True hope stinks because it is always given birth in… less than sterile environments.
I would love to offer you some hope today, but I don’t know if you’re ready for it. I’m afraid you may be like many people I meet in church; the people who want their hope just like their mushrooms: picked, washed and canned. Maybe even sautéed and piled high on a steak sandwich.
It’s not going to happen.
It’s not that hope can’t be found in church, or among those who attend. Like I said in my last post, one of the things that I appreciate most about Christian recording artists like Cindy Palin, Red and Picking Violets is that they aren’t afraid to face reality. While longing for the day when they meet God face to face, they radiate a conviction that faith is useless unless it brings hope now.
You need to know that whatever else True Christianity is, it’s organic. Don’t be fooled by those prepackaged deals that offer all the taste and none of the mess. Ever since the first Christmas morning it has been easier to find Jesus in places that smell more like manure than incense. It’s what he’s used to, I suppose. Hope and mushrooms grow up in the same place.
Some people say they have hope, but the cynic wonders. I speak of those who offer you a ray of light after they drive up in a Land Rover, acting and smelling like a tornado going through the fragrance isle of the Bay. They leave you with the feeling hope springs from a fountain at the annual Amway convention.
I say ka-ka.
That’s right, hope grows in poop. Just like mushrooms.
Hope can be found in churches, but it isn’t grown there. It’s planted in bankruptcy, cancer wards, divorce court, and abortion clinics. It’s watered with tears through sleepless nights. It sprouts in the cellar of guilt, and on Roman crosses. It’s harvested in empty tombs. It’s meant to be picked, not bought.
So yes, I’d like to offer you hope today, but it’s going to be hard to uncover some if you don’t know what it’s like to find yourself standing in a pile of crap.
