Faith, hope, and love—the three theological virtues. Of these, hope occupies a unique space, poised between the assurance of faith and the fulfillment of love. It’s a virtue that thrives in tension. Hope stretches toward the future while standing firm in the present. It acknowledges the brokenness of the world but refuses to give it the final word. Unlike faith, which holds to what is unseen, hope actively anticipates what is not yet realized. It’s both a promise and a waiting, a restless yearning paired with steady trust. In many ways, hope is the bridge connecting the already of God’s work with the not yet of its completion. It steadies the heart not by erasing doubt but by giving it room to breathe without despair. But can hope endure when life’s foundations crumble? Can it stretch far enough to reach the promises we’ve been taught to believe?
Let us pray. May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our rock and our redeemer. Amen.
Be on guard.
That’s the warning Jesus gives his disciples as he speaks about the trials to come. The world, he says, will groan with trouble—wars, earthquakes, famine, and signs in the heavens. People’s hearts will fail with fear. Yet his words are not meant to stir dread but to call for watchfulness, a readiness rooted in hope.
Today’s gospel from St. Luke is spoken in the shadow of a world caught in the throes of upheaval. In Jesus’ time, Israel was under Roman occupation, known then as provincia Iudea, living in the grip of political oppression, economic hardship, and religious tension. The temple, the heart of their faith, stood as a symbol of both heavenly promise and earthly despair. For the disciples, this world seemed to be teetering on the edge of complete destruction, and Jesus’ words must have echoed the fears they already carried. His warning about the trials to come, the “distress of nations” and the shaking of heaven and earth, spoke directly to their sense of impending doom. Yet, in this very context, Jesus isn’t just giving a dire forecast of the world’s collapse. He’s saying remain vigilant, guard the heart, and place hope in God’s promised deliverance.
The hope Jesus speaks of isn’t some fleeting optimism that the trouble will disappear. Rather, it’s the assurance that God’s salvation is near, even in the midst of chaos. Luke’s gospel, from its opening chapters, weaves a story of salvation: from the angel’s announcement to Mary that she will bear the Savior, to the proclamation of peace and good news to the shepherds, to the healing, teaching, and ultimately the death and resurrection of Jesus. Everything Luke has told us up to this point points toward the fulfillment of God’s redemptive plan in Christ.
And now, in today’s gospel, Jesus gives a final exhortation—be alert, for your redemption is drawing near. In the face of every trial and tribulation, the certainty of God’s work in Christ remains the anchor of our hope. Jesus calls us to remain steadfast, to hold firm to the promise that, despite the pandemonium that’s coming, God’s plan for salvation will not fail.
This is the heart of hope: a steadfast trust in what lies beyond the trouble of the present because of known faithfulness from the past. Hope, as Jesus shows us, isn’t idle wishing. It doesn’t sit in the corner, waiting for the storm to pass. Hope stands tall. Hope recalls the past but looks forward. Hope moves. It’s a call to action, not escape.
In this, Jesus walks the path of the prophets before him. Jeremiah speaks a word to a people trapped in despair. The city, the holy city of Jerusalem, has fallen. The temple lies in ruins. Exile has scattered the people like dry leaves in the wind. Yet the prophet lifts his voice and says, “The days are coming, declares the Lord, when I will fulfill the good promise I made.” He speaks of a righteous Branch springing from David’s line, one who will bring justice and safety, whose name will be, “The Lord is our righteousness.” This righteousness is none other than the restoration of all things as God intends, not simply a forensic declaration of innocence but a cosmic rehabilitation, a universal peace. In a time of ruin and impending utter doom, God promises restoration.
Jesus is that Branch. He is the fulfillment of Jeremiah’s word. When he calls his followers to stand firm and not lose heart, he speaks as the one who has come to make all things new. He has the authority to say, “Be on guard,” because he himself is the hope that steadies us.
This kind of hope doesn’t shrink from trouble. Noah hammered wood and sealed planks when the skies were clear. Elijah stood on the mountain and prayed for rain while the land lay cracked and dry. These men didn’t wait for their hope to be easy. They acted on it when others mocked and the odds seemed long. In the same way, like the disciples in Jesus’ day, we’re called to take hold of the hope that is within us and be ever ready to give an account for it—even when the going gets tough.
St. Paul reminds us in his letter to the Romans, “We also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance, perseverance character, and character hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.” This isn’t simply hope as a feeling or fleeting optimism. Hope isn’t a set of handy glasses we pick to see the world in Candyland shades of pink. Hope is forged through hardship. Hope grows and deepens as it weathers trials. Hope is rooted in God’s active presence in our lives throughout history, a presence made real through the Holy Spirit.
True hope doesn’t fail or disappoint because it rests not on our strength but on the unshakable love of God. Hope motivates love, service, and a resilient spirit, even as it looks toward a future guaranteed by God’s faithfulness. Hope, in the most basic sense, is the mystery of faith, the revelation of God’s relationship with us: Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again. Remember the past. Remember the present. Remember the future.
Today, we face storms different from those faced by Noah, by Elijah, by the early Christians. In war-torn lands, families huddle in shelters, wondering if they will see the sun tomorrow. Yet aid workers press on, bringing food, water, and medicine to the shattered. These acts of kindness push back the shadow and spark hope where it has almost died. Closer to home, a mother struggling to pay rent chooses to hope. She takes the next step, finds help where she can, and clings to the belief that this season won’t last forever. A father estranged from his son writes one more letter, picks up the phone one more time, trusting that grace can rebuild what anger has torn apart. A young man wrestling with the weight of depression fights to rise each morning, reaching for the small light that tells him the darkness won’t win.
This is the kind of hope Jesus calls us to—one that resists despair and refuses to quit. “Be on guard,” he says, “so that your hearts are not weighed down.” Do not let fear steal your strength. Do not let the worries of today choke out the breath of tomorrow.
We are not promised an easy road. The storm will howl, the waves will crash, and the night will seem long. But Jeremiah reminds us that God’s promises never fail. Jesus reminds us that the day of redemption is near. Hope keeps its eyes on that truth. It works, it prays, it watches. Be on guard. The world will try to weigh you down. But its weight cannot hold against the hope that stands in Christ. So, stand tall. Stand firm. Let your hope move your hands and feet. Lift your eyes to the promise of what is to come. Hold fast to the one who holds you, and do not let go.
The Rev'd Daniel W. Spigelmyer, Jr. 