Untitled Sermon (31)

We’ve been talking a good deal about hope. When do you feel it is the easiest time to hope? When is it the most difficult?

I think it’s more difficult to hope when I’m the one who got me in this mess. When I’ve blown it and I’m bearing the consequence of my foolishness…that’s when it’s the most difficult.

We’re going to look at Lamentations 3:21-24 today…but let me set it up for you.

That is what Jeremiah was facing in Lamentations. The people have gotten themselves in a mess. Lamentations, like Psalm 88, is an expression of what happens whenever the covenant curses of Deuteronomy fall upon a people, instead of the covenant blessings.

Lamentations itself is a beautiful acrostic poem. For the most part it is bleak. And the fifth chapter is both beautiful and difficult. Jeremiah doesn’t use an acrostic poem—it’s just an explosion of emotion.

The whole thing is Jeremiah acknowledging guilt and pleading for restoration. But it ends with these sobering words...

“…unless you have utterly rejected us, and you remain exceedingly angry with us.”

Do you ever feel that way…especially with a sin that you seem to keep going back to? Can He forgive me again? Should I still have hope…is it wrong to have hope…maybe I’m cast off forever.

I think we have our answer in the middle of Lamentations. Listen to a couple verses here...

“my soul is bereft of peace; I have forgotten what happiness is; so I say, My endurance has perished; so has my hope from the Lord...”

That’s the backdrop to what we read now…his soul is continually bowed down within him…then this...

Lamentations 3:21–24 ESV

But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. “The Lord is my portion,” says my soul, “therefore I will hope in him.”

A little sparkle of hope. And it’s here that we can see a connection between hope and faith. Or…as I promised last week…I’ll tell you why I can’t swim and how it’s related to my struggle with hope.

I’ve never been able to swim.

I guess that’s not entirely true. I can put up a tremendous fight and vigorously flail to keep myself from drowning for a minute or two. This hardly qualifies for swimming, but if close enough to the safety of the pool edge, I’ll settle for calling it survival.

Scores of people have attempted to teach me to swim over the years. I’m assuming that some of my dear readers are even thinking to themselves, “I bet I could teach him…” But you can’t. My problem isn’t skill or technique. It’s not exactly something I can learn. I can’t swim because I can’t relax.

That’s what every person who has attempted to teach me will repeatedly say to me, “Just relax! Lean back! Trust me!”

I can’t. I’m terrified. And you can’t float, much less swim, when your body prepares for its impending death by entering the beginning stages of full rigor.

When I was younger, I blamed my high metabolism. I was too skinny to float. But I’ve gained enough weight to float, lack of fast-food consumption is no longer my issue. It’s not a skill problem and it’s not a biological problem. I’ve become convinced that it’s really a spiritual problem.

In his book, Surrender to Love, David Benner tells the story of teaching a group of spiritual directors in the Philippines how to swim. He was astonished at how quickly their white-knuckled grip on the side of the boat turned into joyful swimming. His conclusion was that they had already learned to “swim” by learning to trust. Then he shared these words, that rattled my soul:

The English word surrendercarries the implication of putting one’s full weight on someone or something. It involves letting go—a release of effort, tension and fear. And it involves trust. One cannot let go of self-dependence and transfer dependence to someone else without trust.

Floating is a good illustration of this, because you cannot float until you let go. Floating is putting your full weight on the water and trusting that you will be supported. It is letting go of your natural instincts to fight against sinking. Only then do you discover that you are supported.[1]

I can’t float because I’ve carried with me the belief that if I don’t fight for myself, I’m going under. This, by the way, perfectly describes my awkward “swimming”—flailing about, using all of my energy to keep from dying, when I’d do far better to take a deep-breathe and trust that I’ll stay afloat.

Can you relate?

I’m sure you’re an amazing swimmer, so I doubt you can relate to my struggle there. But do you ever feel this way when it comes to navigating life? My guess, if you’ve picked up this book, is that you’re battling with a bit of despair. And much like my flailing in the deep end of the pool, you’re grabbing for something solid.

I don’t know what has gotten you in the deep end, grasping for air. Is it a painful relationship? Are you feeling weighed down by your past? Or maybe our culture of outrage has you feeling like you’re trying to stay afloat in a raging river. For many of us, the answer is a bit more complex. There are many reasons why you’re in the deep end, none of those matter as much at the moment as getting to the shore. You need safety. And you’ll take what you can get.

I’ll warn you up front, my goal for this book isn’t to give you safety. It’s to see you swim. (And to learn to swim myself). My contention is that when we’re flailing in the ocean of despair there are two false choices which seem attractive in the moment—cynicism and optimism. Neither are swimming.

Optimism is like those arm floaties which small children wear. It keeps you afloat, sure. And it can even appear as if you’re swimming. But it’s not buoyed by truth. If they fall off, you sink. Or, as is more common, eventually you get too big for it to hold your weight. Optimism can hold you up for a moment, but it can’t bear the weight of reality.

Cynicism is like those who hang onto the edge of the pool, kicking their feet, but never venturing away from the wall. You can go through some of the motions of swimming, but you can’t enjoy the deeps. Cynicism wants to hold onto that which is real, which can be touched and felt. Cynicism is about safety. It’s likely tried to go out on the waters and nearly drowned. Cynicism will stay on the shore and observe those in the deeps.

We rarely went swimming when I was a child. When we did, I was a wall-hugger. Before my friends learned to swim, we built a nice little community next to the wall. “Swimming” wasn’t quite as miserable for me. But then my friends started swimming and I was stuck, clinging to the safety of the concrete.

There is a third option when confronted with the deeps. But it isn’t exactly safe. That third option is hope. Hope floats.

That phrase is borrowed from the 1998 film, Hope Floats, starring Sandra Bullock. The line which gave the movie its title is this one:

"Childhood is what you spend the rest of your life trying to overcome. That's what momma always says. She says that beginnings are scary, endings are usually sad, but it's the middle that counts the most. Try to remember that when you find yourself at a new beginning. Just give hope a chance to float up.[1]

The meaning here is that hope is resilient. It will always come to the top. Hope remains. But I suppose I mean something a little different. Just as the body floats when it lets go, so also true hope will float upon the waters of despair. Hope happens when we refuse the artificial floaties of optimism and the white-knuckle wall grip of cynicism. Hope is the only true way out of despair. Hope alone can survive the deeps.

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That’s all well and good you say…but how do I know that I can trust? How can I have hope…hope even when I’ve blown it. That is where Lamentations comes in.

What is the relationship between faith, trust, relationship w/ God to hope? How are they connected? Well, for one if I’m having trouble hoping or flying to these false refuges (wall-hugging or wearing arm floaties) I’m not trusting in God.

But we see here in Lamentations 3 things which can build up our hope.

First, it is the character of God.

But this I call to mind says Jeremiah....Then verse 22…The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases.

This word “steadfast love” is a rich word in the OT. Really difficult one to translate—it’s almost like a love that refuses not to love. It’s this word that is painted all over the book of Hosea. It’s the type of love that meets the wayward wife in the wilderness and speaks tender words. The type of love that buys her back when her rebellion has gotten her onto the slave market.

It is the depth of the character of God. It’s who He is. Can I appeal to the covenant love of God whenever I’ve blown it? That’s what Jeremiah was struggling with. Has my sin nullified the covenant relationship…have I not walked away? And this is why the curses of the covenant are upon me.

Yes…Dt. 28 and Dt. 29 are true. But…so is Dt. 30:1-10. Listen to the first three verses there Dt. 30:1-3

Deuteronomy 30:1–3 ESV

“And when all these things come upon you, the blessing and the curse, which I have set before you, and you call them to mind among all the nations where the Lord your God has driven you, and return to the Lord your God, you and your children, and obey his voice in all that I command you today, with all your heart and with all your soul, then the Lord your God will restore your fortunes and have mercy on you, and he will gather you again from all the peoples where the Lord your God has scattered you.

Our sin hasn’t caught God by surprise. When we focus on our inadequacy, our failure, or even the circumstances around us we sink like a rock. We don’t float.

That’s true of me swimming as well. If I go into this water thinking about how utterly ridiculous it is to think that my carcass can somehow stay on top of the water if I just fall backwards…just breathe right…all that jazz....well I’m going to panic and then I’m going to sink like a rock.

But if I say…wait God made our bodies to do this. I’ll float. This is grounded upon proven character of something…well, now I’ve got a better chance of floating don’t I?

This is what Jeremiah is doing…He is grounding His hope in the character of God. We’re “not cut off” he says, not because we’ve done something good…but because this is the character of God. His hope isn’t in himself…it’s in God’s character.

I like what Spurgeon said on this point:

“So it is with the child of God. What is he at the best? Till he is taken up to heaven, he is nothing but a brand plucked out of the fire. It is his daily moan that he is a sinner; but Christ accepts him as he is: and he shuts the devil’s mouth by telling him, ‘Thou sayest this man is [charred] – of course he is: what did I think he was but that? He is a brand plucked out of the fire. I plucked him out of it. He was burning when he was in it: he is [charred] now he is out of it. He was what I knew he would be; he is not what I mean to make him, but he is what I knew he would be. I have chosen him as a brand plucked out of the fire. What hast thou to say to that?’ Do observe that this plea did not require a single word to be added to it from Joshua.”

Jeremiah continues…His mercies never come to an end…His character doesn’t change. He is the same yesterday, today, and forever. We shift…we change…but God doesn’t.

If He’s a God who redeems…then He’s a God who redeems. If He’s a God who responds to repentance with forgiveness…then He is ALWAYS a God who does this. If He’s a God filled with steadfast love…then He’s always a God filled with steadfast love.

He responds to sin as He always does. He responds to repentance as He always does. He is consistent in His character. And what is consistent…His mercies are new every morning. It doesn’t change.

I’m waking up in the morning…and it’s a new day…He provides each new day. Just like the manna in the wilderness…so also God’s grace. Jeremiah is grounding this in the history of God..in His promises..in the history of redemption.

He can look back on all that God has done, connect it to His consistent character and say…I have a reason to hope.

“Great is your faithfulness”…He’s doesn’t deviate from this. God is faithful. He is unshaking in that. He will never ultimately let you down. He is dedicated to your good. He is dedicated to your redemption.

You know…there are many other people who have swam. Why should I be unique? God has responded to His people with redemption, forgiveness, healing, mercy, all of this…why should I be any different?

He’s consistent in His character and I have a whole story of the Bible how God has been faithful. I see people around me where God has been faithful. I see people swimming in the deep…why not me?

And friends, this too is why we’re called to comfort those with the comfort we’ve received. This is why it’s important for us to swim ourselves…because others need to see it. If they look around and don’t see that evidence…which was part of Jeremiah’s struggle…hope is much more difficult.

We want to be hope peddlers…and those who have this hope pouring out of our lives…it’ll help others swim in the deeps.

Then Jeremiah says, “The Lord is my portion...” This connects with the Levites in the OT. They weren’t given land…b/c the Lord was their portion.

Well, here is Jeremiah, in exile. No land. But He’s saying…I don’t need sod, I don’t need soil (used soil there instead of dirt), the Lord is enough. He’s with me even in exile. Even in this moment.

Notice that He says…not just “I will hope…but I will hope in him.” God alone is a steady anchor. Or to keep with our metaphor…God alone keeps us on the water in the deeps.

That is the foundation of hope.

As we close here lets dig a little more into our definition of hope.

Hope is a familiar word to us. But it’s a bit difficult to pin down a definition. Hope is a bit like love, we know it when we see it. We know what it feels like. We discern when it is absent. But any attempt to describe the thing never feels like it does justice.

Hope also can mean something as simple as wishful thinking. I hope the Kansas City Royals don’t lose 100 games again next year. But this hope likely isn’t grounded in reality. It’s just wishful thinking. To use our swimming analogy this kind of hope is like a young man lounging on a chair beside the pool, envisioning himself jumping into the pool and joyfully swimming. “I’m hoping that someday I’ll swim.”

We all know that this type of hope doesn’t float. If it did, I’d wager money on the KC Royals making it to the World Series next year.

Usually when we talk of hope, we’re referencing the gritty kind of hope. That dogged belief that things are going to get better in the future. This type of hope is what former president, Barack Obama, was referencing when he said, “The definition of hope is you still believe, even when it's hard.”[1] This type of hope believes that things will get better.

This type of hope wears arm floaties to keep itself above water long enough for those positive vibes to kick in. It asserts, “someday I’ll swim”! But its confidence is founded upon the grit and determination of the believer. It’s a belief, often divorced from reality, that if I keep flailing along eventually, I’ll reach the shore to tell people that I swam.

Neither of these is entirely what the Bible means when it speaks of hope. Christian hope uses language of certainty. But its certainty grounded in the accomplishment of another. It’s tethered to the claims of Jesus Christ. This is why some have referred to this hope as “a confident expectation of the future.[2]” Or “the sure and confident expectation of receiving what God has promised us in the future.” [3]

Gritty hope would say, “The future will be better”. Christian hope says, “The future is better”. It’s a subtle difference but it’s the difference between swimming because you are wearing floaties and actually floating upon the water. Christian hope floats now and heralds a belief that someday we won’t only float on water—we’ll be walking on the stuff.

Here is my definition of hope:

When truth and beauty merge to give us a happy confidence that the gospel gets the last word.

When we realize we are drowning in despair, we are vulnerable to the lies of both cynicism and optimism. Cynicism is truth without beauty. Optimism is beauty without truth. Despair is a world with neither. But hope is when both truth and beauty merge. When this happens, we begin to float.

I call it a happy confidence for a reason. While some might believe “joy” is a more Christian sounding word, I’ve decided to stick with happiness. I’ve done this mostly because I want to convey the idea that hope has a bearing on the present. While joy is resilient, it isn’t dour. Consider this challenge from Barnabas Piper:

Let me pose a question in response. What would you think of a person who perpetually promoted joy, spoke of pursuing joy, and expressed the deep riches of joy, but simply didn’t seem happy?That would be very confusing, right? It would seem at odds and maybe even hypocritical. That’s because joy without happiness is nothing but a theological description, at least if it remains that way. Joy that doesn’t bring about happiness isn’t genuine joy.[1]

I’ve seen happiness at a funeral. Not just joy, happiness. Certainly, not happiness because death has gained a temporary victory. Certainly not happiness because of the overwhelming grief which this moment has brought upon the family. But a smile, a happy smile, birthed out of a deep and abiding joy, that is peaking through the jagged-edges of sorrow. Hope doesn’t only give joy. It gives happiness. Even at a funeral.

How is this possible? Because the good news is greater than anything death can bring. “Grieving as those who have hope” is to press into grief but to do so with the knowledge that death doesn’t get the last word. That is hope.

Jesus gets the last word. What does that mean? It means that when everything else speaks…our failures, our successes, lies about us, truth about us…all of it. Jesus steps in and delivers the last word. When Jesus speaks it is definitive.

This is what Jeremiah was asking in Lamentations…what will get the last word? Will my sin? Will we die out here in exile? Will we be utterly rejected?

We know the answer to that story…all who hope in Him will never be disappointed, will never be put to shame.

And this is what it means to hope. It’s to throw all of our weight back upon the character of Christ. It’s to go into the deep believing that His Word is final. And it is profoundly good, this word He speaks over us.

I don’t know specifically what Jesus will say but when I picture this scene in my mind, it brings those hot and happy tears. I know what He’ll say, because I know He loves me. Not because of any words I can speak—but because of what He has decidedly accomplished on my behalf. I know what He has done in my life. And I know that He sees every ounce of toil and labor and every bit of my sloppy obedience. He sees all of my failure. He knows every sin. He knows it all. And yet He still decides to stand to my defense.

“He’s mine!”

Maybe that’s what he’ll say. And when he belts out those words…nothing else matters. All the critics. All the applause. All the mountains. All the valleys. All the days in the darkness of depression. The mountain of my sin against him and others. Every drop of sweat in ministry for others. It all crumbles. And only his Word remains.

It’s not that sin doesn’t matter. It’s not that good doesn’t matter. It’s just that it isn’t definitive. It doesn’t get the last word.

Jesus does.

And that hope will float.

[1]Barnabas Piper, Hoping for Happiness, (Charlotte: The Good Book Company, 2020), 106

[1] https://twitter.com/BarackObama/status/266692249109266432 [2] https://blog.tms.edu/hope-in-a-cynical-age [3] https://www.gotquestions.org/definition-of-hope.html

[1] https://handmaidsofmercy.typepad.com/handmaids_of_mercy/2008/06/hope-floats-wha.html

[1]David Benner, Surrender to Love, (Downers Grove: IVP Books, 2015), 60-61