Introducing Hope

“An Eyeglass of Hope? What do you mean by that?” I’m glad you asked. Here’s a little glimpse of what’s behind every post that I share.

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“For whatever was written in former days was written for our instruction, that by steadfastness and by the encouragement of the scriptures we might have hope.”

— Romans 15:4 (RSV)

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Imagine with me for a moment that you are sitting, still and quiet, at the dusty foot of a tall mountain—a mountain that was, some days ago, shaking and smoking, but is, today, silent and stoic. You’re here because you’re wondering about something.

It hasn’t been long since you fled with your family and friends from a place of terror, a place of captivity—of unbearable burdens, impossible tasks, heartless rulers, wicked heat, and the daily dread of the evening’s death toll and whom of your beloved might be listed on it. You escaped by some long list of miracles, and it felt like a thrilling, jubilant, unstoppable victory at the time. There was music and shouting, embracing and laughing, wide eyes and tears of relief. No one thought the joy could end.

But miles and miles of thirsty, dragging footsteps later, the signs of victory aren’t nearly as sharp. Sure, you’re not carrying loads of bricks anymore or collapsing at your captors’ whips; but is this really “winning”? This new life of wandering around, trying to find something besides desert sand, a place where your hard-won escape seems worth the work?

You look up towards the mountain’s peak. Moses, your leader, had come down from there yesterday with a word from the God he said was behind all the miraculous shenanigans that accomplished your freedom. It’s been hard, all these years, to imagine this God. You’ve been so tired, so numb. And now even freedom doesn’t really feel “free.” The desert’s still hot. Water’s still elusive. You rub your face with your hands. What was it he had said? A poem, wasn’t it?

The words come back. It was a poem, a story. It was the first story that the God who saved you and your people wanted you to know. He had led you with clouds and fire to this mountain to tell you something. To dusty ears and exhausted hearts, this was the story Moses said was of first priority for you to hear:

First this: God created the Heavens and Earth—all you see, all you don’t see. Earth was a soup of nothingness, a bottomless emptiness, an inky blackness. God’s Spirit brooded like a bird above the watery abyss.

God spoke: “Light!” And light appeared. God saw that light was good…

God spoke: “Sky!…” God made sky….And there it was…

God spoke: “Separate! Water-beneath-Heaven, gather into one place; Land, appear!” And there it was….God saw that it was good.

God spoke: “Earth, green up! Grow all varieties of seed-bearing plants, Every sort of fruit-bearing tree.” And there it was….God saw that it was good….

God spoke: “Lights! Come out! Shine in Heaven’s sky!…” And there it was….God saw that it was good….

God spoke: “Swarm, Ocean, with fish and all sea life! Birds, fly through the sky over Earth!” God created the huge whales, all the swarm of life in the waters, And every kind and species of flying birds. God saw that it was good….

God spoke: “Earth, generate life! Every sort and kind: cattle and reptiles and wild animals: all kinds.” And there it was…God saw that it was good.¹

It was about this time that you had begun to drift off. It was a long poem. And you had seen lots of beautiful bits of this creation in Egypt. The Nile teemed with life. But out here? It was an eventful day when your neighbor’s cow wandered nearer to your tent.

But then Moses stepped forward. His voice grew louder, thunderous like the voice from which you’d hidden when you heard it from the mountain days before: 

God spoke: “Let us make human beings in our image, make them reflecting our nature…” God created human beings; he created them godlike, Reflecting God’s nature. He created them male and female. God blessed them…

Then God said, “I’ve given you every sort of seed-bearing plant on Earth…I give whatever grows out of the ground for food.” And there it was. God looked over everything he had made; it was so good, so very good!²

At this, you had looked down to the ground again. Really, Moses? you had thought. Do you see any seed-bearing plants around here?

Yet he continued:

Heaven and Earth were finished, down to the last detail. 

By the seventh day God had finished his work. On the seventh day he rested from all his work. God blessed the seventh day. He made it a Holy Day [because] on that day he rested from his work, all the creating God had done. 

This is the story of how it all started, of Heaven and Earth when they were created.³

You had looked up at Moses again. He was finished, apparently. Drawing his garments more closely around his body, he dipped his head briefly and began to make his way to his tent.

You knew others around you were delighted with the story, but you were tired. Others would dig in, seeking together what Moses meant—and why this story, here and now. But you’d had enough.

You’d had enough, at least, until today. Now, alone, you are back at the mountain. No more smoke or fire, no bubbles of conversation from your eager friends, no booming voice from the excited storyteller, not even much of a breeze. Seated in the dust, you wonder: Why this story? Why now?

You squint up at the cloudless sky, wondering how the blue with which you had grown so familiar in Egypt could seem so drained of its life now. A breath in, a breath out. 

This is the story of how it all started…

A breath in, a breath out. A Holy Day, huh?

Then a thought strikes you with a force that nearly stops your lungs: It all started with a Holy Day.

You turn your gaze again to the mountain’s peak. That thunderous God, the one who led with clouds and fire, the one who shredded Egypt with plagues…His first story was a poem that spoke to the assaulted ears of slaves a message of rest. 

You place your hands on either side of you, gripping the dirt to balance yourself under the weight of this news. No smoke, no thunder…but your heart is swollen with emotion, with desperate relief. Tears begin to fall from your eyes. For in the middle of this desert, where your throat is parched and your hands are cracked, this is what you needed to hear. It is good, good news. Your beginning is in rest.

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My friend, I have some good news for you. 

I know it’s not hard to put yourself in the story I just told. It’s not hard to feel the dust, the despair, the wondering of whether the God you’ve heard so much about is anything more than a fiery show.

The good news is that this poem of creation really is the first story—the first thing, apparently, we need to hear. Our beginning is in rest. Not work. Not slavery. Not burdens. Not brokenness. Not the hungers that gnaw at our stomachs and hearts. Not the distractions that torment our minds. Not the sins and self-destructions with which we play when no one’s watching. Our beginning is in rest. You—you who have been so familiar with a life in captivity to things you may not even be able to fully name—you were meant for freedom. That is your starting point.

And the other part of the good news? That’s your destiny too. It may feel like desert where you are right now. But 2000 years ago, another Storyteller decided to continue the poem. His message was that the Kingdom of Heaven—the realm that God rules—had come and was open to anyone and everyone who would say “yes” to it. And His invitation sounded a lot like the one you just heard:

Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.⁴

My friend, His invitation still stands. 

His name is Jesus, and He is hope—not a faint-hearted, flighty dream but a robust, sure promise that the life of burdens and slavery you once knew is neither your identity nor your destiny. His call is that you follow Him, that you make the decision to take Him seriously—to listen to His words, to be changed by His perspective, to believe His love, to become His apprentice. He wants to partner with you to bring the Kingdom He said was here—the realm that God rules—everywhere. He made you to be part of that—part of a world that is characterized by rest, by “unforced rhythms of grace,” by tender and full-hearted love, by lives lived in fullness and freedom.

“Are you tired? Worn out?” Jesus says, “Come to me.”

How?

Say “yes” to His invitation. He hears you, wherever you are. Tell Him you’re ready to come. Tell Him you’d like to be under His rule too—that you’d like to be a part of His Kingdom, the Kingdom where things are set right and where “rhythms of grace” allow you to breathe. Tell Him you do want to learn from Him, and ask Him to show you how. Tell Him you’re ready for some rest. 

Then what?

Life might not look much different on the outside. You might still be wandering in the desert.

But on the inside? You’re going to find that everything has changed. You’re wandering in the desert with a Friend. And this Friend says that every anxious thought can be exchanged for peace. Every worry can be replaced with the knowledge that you are loved. Every effort can burst with meaning, for you will walk in alignment with who you were always created to be.

And best of all, you get to take part in working with Him to bring the realm of His rule here on this planet. Knowing Him is not just about choosing a side for your after-life destination. Knowing Him means drinking in His life now by apprenticing yourself to Him and learning His ways. And it means that you get to be a part of His work of bringing the restful, peaceful realm of His rule everywhere. It can start in your life and work its way out to all around you. We’re all waiting for His rest to rule—for His rest to govern our world, our lives, and our selves. And it will. So come on in.

There remains, then, a Sabbath-rest for the people of God; for anyone who enters God’s rest also rests from his own work, just as God did from his. Let us, therefore, make every effort to enter that rest, so that no one will fall by following [the] example of disobedience.⁵

Now that we know what we have—Jesus, this great High Priest with ready access to God—let’s not let it slip through our fingers. We don’t have a priest who is out of touch with our reality. He’s been through weakness and testing, experienced it all—all but the sin. So let’s walk right up to him and get what he is so ready to give.⁶

Are you in? 

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¹ excerpts from Genesis 1:1-25 (The Message)

² excerpts from Genesis 1:26-31 (The Message)

³ Genesis 2:1-4 (The Message)

⁴ Matthew 11:28-30 (The Message)

⁵ Hebrews 4:9-11 (NIV, 1984)

⁶ Hebrews 4:14-16 (The Message)

Special thanks to Marty Solomon and Brent Billings of The BEMA Podcast, whose descriptions of how the Genesis 1 narrative might sound to the ears of recently-freed slaves first sparked the idea for this story (https://www.bemadiscipleship.com/1). Special thanks also to my friend, Patrick Lee, who has sparked many a valuable conversation on what it means for the gospel to really be good news.