Reason to hope
Hab 1:2-3; 2:2-4; Ps 95:1-2, 6-7, 8-9; 2 Tim 1:6-8, 13-14; Lk 17:5-10
I sit writing this on the day after Charlie Kirk was killed. By the time you read it, who knows what will have transpired in our country? It’s clear that we are facing increasing division in our society, and that this division is becoming increasingly violent.
So it seems sadly appropriate that our first reading today is taken from the book of the prophet Habakkuk. Habakkuk lived through some of the most violent times in the history of Israel and his words powerfully reflect his experience.
He begins by discussing the violent actions of unjust citizens in Israel on the eve of the Babylonian exile and then transitions to describe Babylon’s brutal attack on Jerusalem itself.
I vividly recall one of my first encounters with this book. It was a warm September morning in my final year of seminary. The Office of Readings (from the Liturgy of the Hours, a book that every priest and seminarian prays daily) that day contained a passage from Habakkuk, describing great violence throughout Judah. I remember discussing the mismatch between that disturbing text and the serene morning with some of my classmates at breakfast.
The date was Sept. 11, 2001, and shortly thereafter, the carnage began to unfold. It gave context to an otherwise somewhat obscure prophetic book that I have never forgotten.
Yet, for all its brutal narrative, Habakkuk’s message is not devoid of hope. Through him, the Lord promises his people that “the just one, because of his faith, will live” (Hab 2:4). The Lord knows that in the midst of dark, violent days, it is exceedingly difficult to place hope in a better future. Thus, he emphatically promises: “For the vision still has its time, presses on to fulfillment, and will not disappoint” (Hab 2:3).
That’s all well and good, but how does one maintain hope when there are seemingly only darkness and ruin on the horizon. Our psalm response — “If today you hear his voice, harden not your hearts” (Psalm 95) — almost seems to be mocking those who are in the throes of suffering or grief. Few, if any, actively choose to have a heart that is shut off from hearing and receiving God’s words of hope. But our heart’s capacity to receive can be dulled by experiences of unrelenting despair.
So where does that leave us? Clearly the enduring message of Christianity is meant to be a message of hope, a hope that can withstand even the darkest, most violent hours on the cross, whatever our own individual crosses might be. Here we may find Paul’s message to his friend Timothy (our second reading this Sunday) to be helpful.
The backstory to our excerpt is important, because Paul is writing from an experience of no small suffering himself. He is likely being held as a prisoner in Rome (2 Tim 1:8, 16), and he laments that he has not been particularly effective in his preaching (2 Tim 1:15-18), and that he has been abandoned by former supporters (2 Tim 1:15-18).
Nevertheless, even from these bleak circumstances, Paul is a source of encouragement to Timothy, exhorting him to “stir into flame the gift of God that you have through the imposition of my hands” (2 Tim 1:6). He goes on to note that God does not impart a “spirit of cowardice,” but rather a spirit of “power and love and self-control” (2 Tim 1:7).
This concept of a gift that is received via the “imposition of hands” has been used in the church as the foundation of our sacraments, such as when a bishop lays hands upon another in the sacrament of confirmation or holy orders.
But perhaps there is an equally powerful gift — a gift of hope for peace — that results from reaching out and imposing our own hands to comfort, hold and pray with those who are enduring the scourge of violence. More than a simple “prayer for peace,” Paul is calling us to take seriously the power of the Holy Spirit that dwells within our hearts. To actively engage with our bodies (to speak out, to visit, to not back down) can bring to life Habakkuk’s hope-filled promise and give tangible form to Paul’s indomitable confidence.