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By Dr. Bruce T. Marshall
January 3, 2010
Reading: Hope, Not Optimism
A friend whose wife is undergoing treatment for a serious illness
told me that their physician advised them to approach it with hope,
not optimism. My friend found this guidance helpful, and it makes
sense to me.
Optimism, as I understand it, is an attitude of expectation that a
particular result will occur—that a person will recover from an
illness, that we will achieve a specific goal, that this time our
lottery number will turn up. The dictionary defines optimism as “an
inclination to anticipate the best possible outcome.”
Hope is less specific. It’s an attitude that looks for possibility
in whatever life deals us. Hope does not anticipate a particular
outcome, but keeps before us the possibility that something useful
will come from this.
We are told that an optimistic outlook is a good thing, but I’ve
rarely found it so. Optimism often leads to disappointment. When the
best possible outcome doesn’t occur, we are let down, may even feel
betrayed. Hope is more resilient, more enduring, more helpful. In a
serious illness, for example, there are often setbacks. In the fact
of these, optimism may wear down. But hope encourages us to look
squarely at the realities that confront us while also remaining
aware of possibilities.
Erich Fromm observed, “To hope means to be ready at every moment for
that which is not yet born, and yet not become desperate if there is
no birth in our lifetime. Those whose hope is weak settle for
comfort or for violence; those whose hope is strong see and cherish
signs of new life and are ready every moment to help the birth of
that which is ready to be born.”
It is helpful guidance, I think, whether we are faced with an
illness, a personal dilemma, or a society faced with so many
challenges—not optimism that a particular result will occur, but
hope to “see and cherish signs of new life” wherever these may
occur.
From Taking Pictures of God
by Bruce T. Marshall
Sermon: What Brings Us Hope?
Throughout this year—the first Sunday of each month, when possible—I
have been offering a series addressing religious questions. All
religions grapple with the same basic questions of the human
condition. But the responses differ from one religion to the next.
The questions are the same; the answers are different.
As Unitarian Universalists, we participate in a larger tradition,
which is that of religious liberalism. We find expressions of
religious liberalism in most if not all of the world’s religions: in
Christianity, in Judaism, in Islam, in Hinduism and Buddhism—and
also among those would not count themselves as believers. My aim in
this series is to articulate responses to basic religious questions
offered within this tradition of which we are a part.
The question this morning: hope. What brings us hope? That seems
like a good way to start the new year. Beginnings usually evoke
hope: the beginning of a new year, the beginning of a project, a
job, marriage, the birth of a child. No matter what has come
before—like 2009, which was kind of a lousy year—we yearn for hope
to help us engage the challenges ahead.
The question of hope directs us toward the future. What brings us
hope to face the new day?
• • •
So what does hope look like for religious liberals? Wealth? Success?
Recognition? Achievement? Good health? Happy family? Winning the
World Series or the Super Bowl? Well, yes, we can hope for all those
things. But hope runs deeper than a desire for specific results to
occur.
Let me tell you a story of hope.
This comes from a time when I worked in a long-term care hospital,
serving as a chaplain. I was considerably younger then, new to the
ministry, and this was a scary place. The hospital was old, a
facility built in another era in which patients were housed in long,
rectangular wards, about 30 to each unit. Beds lined the perimeter,
with enough room between each for a chair and a small night table.
It reminded me of images of military hospitals from old war movies.
The place had a powerful distinctive smell, a mixture of
disinfectant, urine, and tar.
The head nurse gave me a tour of the wards I would be responsible
for, going from bed to bed, pausing at each to tell me something
about the person who lived in that space. There was a large man with
a happy smile who had suffered a brain injury. When I tried to talk
to him, he didn’t respond—just kept smiling back. But occasionally,
inexplicably and out of context, he would break into song—the same
song every time, “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” You could hear him
all through the ward. Next to him was a man who looked professorial,
sitting quietly in his chair, wearing dark-rimmed glasses, reading a
book. The nurse said, “He reads all day, but he never turns a page.
It’s always the same book, always the same page.”
In another of my wards was a woman who had a birth defect that
caused her body to be small and weak, but her head was larger than
normal, seemed swollen; she could barely hold up her head on her
own. This woman kept falling in love with other patients,
relationships that were mostly one way. We had long talks about the
travails of each that were heart-rending for the yearning they
conveyed.
Where was hope here? That was a question that plagued me as I went
about my work, day after day. My concern was partially about my
patients and where they might find hope. But it was also about me:
where in this context could I find hope? The hospital seemed a
desperately sad place, and I noticed members of the staff adopting
strategies to protect themselves—like humor, detachment, sometimes
cruelty.
One of my patients was a teen-aged girl. I’ll call her “Karen,”
because that was her name. I don’t know what Karen’s affliction was.
All I knew was what I could see and what the nurses told me. She was
in a wheelchair, her fingers were knotted and misshapen, she didn’t
have much control over her arms or facial expressions, and she
couldn’t talk. She opened her mouth and made sounds, but they didn’t
come together into words. One of the nurses told me that she could
not understand what was said to her so my visits were perfunctory. I
would come by, say, “How are you?” make a few other remarks about
the weather or something and then move on. It felt awkward and
one-sided but after a few weeks, it did seem that she recognized me
when I came by. Her expression changed; she appeared to be watching
me.
Karen was not popular on this ward with either staff or the other
patients who were mostly very old and sick women. Karen was severely
handicapped, but she was also a teenager and—as is typical of that
breed—she found ways to make her presence known, rebelling at rules
like bedtime, rejecting the food, finding ways to harass others who
just wanted some peace and quiet.
One morning I was making my rounds, came to Karen, did my usual,
“How are you today?” and I found my attention drawn to her lips. It
seemed she was trying to say something. I realized she was saying
“How....are....you?” Those who had told me that Karen could neither
understand nor talk were wrong.
Over the next weeks, I began to find ways to communicate with Karen.
It was difficult, but we talked. Then one day I was trying to tell
her something, and she was trying to respond. She was pointing at a
tray propped on the arms of her wheelchair—almost like the top of a
highchair for feeding babies. On this board were various designs,
including an alphabet.
She had a hard time controlling her hands, but I realized that she
was pointing at letters one at a time and that the letters spelled
words. Another barrier was broken.
I would like to claim this as a miracle, but I can’t. I pieced
together her story: when Karen had entered the hospital, she could
talk, and was able to communicate through the use of the letter
board. But this ward contained many patients, and nurses were
stretched to their limits. Karen stopped trying, and as new staff
came onto the ward, they assumed that she wasn’t capable of
communication. I just happened to pay enough attention to get her to
try again.
What brings me hope? That experience, that memory, represents as
well as anything what I have tried to do as a minister. Offer
attention, participation, care in the hope that the force of
life—some may call it God—will become present. That the creative
energy of the universe will make itself known with this person or
these people and move us in directions that are right and true. Even
when I don’t know what the specific outcome should be.
I did not teach Karen how to use the alphabet board. I did not help
her learn how to talk, to overcome her physical disabilities that
made it so difficult. Other people did that. More importantly, Karen
did that. What I did was show an interest, which helped awaken the
power already within her, the talents already within her. What gives
me hope is remembering and recognizing that such power resides in
us, sometimes dormant, but available to become a transforming
presence in our lives.
• • •
It’s not a sure thing. Offering attention, care, presence does not
always produce a positive result. It sometimes does nothing. It
occasionally can make things worse. By this time in my life, believe
me, I have been part of endeavors in which my best efforts and/or
those of others have produced no benefit at all. As I tried to
express in today’s opening reading, hope and optimism are not the
same.
To be optimistic is to believe that entering a situation and
offering our presence and commitment will produce a beneficial
result. It involves envisioning a positive outcome with the
conviction that keeping that outcome in mind will bring about that
result.
Maybe that works for some people. If it does for you, by all means
do it. But in my experience thinking optimistically doesn’t often
lead to what has been envisioned. One example. We in this nation are
today involved in two wars that, whatever you think of their merits,
have been harder and gone on far longer than those who originally
backed them anticipated. As I read it, both wars were created by
optimists who had a vision: two important nations—Afghanistan and
Iraq—in an unstable region. If these two countries were to become
stable democracies with governments friendly toward the West, it
would alter the balance of power and put extremism on the defensive.
It was an optimistic solution to a long-term challenge which, thus
far at least, has not worked. I look to these wars as examples of
how positive thinking can lead us into unwise actions.
Optimism also isn’t helpful for me because I often don’t know what
an outcome should be. As an example: my coming here to Davies. For
me at least, it’s been wonderful to be in this congregation. But
last year at this time, Davies was not on my radar. I wasn’t even
sure if I wanted to be an interim minister. Similarly, I do not have
a clear picture of what I want Davies to look like in 20 months when
my time with you ends. What drives me is not a plan with a definite
goal. What drives me is hope. Hope that by participating in the life
of this community and offering whatever I have that the energy and
talent that already is here will be expressed in ways that are
authentic to this congregation. That’s the hope that guides my
involvement with you—not an anticipation of specific outcomes.
Will it work? I don’t know. But it might, and that brings me hope.
• • •
Let me share a few other experiences that give me hope.
As some of you know, two weeks ago Amy and I took a bus to New York
City to attend graduation ceremonies at Columbia University where
our oldest son, Aaron, received his Master’s Degree from the School
of International and Public Affairs, which always sounds vaguely
scandalous to me—but that’s what it’s called. Anyway, he was chosen
by his peers to give the graduation address and in it he made this
statement, which I paraphrase because I don’t remember it word for
word.
He said that in such ceremonies it is customary to wish the
graduates success in their chosen field. But, he continued, I do not
wish us success because that implies the possibility that we might
not succeed. I am confident that we will succeed. Knowing this class
as I do—our commitment, our abilities, our values—I know that we
will succeed.
It was a touching moment—a statement of affirmation and
support—something both graduates and families could take home with
them. But he’s wrong. His class will not succeed. No matter how
smart and committed and well educated and even lucky they might be,
they will fail at their ultimate aim of bringing understanding and
prosperity and peace to the planet. In all likelihood they will have
moments of success, may participate in projects that make
contributions, they will have times when they point to an
improvement in life in a particular part of the world as a result of
their efforts, but ultimately they will come up short.
And yet, to hear him say that with such conviction—and to observe
heads in the audience nodding in agreement—and to hear others refer
to it after the speech: all that gives me hope. Here is a group of
young people going out into the world with a deep belief that they
can make a difference. Forty years from now, when they turn over
their portfolios to a new generation, this will still be a troubled
world. But maybe, despite colliding with reality time and again,
maybe they’ll nudge us a little in the direction of a world of
justice and prosperity and peace.
That gives me hope.
• • •
Let me tell you something else that brings me hope: marching bands.
Of our four children, Amy and I have had three go all the way
through high school in the marching band. We’ve seen a lot of
halftime shows. We’re among those appalling parents who time their
arrival at the football game to about three minutes left in the
second quarter—one minute if we could do it. Then we’d watch the
halftime show. Then we’d leave, rushing out as the football teams
rushed back in for the second half.
Partially we did this to be supportive of our kids. If you’re in a
big band, it’s nice to know that somebody’s in the audience looking
for you. But also Amy and I both have this odd reaction to high
school marching band halftime shows: we get emotional, we get teary.
When this first started happening, I didn’t know what was going on.
Seems odd, after all. But there’s something about the earnestness
about young people on the field with the band—and how fleeting that
time is—that I find very affecting.
Maybe it happens to you at other times: recitals. Plays.
Performances. Maybe you have children on sports teams. Wherever that
happens, those tears that form, that’s hope. It’s recognizing
something precious and beautiful and fleeting, as is all of life.
I encountered hope last year in Knoxville, Tennessee, as I worked
with the Unitarian Universalist congregation where a man who hated
liberals burst into a children’s performance and started shooting.
In response, people from throughout that community came to the
church, bringing cakes and casseroles, staying to talk—people
representing congregations from across the spectrum of religions,
people representing community organizations, people who had never
before been inside a Unitarian Universalist church—they all arrived.
In person. That gives me hope. Yes, there is violence and hatred in
the world, but there also is something that arises within us to take
a stand that this is not right, this shall not be allowed to occur
without protest.
Another context in which I find hope. On Thursdays, my day off at
Davies, I go to the senior residence center, Riderwood in Silver
Spring, where I am the chaplain to the Unitarian Universalist
population. Everybody there is dealing with the challenges of
getting old, and I often find myself moved by the spirit of the
people I encounter.
I remember a woman musing that at 86-years-old, it’s becoming more
difficult to find opportunities to volunteer. What moved me about
that: the desire that still burns within her to be of service. She
is, by the way, one of the people responsible for the schools in
Prince George’s county finally desegregating, against enormous
resistance. The story she told me of courage in the midst of that
battle also gives me hope.
There’s a couple at Riderwood who have been activists all their
lives, and they’re still at it. Badgering the management about the
practice of supplying bottled water, which has terrible implications
for the environment. And bringing together a group of people of
different races, different religious backgrounds for dialogue,
encouraging participants to understand each other more deeply.
Forming a group called, “Justice Seekers,” who, well, seek justice.
It gives me hope that just because they are residents of a senior
center, they don’t turn off the concerns that have guided them
throughout their lives.
I also find hope in the relationships that form among the
residents—people who had not known each other before become friends.
To enter into a friendship at this stage of life takes hope and
courage because you know that you are subject to the frailties of
age. It is to open yourself to the hurt of loss. And yet, we do it.
I remember a member of a lay ministry team I set up who was, at the
time, 86 years old. She was a conscientious member of the group, but
there were some meetings she did not attend because they conflicted
with visits from who she called her “boyfriend,” who visited from
out of town. Her boyfriend is 88 years old, widowed. This woman had
been divorced over 30 years ago and had not had a significant
relationship since—until now. She told me (and actually everybody
else too—she was not quiet about this), she said, it’s such a
surprise. “At our age, we know that this will end badly. But...” And
then I have to say, she giggled a little.
I ran into them once at an art museum, and she introduced me to the
“boyfriend.” She had a radiant look on her face, and they shared
such delight in being with each other. Even though they inhabited
bodies that were approaching 90-years-old, except for that, they
looked like teenagers in love.
All this gives me hope because it suggests something in the human
spirit that continues to prod us toward connection, toward forming
relationships, toward seeking what is right and true. Old people,
young people, and those in between. Whenever I encounter that, it
brings me hope.
• • •
Ok. Let’s try to rein this in. My topic this morning has been hope.
My announced intention has been to consider how the liberal
religious tradition has approached the question of hope. What’s
actually developed has been more of a personal testimonial, albeit,
from within the context of the liberal religious tradition. That
happens sometimes.
To me, it’s significant that the liberal religious tradition
refrains from defining the content of hope. That is, we do not say
that hope must be vested in, say, salvation. Or in faith in Jesus
Christ or Muhammad or Buddha. Or even in the desire for a fairer and
more peaceful world.
In the tradition of the free church, there is an openness to ways in
which hope finds to express itself. We share a humility in not
defining what it’s supposed to look like.
Rather, we share a faith that by attending to people, by offering
care and respect, by being true to ourselves, we release the
creative energy of the universe—the spirit of God—which then finds
its own ways to express itself.
Perhaps a severely handicapped teenager who summons the energy to
try to communicate with another person, despite the difficulty.
Or people who are very different from each other who still find ways
to make connections, find common ground, celebrate their common
humanity.
Or young girl Amy saw recently and told me about. She was wearing a
new dress and twirled around, trying to catch a glimpse of how
pretty she was in it.
Or young adults, making their way out into the world with desire and
conviction that they can make a difference, can help create w world
of compassion and justice.
Or people who allow themselves to fall in love, despite the odds
against them.
Or a community that rises up in protest against violence, that comes
together in support of those who have suffered.
That’s what gives me hope.
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