Hope is a Diamond Ring
(Isaiah 9:5-6 NIV) The people walking in darkness have seen a great light;
on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned. … 6For to us a child is
born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he
will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of
Peace.
* * *
(Romans 8:19-21 J. B. Phillips)
The whole creation is on tiptoe to see the wonderful sight of
the sons of God coming into their own.
* * *
Well, the season
is upon us. There’s no turning
back. We “Hanged the Greens” last Sunday at First Christian Church in Conway.
We sang the carols and lit the candles and celebrated “Hope” on the first
Sunday of Advent.
Hope. It’s a central theme of the whole Bible.
But the story’s not a smooth one. It constantly confronts hills and valleys.
On the basis of hope Abraham
moved to a strange land. A call and a promise fueled hope for a future in which
Abraham and his children and his children's children would share in God's
plan to bless the whole world.
That hope was passed from one generation to the next. It almost died in
Egypt; but a smoldering ember was fanned into flame by Moses, this time in the form of
a yearning for a land—a place.
But that hope had to confront Philistines, Amorites, Midianites,
Jebusites—Palestinians who had the nerve to fight back when Israel took their
homes and land. Hope wilted and then sprang back, energized by the heroic
leadership of David;
a renewed hope, this time rooted in military strength and political and
economic power.
For
many generations the hope alternately burned bright and faded, choked by
political corruption, economic inflation gone berserk, and an apathetic,
materialistic citizenry. Isaiah and
other prophets
occasionally breathed life back into it; but only temporarily—life support for
a hope that could no longer sustain itself. Finally, Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon "pulled the plug," and in exile, the Israelites remembered the hope;
but mourned its death.
By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion. There
on the poplars we hung our harps, for …how can we sing the songs of the Lord
while in a foreign land? (Psalms 137:1-4 NIV)
Israel hadn't yet learned that their God was a God of resurrection. The plant had died; but
under the surface of the earth the bulb was there, waiting for springtime, when
a new plant would spring up—a sprig out of the root of Jesse—a new hope, kept
alive by the memory of a promise: God would yet redeem God's people, "When
Messiah Comes!"
A child goes to bed hungry. His mother pats his hand: "When Messiah
comes, there'll be no more hunger!" A beggar clutches his rags in some
cold alley: "When Messiah comes" there’ll be no more homelessness. A
young girl, cries in her pillow: “When Messiah comes”, there’ll be no more
Roman soldiers to rape and pillage.
And then he comes; and he's a carpenter, poor as they, running with
prostitutes and tax collectors. Instead of recruiting a rebel army to overthrow
the Romans, he tells them to carry the Roman soldiers' packs an extra mile; and
he says, "Love your enemy." Instead of establishing a government to
erase poverty and hunger, he says, "You feed the
hungry." That's not what they were hoping for.
It is the witness of scripture and of history, and of our own lives,
that Christ does come in fulfillment of hope—but he comes "like a thief in
the night"—often undetected. He comes "to his own;" and his own do
not receive him because, somehow, when he comes it's not what we expect.
God's people always have held to a hope that life would be better—for
us, more meaningful—for us, more joyful—for us;
but when he comes, he tells us to make life better, more
meaningful, more joyful—for others!
And somehow that’s supposed to be "Good
News". Somehow that’s supposed to mean the Kingdom of God is at hand.
That’s supposed to be what we've waited for and longed for and hoped for.
The epistle says the whole creation stands on
tiptoe to see the Sons of God revealed. And when they appear, they're not
wearing crowns, but hard hats; they're not wearing fine linen and silk, but
denim overalls and work boots.
* * *
Not long ago, a man promised his wife a Christmas gift that would dazzle
and brighten her life. She just knew it would be that diamond ring she’d
pointed out to him so many times.
Just before Christmas his military reserve unit was called overseas; and
on Christmas morning she and the children opened their presents without him.
She saved the large, heavy package from her husband until last, knowing that he
took great joy in disguising his gifts. The huge, heavy boxy, she knew, would
contain several boxes, each smaller than the previous one. There’d be some
bricks, she guessed, for weight; but eventually she’d peel the layers until
there would be one last box: tiny, and wrapped in gold foil, and holding her
ring.
Finally, the time came, and with quivering hands she began to tear the
paper away from the box. It was a vacuum cleaner box; but that meant nothing.
Inside would be a smaller box and a smaller box and a smaller box. And so she
tore open the lid and—it was a vacuum cleaner.
There was no joy in Mudville that night. Mighty Casey had struck out.
She refused to call him that night, as they had agreed; and she cried all
night. For the next several days she wouldn't answer the phone. Oh! She was
angry!
But, finally, things had to be done. The dry Christmas tree was a fire
hazard. Besides, it represented her greatest disappointment; so she put away
the ornaments and dragged the bare tree to the curb.
There were pine needles all over the carpet, so she took the new vacuum
cleaner and cursed it as she began vacuuming the carpet. When she moved a large
chair that had stood near the tree, she found a small box—obviously overlooked
on Christmas morning—wrapped in gold foil, and on the tag was her name. With
trembling fingers again, she opened the box, and found her diamond ring.
Oh,
she received all she hoped for; but only when she used all she had received.
That’s
how I see it through the flawed glass that is my world view.
Together in the Walk,
Jim
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