’s truly great messes, but so is struggling with illness, either our own or that of sick or dying family and friends; so is dealing with broken relationships; so is coping with loss or any distress. Suffering is part of life: Life is messy, and it doesn’t come with any guarantees. Suffering is not a tidy process, and it is inevitably accompanied by emotions as numberless as the stars and unpredictable in the bargain.

David and I pray daily for Matthew’s safe return, but the truth is that we go to bed every night and get up every morning not knowing if our precious child is still alive. We struggle daily with how to keep on keeping on, how to remain hopeful, not by our own strength, but in faith that God will indeed take care of Matthew and everybody else in terrible danger. Each morning we pray for one more day’s worth of faith and trust. "Give us this day our daily bread" has new meaning for us, as our daily bread now includes hope. Daily, hourly, we pray: "Dear Lord, grant us faith to trust your promises to us today. Sustain our hope that in just a few months we will welcome our dear son home again." We hope, but what is Christian hope?

Hope is absolute confidence that God is in charge of everything.
Hope is knowing that God alone has the last word, which is always life. Hope is being certain that God’s Last Best Word is Jesus Christ who gave his life for us so that our life might never be taken from us. Hope is trust in Jesus’ promise: "My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they will never perish. No one will snatch them out of my hand" ( John 10:27–28). Hope is assurance that God suffers with us when we suffer.

Most of us have heard more often than we care to remember that God never gives us more to carry than we can bear. What a crock. First, God doesn’t inflict suffering on us in the first place, but wills only what is good for us beloved children. Second, life in this world readily and regularly dumps right on top of us way more than we can bear. And third, God will help us bear any suffering that we must endure; before we can say "Deliver me," help arrives. God is always with us; therefore, holy help is always at hand. That help assumes different forms and wears various faces, but God always gives it.

Let’s say that again: God always gives it. The most wonderful part about hope is that — like grace, mercy, and peace — hope is a gift. We cannot conjure it, think ourselves into it, buy, or borrow hope; it is a gift of grace and mercy that we might know God’s "peace from above."2

Christian hope isn’t fancy ; it needs no bells and whist les, accessories, or "some assembly required." Hope never needs redefining, renewal, reconstruction, or redistribution, and it has no requirements: Hope is available to all. Let the rest of the world indulge in mere wishing and optimistic expectation: We shall hope. Let the rest of the world play at religious cross–your–fingers manipulation of future happenstance. We hope in Christ and we hope because of Christ. Despair is forbidden to us, for to despair is, quite literally, to be without hope. We cannot be without hope because we "belong to Christ, and Christ belongs to God" (1 Corinthians 3:23).

It makes me sad to hear someone say, "Well, pastor, I just try to stay optimistic." I tell them that our loving heavenly Father has something better than that for us: hope.

There’s really no trick to being optimistic. Witness the occasions of optimism that abound in our home: Cinnamon the weasel bounces around the kitchen wearing his happy hopeful face until he gets his daily treat of baby–food chicken, fish oil, and vitamins, for which concoction he would gladly trade his little ferret soul. The cats solicit  much kitty–pity with mewly squeaks and look optimistic that yet again they will be rescued from imminent starvation. But, bless their hearts, they neither know nor have need of true hope. We do. So who has the best track record for providing our needs? The One who gives us what we need is the same One who gives us hope.

I don’t believe that God loves us any better when or because we suffer. Were that the case, then suffering would be reduced to one more way to curry God’s favor or entreat the Almighty’s affection. Not. I do believe that God sticks closer to us when we suffer. Maybe that notion is both silly and ontologically impossible, but I think God stays available within me and just behind my eyelids, always ready to gasp or shriek my grief with me, or to shout Hallelujah! for me even before it falls out of my mouth.

For me, hope is trusting God to be waiting inside me when I am in need, yet graciously and generously retreating just a little bit so that my God–given senses can flood through me with all the capacities for emotions that are God’s image–gifts within me.

Hope enables us to thumb our nose at the devil who would seduce us with despair. Because we hope, we say to the great deceiver, "Buzz off. You got no customers here." Hope strengthens us to get out of bed each day, not knowing what the day may bring, but trusting that our Lord will prop us up all day long, a half–minute at a time, if necessary. Hope empowers us to grieve knowing that the capacity to grieve is a gift of grace to acknowledge a God–given life worth mourning.

Each of us is created in the image of God who is always closer to us than anyone else ever could be. I believe that God is closer to me than my bones and surrounds me more and better than my skin. How can I miss? When I am too distraught to eat, Father nourishes me with Word–food so that I might praise. When my soul is heavy with yearning, Son satisfies my hunger with Grace–food of bread and wine so that I might rejoice. Spirit breathes in and out of me, fires the little gray cells in my head, blows despair out of my heart, and feeds me Faith–food of assurance and confidence so that I might hope.

In Christ I can sing and pray these words of hope, trusting that the One who gives me hope gives me everything else and lavishes me with the wondrous love that will never let me go.

My hope is built on nothing less than Jesus’ blood and righteousness....
His oath, his covenant, his blood sustain me in the raging flood; when all supports are washed away he then is all my hope and stay. On Christ, the solid rock, I stand; all other ground is sinking sand.3

The Rev. Marguerite M. Rourk, pastor of Christ Evangelical Lutheran Church in Fairfax, Va., shares her life with her husband of 37 years, David; their sons Edwin, of Portland, Ore., and Matthew, a U.S. Marine deployed in Iraq; two cats; and a ferret. The ferret is in charge.

1 Holy Baptism, Lutheran Book of Worship, p. 121
2 Kyrie, Lutheran Book of Worship, p. 57
3 Text from Edward Mote, Evangelical Lutheran Worship #597