by Gwen Sayler

It seemed to be the worst of times. Dreams of world peace faded before fears of the ever present "Communist menace." Terrified Americans condemned other Americans as "commie–lovers." Not even the Bible was above suspicion. Because of its red cover, the newly published Revised Standard Version (RSV) translation was denounced by some Christians as yet another example of "red infiltration." School children practiced survival drills against the day the A–bomb would fall on their schools. Such was life in the United States in the 1950s. So much seemed so hopeless. In many ways, it indeed seemed to be the worst of times.

Not even fear of Russian invasion, however, could still the anticipatory hopes of elementary school children as Christmas drew near. In my school, colorful construction paper projects festooned the drab walls of every classroom. Practices for the Christmas program bumped regular class schedules. And best of all, each grade got to draw names for the Christmas gift exchange that would take place at the class party marking the end of school and the beginning of holiday vacation.

For me, the Christmas party we had when I was in fourth grade is the one that stands out in my memory. There was a quiet boy in the class named Ross. A few weeks before Christmas, we had seen him race out of the room with a look of abject terror on his face. Soon we learned that he had just been told of his mother’s sudden death.

Ross was the poor boy in the class. He lived in a tiny ramshackle house on the edge of town and wore clothes that were clearly hand–me–downs. Other parents came to see their child’s performance in the Christmas program, but no one came to see Ross. He had no money to buy gifts to give; as far as we knew, he never received any gifts either. And now his mother had died. For him, it truly was the worst of times. And then, just when it seemed his life could get no worse, it looked like it might. We had the drawing for the gift exchange, and Ross’s name was drawn by the teacher — who we all thought really didn’t like children very much.

The day of the party finally arrived. The gifts (none of which were to cost more than 50 cents) were piled under the tree. There was a large box for Ross near the bottom. One by one, the gifts were opened, until finally it was Ross’s turn. Eagerly tearing into the paper, Ross uncovered an expensive set of racing cars complete with racetrack. As it sunk in that this incredible gift was for him, Ross’ face glowed with a light that filled the room. It was a moment of wondrous mystery.

In the exchange between the stern schoolteacher and the motherless child, a Gracious Presence enveloped the room, embracing us all in a celebration with Ross of the in–breaking of the best of times even in the worst of times. Hope burst into the classroom that day — hope that lightened our steps as we walked home into the sunset, carefully keeping our mouths closed lest the falling snow drop into our mouths and contaminate us with Russian radiation.

in–breaking of the best
Many a Christmas and Easter have passed since my fourth–grade class received the gift of that most unexpected glimpse of Gracious Presence permeating the little class by room. As frightening as the 1950s were, in light of today’s crises, they now often seem like happier, simpler times. Globally, locally, and perhaps personally, the days in which we now live seem more complex, more anxious, and sometimes downright terrifying. How can we, in what so often seems the worst of times, live as people of hope? What can we do when life giving glimpses of Gracious Presence seem far away and utterly removed from us?

One place to begin is with the in–breaking of the best of times in the worst of times that St. Paul describes in Romans 5:1–5: "Having been justified therefore by faith, we have peace through our Lord Jesus Christ through whom we have access to this grace in which we stand and we boast in hope of the glory of God. Not only that, but we boast in affliction, knowing that affliction produces endurance, endurance character, and character hope. Hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts through the Holy Spirit which has been given to us" (author’s translation).

These words, often heard as an injunction to keep a stiff upper lip in suffering because suffering builds character and character builds hope, actually invite us to a very different attitude. It begins with God’s gracious mercy toward us rather than our response to affliction. Paul assures us that even in the worst of times, God is present and active for us and for all creation. Because we are the daughters and sons God declares us to be, we are given the resources we need to claim the hope that endures. Resting in the promise of Gracious Presence in and among us, we boast in hope of the glory of God.

Beginning here gives us a new perspective on Paul’s subsequent reference to boasting in suffering. There’s nothing boast–worthy in affliction itself. Suffering saps the spirits of those who suffer, snuffing out dreams for today and tomorrow. Trying to make sense of the senseless by boasting that somehow it builds character only depletes our reserves. It may temporarily shield us from our own vulnerability, but it leaves us limp and lifeless. This is not what Paul intends. Rather, grounding our boasting in God’s gracious action toward us, Paul assures us that even in suffering we are given the gift of glimpses of Gracious Presence that build up our reservoir of staying power. This frees us to embrace the hope bursting open the best of times even in the worst of times. The Gracious Presence of God in Christ is the ground of our boasting, not our steely endurance in affliction.

Paul’s words invite us to rest in the promise that even in the worst of times, God remains active for us and for all creation. Whether we can feel it or not, God’s grace in Jesus Christ embraces us and envelops us with life–giving love that will not let us go. We are not and will not be alone. We boast, not in our toughness in suffering, but in the gracious love God has for each one of us and for all humanity as well.

disciplines for endurance
Resting in God’s gracious presence frees us to develop disciplines that broaden and deepen our staying power, our endurance, even in affliction. Prayer, regular Bible reading, and worship are familiar forms of spiritual discipline. Another form, perhaps less familiar to many of us, involves nurturing different life–giving and life–sustaining resources that God has given us.

For some of us, this may involve getting our hands dirty in the garden, nurturing the seeds that signal hope by bursting into glorious color each spring. For others it may be creating beauty from yarn or fabric scraps or paint. Yet others may turn to music or literature, and still others to cooking or walking. The range of resources that God has given us is great.

For many of us, it is easier to talk about remaining tough in suffering than to give ourselves permission to nourish hope by using our inner resources. We were taught that focus on the self is sinful, that our value lies solely in what we do for others. Yet, as Paul so poignantly reminds us, through Christ we are worthy and valued for who we are quite apart from all we do for others. By nurturing that which is life sustaining within us, we grow in openness both to receive the unexpected glimpses of Gracious Presence along the way and to serve as agents of Gracious Presence to others.

I don’t know if the schoolteacher who gave Ross his amazing Christmas gift had any idea of the broad–ranging impact of her action. I doubt she did. Just as we glimpse Gracious Presence when we least expect it, so we may serve as its agent when we least recognize it.

Perhaps you are saying to yourself that while all this sounds quite fine, it means little to you. What does a person do when the disciplines that used to nurture us seem empty and God seems silent? In these times, Paul’s words invite us to take seriously the "hanging–on" and "hanging–in" dimensions of hope, as well as the powerful energy of the believing community.

Several times a week I attend a fitness class. Week after week we repeat exercise after exercise, usually groaning loudly along the way. Often the exercises seem a routine that’s going nowhere. But then the moment comes when the body responds with flexibility and strength, and suddenly all those seemingly meaningless repetition are worthwhile. Other times, particularly when my arthritic knees revolt, I can’t do some of the exercises. In those times, I rely on the energy of the class to carry me through. I watch classmates do what I cannot and then together we go on to the next exercise. Without the energy of the class, I’d probably give up.

Maintaining the disciplines that nourish our hope relies on a similar kind of stick–to–it–iveness. Sometimes the spiritual disciplines that nurture our hope seem empty, a meaningless routine that’s going nowhere. But as we "hang in and hang on" and keep exercising anyway, anyway, the moment comes when the connection to God and others clicks in a deep, meaningful way, and hope bursts out anew. Other times, when we simply cannot sing or pray, we can rely on the energy of the community to carry us through. Their singing carries the words we cannot speak, their prayers the petitions we cannot voice. We need not give up; by God’s grace, the energy of the community will carry us through.

In those moments when glimpses of Gracious Presence seem far away, when disciplines that used to give meaning seem empty routine, when it seems like the worst of times, Paul’s words call us back to the hope that has sustained generations before us and continues to sustain us today. We are the beloved of God, equipped to keep on keeping on. On our way, God’s gracious presence envelops us, embracing us with love that will not let us go. We rest in the promise that where, when, and through whom we may least expect, God continues to open our eyes and hearts to hope. This is the hope in which we boast. This is the hope in which we live and love. Even in the worst of times, this is our staying power. Hope bursts forth anew.

Gwen Sayler is profess of Hebrew Bible at Wartburg Theological Seminary in Dubuque, Iowa, and a member of the Valpo Deaconess Class of 1971.