Hoping against hope?
We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure, which enters the presence behind the veil where Jesus our forerunner has gone on our behalf (Hebrews 6:19 & 20).
“Life is nasty, brutish, and short,” Thomas Hobbes wrote after witnessing the savagery of men during the Thirty Years’ War (1618-1648) in Europe. He concluded that war was natural and peace unnatural, that butchery and barbarism are innate while charity and civility are entirely artificial, that the real garden of nature is a killing field and the bucolic Garden of Eden a pitiful pipe dream. Is despair the only response to a world riddled by death? Is there more to hope than clinging to mere possibility? Take heart and join me on a voyage to the source of confident hope.
Context: What did the original audience know and understand?
Travelers in the Greco-Roman world could choose to journey either by foot or by sea. Ships did not sail on set schedules; instead, they waited for favorable winds, calm weather, and good omens. Mediterranean storms and fog were so unpredictable that they only regularly sailed between the months of May and September. Passenger ships as we know them today did not exist; instead, travelers would book passage on any vessel that was carrying goods or journeying to the passenger’s ultimate destination. Once aboard, the accommodation was austere. Only a select few, such as the captain or wealthy Romans, had access to a cabin. The rest had to sleep on the deck — either in makeshift tents or under the open sky. In ideal conditions, a voyage by sea from Rome to Alexandria would last less than a month, whereas traveling strictly by road could take almost half a year. Travel by sea was dangerous. Shipwreck and piracy were a frequent reality. Some scholars estimate that one in five ship journeys ended in a wreck. In fact Paul mentions three shipwrecks he survived and other dangers he faced (2Corithians 11:25-26). Eventually the presence of Roman fleets on the seas lessened the fears of piracy. Upon arrival it was not safe for a large ship to sail through the mouth of a harbor. Instead she would drop one anchor close to the harbor and send a second anchor into the harbor aboard a small rowing vessel called a forerunner. The captain of the ship had implicit faith in the ability of the forerunner to set the anchor firmly. Regardless of the storms, the moment the anchor was set the ship was safe. When the tide was right she would follow the anchor and winch herself safely into the harbor.
Historical Progression: The early church was aware of and believed in the existence of other unseen dimensions. They understood hope to be anchored in the physical, bodily resurrection of Jesus Christ. The metaphor in Hebrews, equating Christ with the nautical forerunner, sidesteps the anticipated conclusion in the visible harbor and instead draws us to the unseen presence behind the veil. We are invited to grasp precisely that God’s space and ours—heaven and earth, though very different, are not far from one another—just a feather’s breadth away. Earth and heaven are not two different locations within the same continuum of space or matter. They are two different dimensions of God’s good creation. God’s space and ours interlock and intersect in a whole variety of ways even while they retain, for the moment at least, their separate and distinct identities and roles. Jesus, in his resurrection and ascension, has gone on ahead of us into God’s space. “Jesus has been raised to heaven and we pray that we may be raised there too,” says the traditional Anglican prayer. In fact it is the physical, bodily resurrection of Christ that prompts Paul to declare, “I would not have you grieve as those who have no hope” (1 Thessalonians 4:13). Our forerunner has prepared the way to a hope filled future.
The veil is evident in the centuries-old Celtic notion of thin places. It is described as “those rare locales where the distance between heaven and earth collapses." Thin places can exist outside us, within us, or be associated with specific ancient or significant historical sites. For example, the Red Sea is a thin place where seawater split apart and a trail of freedom formed. The place of all thin places is a little hill outside Jerusalem, where the veil between earth and heaven was completely torn. Contemporary Christian poet Sharlande Sledge puts it this way: “Thin places,” the Celts call this space, “both seen and unseen. Where the door between this world and the next is cracked open for a moment , and the light is not all on the other side. God shaped space. Holy.”
Quantum mechanics also grapples with what lies beyond the veil. French physicist Bernard d’Espagnat won the Templeton Prize in 2009. The Templeton Foundation specifically supports research at the intersection of science, philosophy, and religion. During his career in quantum mechanics, Dr. d’Espagnat developed the idea that the reality revealed by science offers only a “veiled” view of an underlying reality that science cannot access. He proposed that behind measured phenomena exists a “veiled reality,” independently of us, even though we lack the ability to fully describe it. He said, “Science isn’t everything. A “veiled reality” is perceived in different and fragmentary places including science, art, and spiritually. We are accustomed to the idea that when we hear beautiful music, or see paintings, or read poetry, we get a faint glimpse of a reality that underlies empirical reality.” Like the hum of a tuning fork this truth resonates with our souls.
I am reminded of a poem by Henry Van Dyke that creatively captures the first moment behind the veil. It is simply titled Gone From My Sight. “I am standing on the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and she starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud, just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other. Then someone at my side says, “There she goes!” Gone where? Gone from my sight….that is all. She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side. And she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to the place of destination. Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at the moment when someone at my side says ‘There she goes!’ there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, “Here she comes!” And that is dying…”
Conclusion: Every civilization supposes a pathway of the soul after death. Yet, we’re always only paddling on the surface with our understanding of unseen dimensions and the spiritual realm. The depth of the unknown is a lurking shadow because we know we face a final voyage. Are you hopeful or scared to death? Has someone you love stepped behind the veil? Hope is only as strong as the one in whom it is placed. Hope in Christ who conquered death is unassailable. The forerunner of our souls has firmly established his cross-shaped anchor in the heavenly harbor. One day he will appear and earth and heaven will be joined in a new way, open and visible to one another. Until then, “we await the blessed hope and glorious appearance of our great God and Savior Jesus Christ” (Titus 2:13).
Sources: Surprised by Hope, NT Wright; Ten Books That Screwed Up the World, Benjamin Wiker; https://www.science.org/content/article/science-cannot-fully-describe-reality-says-templeton-prize-winner : https://www.biblicalarchaeology.org/daily/ancient-cultures/ancient-rome/the-pax-romana-and-maritime-travel/ https://www.thecollector.com/ancient-mariners-roman-mediterranean/ https://saintbenedict.ca/resources/the-forerunner https://arocha.ca/lifting-the-veil-between-heaven-and-earth-guest-blog/