Hope is not a posture with which I am familiar; or maybe, even, comfortable.
And yet, I cannot forget the call that comes to me, commandingly:
“Listen! You shall be more than this.”
This! What, this human life—this human death! that spasms with violence, and pain—
That cracks with gunshots upon school children—
That refuses to take in drowning refugees—
That plunges my faith into darkness?
The weight of the world is pounding in my ears:
My heart races from a mortality
that shall never be outrun.
And yet. You promise me: “It shall be more than this.”
It will involve, as some tell it, thundering clouds—which birth golden fruit!—that pour out juices and leaves for the healing of the nations.
It will look something like, as I have heard, radiant beams of light—driving out death!—which banish every shadow of despair from our hearts.
It will taste, as I have read it, cool and sweet—a fountain of the purest water, gushing down from the rock that is your cornerstone—removing the tang of grief, forever.
It will feel, as I have known it, like velvet cattle and bristling hay—the bed of a god, among us, wrapped up in a manger.