Holy Hope

“And the Lord said to Moses, ‘Behold, you are about to lie down with your fathers. Then this people will rise and whore after the foreign gods among them in the land that they are entering.” – Deuteronomy 31:16

Some have called Deuteronomy the first sermon series, and Moses has just finished. He’s preached the longest sermon in the Bible, the last sermon of his life, there on the plains of Moab. He’s led them all these long and wandering years, and just before he is about to climb a mountain and die, God tells him this: the people he’s given his life in ministry to are about to turn their backs on everything he’s just said. How would Moses have not felt utterly crushed? We tend to gloss over this, because well, it’s no surprise to us, and we know how the story ultimately ends, but consider how it would have felt to hear that, at that time. Eugene Peterson puts it this way: “He dies, by all human accounting, a failure, and knowing that he is a failure, knowing that everything that he has worked for in leading, training, and praying for this community will unravel as soon as the people enter Canaan.”

We have hopes for the people we care for. The closer they are to us, the more we invest in them, the higher and dearer our hopes are—and the more potential there is for us to be hurt or disappointed if our hopes aren’t met. I’ve had this conversation several times with various women: how do I have hopes for my husband without expecting too much? How do I see what I think is good for him, pray for and encourage those things, without being frustrated if I see no change? And the same could be asked elsewhere. How do we continue to strive and serve in ministry when people don’t respond or show up? Parent children who make life decisions that pain us? Honor parents who disappoint us yet again? Be open to new friendships or communities when we feel hurt or abandoned by past ones?

We know now Moses is no failure, yet the world would say he was one that day. His story teaches me that, in so many ways, my hopes come with an expectation of timing or outcome that are influenced by personal or worldly perspectives, and that is not how God works. It simply isn’t. He works with the eternal view in mind. He may disappoint my hopes for my own sake, to show me that they are rooted in some amount of selfishness, pride, insecurity, or idolatry. He may disappoint my hopes because it is ultimately better for the whole body of believers, or for the sake of spreading or illustrating the gospel, or for the sake of the very people I hope it for.

The very next thing God tells Moses is to sing. It’s hard to sing without it changing the way you feel; singing is talking pitched to the soul and sentiment. He turns to these people he knows now will disappoint him, and sings them a song. Maybe he sings it to himself as well. What does he sing about? God’s perfection. His greatness, his past grace and faithfulness, his just vengeance, his power. Moses’ song goes back to God. While we hope for those we love, our faith is not in them. Our faith is in God, whom we know has our and their eternal good in mind. This makes our hope not feebler, but stronger and higher. This is a holy kind of hope: a hope that is purified in motive and content. A hope that is held together with faith in a mighty and good God. A hope that is therefore able to have a loose grip on outcomes and timing. A hope that strengthens my labors rather than cripples them. 

Would Moses have still preached those sermons with all the force of will and heart he did, if God had not waited until the end to tell him what would happen? And yet I’m glad Moses did. Despite the immediate outcome, think how meaningful his sermons still are, how precious the time he took to preach them and have them written down, because they bless us today. Our labors are not lost, and that too is part of the lesson he leaves us, part of the promise we have in Christ.