Consolatio

Today, I was disappointed.

Of course, this was not the first time--hardly that!--and it was only a small thing: I would have forgotten it by tomorrow were I not now memorializing it. But it is not the thing itself I am concerned about, but instead the feeling it made in me; perhaps because it was small, I noticed how disproportionate my disappointment was, and so examined the feeling on its own, divested of association with its occasion.

It was only a small thing, yes, but it was still an expectation unmet and a hope miscarried. This happens to me often. I think for a moment that what I hope for is coming, that I can hear its footsteps at the door; but the footsteps move on, and there is no knock, and I am left listening. Or else it is like watching clouds, in which, from a chance mingling of vapor and light, I see a face briefly; but the wind shifts and the pattern dissipates, and I find that there was no face in the clouds, only the desire in me to see.

I am easily discouraged by disappointments. This is, I think, only human. As Solomon wrote, "Hope deferred maketh the heart sick" (Prov. 13:12). We strive, but fall short of our hope, and are discontented with what is left to us. But do we have any reason to expect otherwise? The world is full of pain and evil, and I am weak and sinful. What reason have I to hope for joy here? Could I not, like Boethius, dismiss this world of changing fortune altogether from my mind, and live in the contentment of a good Stoic? Sometimes I desire that, but still I am here, in this flesh and in this place--I cannot recede into my mind like a snail. And still, even with no reasons, I hope.

I recall the old Greek tale of Pandora's box, opened by a curious mortal, which released all the suffering of the world. But the box was shut before it was wholly empty, and one last thing was kept inside: Hope. Today we hear this story and smile, because we are modern and believe other myths and so mistake its meaning: "There is so much suffering the world, but we always have hope!" But was that so for the Greeks who invented the tale? No: the gods were capricious, rewarding or tormenting mortals at their whim, and fate was implacable and inexorable. No, Hope was only another tormenter--except that it was inside a man, driving him on to endure pain after pain, till he found that his desire was beyond his grasp and all his striving was for nothing. Far better to sit and wait quietly for fate, than to fight it desperately, hounded always by merciless Hope.

But I am not an ancient Greek, and the story of Pandora's box isn't my story. I do not believe the gods are capricious or that fate is heartless. Instead, I trust in a gracious and loving Author, Who tells a story with meaning, whose end for me is good and right: "When all about my soul gives way, He then is all my hope and stay." No, for a Christian, hope is the second of three great virtues: Faith, Hope, and Love. Hope is not a temptress, flattering me with lies and goading me on to high achievement, then mocking me when I fall short and break. Instead, what I hope for is nothing I can accomplish, and its fulfillment is not my responsibility. Therefore, I can hope beyond my power, for my power is not what will achieve it.

Yet I am still disappointed when the face in the cloud disappears, but not because I see in it my own failure. Instead, I am disappointed because I thought it was Your face, my Lord. I watched the events in my life shift about me and coalesce into a pattern, and I thought, "This is my story--I have waited, and now I see the plot clearly!" But You were not in the cloud, and what I saw was not the story. But how easy it is to keep watching the cloud, hoping to see Your face again! And I watch 'til the cloud becomes Your hidden face, an anti-icon that says, "There is no face, fool, only your stupid hope and impotence." And with every disappointment, the cloud grows thicker and darker, and I become afraid of its faces as they taunt me with illusory hope: "Here is a joy you may see and not have!" Would You have me think You cruel, my Lord? Surrounded by hands that fling stones, how will I know Your hand when it offers bread? For, like a beaten dog, I have come to fear reaching hands.

Perhaps I cannot see Your hand, but I, your sheep, do know Your voice. So, sometimes I try to comfort myself with Your words. "All things work together for the good," You promised through Your apostle. Yes, the good: my good and the greater good, Your perfect design. But the good is not necessarily pleasant, or even painless. Your servant Job trusted You, and You took all he had. Some of Your children you strike with disease, with poverty, with persecution--and all to their good. I do believe that. But am I wrong, my Lord, to fear Your rod? Pain is pain, whatever its intent. I know that You are good and that You mean me good, but still I shrink back: the end is good, but the road may be like Hell itself. I may die; all that I love may die; all that I dream may die. Yes, I do fear Your hand, even though I do trust You. I fear Your burning, implacable love.

And when I see the suffering that could be mine, all to make of me what You desire, I fear that I cannot trust You to give what I hope. Yes, I trust You with my biggest hope: the hope to be made whole and new. This is the great good You promise. But what of my smaller hopes? I want a home, a family, and a task. These are the joys of man, when You set him in Eden, gave him a helpmate, and told him to till the earth and to multiply. Like Sam Gamgee, I want my bit of garden and Rosie Cotton. Are these not the desires You Yourself put into a man? I did not invent them. They are deep and basic, and I feel the ache for Eden and Eve at all times. I am exiled, my Lord; we are all exiled! We long for home and all our lives are spent holding onto what fragments of homeliness we can grasp. I am a man and these hopes are my inheritance, and will You withhold from a man those things which You made for man? Yes, You will and You do, and I have seen it. You give and You take, for that is Your right. And who has known Your will or been Your counsellor? Not me, certainly, and because of that I am afraid. You may withhold from me the joys of man, all for my good. And I would not know such was Your will until all hope of joy had past.

But if this is so, the pain I fear is not the only pain that shapes me, but also the pain I feel! Why do I fear Your work, as if it is in the future? You have already begun! Even now You are at work, even though I do not see. The moment of fearful anticipation is long past, and now I must endure 'til the end. So the hammer pounds out my metal, and then I am again thrust into the fire's heart. You beat and burn me, and somehow within me, mysteriously, my very nature is realigned, such that the raw ore becomes tempered steel, strong and flexible and able to hold a keen edge: You forge me into a sword to wield. May I take your buffets kindly, may I endure the heat, may I hold when my time comes in battle.

Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. But, nonetheless, give me this day my daily bread.