The prisoner of hope lies in their cell wondering if the Lord is near.
They are bound in chains; sometimes a hood enshrouds their head. They are not given shoes to wear, or socks to warm their feet in the cold. They don’t know why they have been brought here, or what they have done to deserve this. If there is a ransom that could be paid for their freedom, they don’t know what it is. They don’t even know if anyone knows they are here. They only know two things: that they are being subjected to cruelty they could not have imagined; and that hope is their only protection, their only armor, their only bulwark against all that is being done to them.
The prisoner of hope is a double prisoner. Bound by these chains, this hood, this isolation. But also bound to God by a covenant, a promise, they may be held captive, but they can only, ever, always be a prisoner of hope, and hope alone.
The point of this other captivity seems to be humiliation, since they have no useful intelligence to share that is not already available to anyone who wants to hear good news. The isolation is not the worst part; it’s the stress positions, the loud music, the insults and abuse, and the images they are shown, the stories they are told, which they can only assume are true. Every morning begins with an hour or more of the daily news. Who knew what torture this could be? Stories from the Times are read to them, or snippets from the networks are shown to them. They are stripped naked, chained to the wall in a stress position and made to listen, to watch.
An article about a website that encourages children (among others) to commit suicide and teaches them how to do it is read in its entirety to them.
Yesterday they were made to watch images of the devastation and destruction caused by tornadoes that seem to have the power of atomic weapons.
For almost two years, now, the prisoner has been told of a virus for which a vaccine exists. But the stories the prisoner of hope is told suggest a population that is too selfish to protect itself, even though it could.
Sometimes the guards just read climate statistics to them.
The prisoner of hope weeps. And repeats over and over to themselves that the Lord is near, the Lord is near. They must say this silently, in their hearts. If they speak the words, the guards will come with dogs that they threaten to unleash. The dogs haven’t been unleashed yet, but the prisoner has felt the hot canine breath on their neck while the barking rings violently in their ears. They know the dog’s teeth would clamp down on their flesh if the guards allowed it, and it’s clear that the guards want to allow it. Something restrains the guards this small amount, but the prisoner of hope cannot tell what it is.
And so this is the daily existence of the prisoner of hope. Sleep deprived. Sensory deprived. Love deprived. But not hope deprived. The prisoner of hope has only their inner life: the hymns they can remember from church, the snippets of the psalms. The Bible stories which remind them of other prisoners like them. And these fragments of faith have been woven into something in the soul of the prisoner of hope: something real and whole that provides an alternative to this present reality of pain.
Are there other prisoners like them here on this island? Is there another prisoner of hope in a cell on the other side of the wall? It is impossible to tell. The prisoner of hope knows that their hope would be strengthened if they knew that there was another soul hoping in such close proximity. So the prisoner of hope chooses to believe that they are surrounded by others just like them: tortured, suffering, chained not only to this wall, but also to the hope that they cannot be forced to give up.
Sometimes the guards are not so good at what they do, and the prisoner is left alone for long enough to dream, and to sing silently in their soul. And they dream of a vision of a new Jerusalem coming down from heaven where love will be restored. They smell the olive oil, and they taste the pomegranate juice. And they hear the music, and they sing inside of the soothing balm that makes the wounded whole, that heals the sin-sick soul.
The prisoner of hope is reminded, in the silence of their own heart, that they are not without sin, that they are not without the need to to repent. But they also know that they didn’t do anything to deserve this. And they are correct.
So they sing silently to themselves, because the hymns bind them fast to hope. And they remember that though they walk through the valley of the shadow of death they shall fear no evil. And they recall the incongruous instruction to rejoice always because the Lord is near. And they cannot imagine where they will find the means for rejoicing, but they know that they must find the will to do so. And so their soul sings silently about the balm in Gilead. And they feel the embrace of love: warm arms enfolding them. And they know that the Lord is near; the Lord is near; the Lord is near.
The prisoner of hope clings to this truth that the Lord is near. It was true when Moses led his prisoners out of their captivity. It was true when Daniel’s friends were thrown into the fiery furnace. It was true when the prophet called the people to return to their stronghold. It was true when John proclaimed good news to the people. It was true when Paul reminded the Philippians to rejoice always. And it is true now, that the Lord is near; yes, O prisoner of hope, the Lord is near.
Chances are, these days, that someone is trying to bind you in their chains: chains of debt, or chains of addiction, or chains of abuse, or chains of death. Everyone who wants something from you wants you in their chains.
But the Lord wants you bound fast only with the chains of hope. And he forges the links of those chains with the regular reminder and promise that he is near. That is the purpose of this gathering: to taste and see and hear and feel and smell that the Lord is near, so that we might become no one’s prisoner, because we are prisoners only of hope. And so we come as we are called. We stretch out our hands. We lift up our hearts. We taste and see that the Lord is good. And that the Lord is near.
It seems incongruous to be told in a world of such suffering, foolishness, cruelty, and selfishness that we should rejoice always. It seems preposterous to allow violet to lighten into rose. It seems outrageous to utter the words, “do not worry about anything.” Only one thing makes any of this plausible: that the Lord is near.
Perhaps you are a prisoner of hope. If not, perhaps you want to be, since prisoners of hope are the only prisoners who can ever be free. And perhaps you are wondering if the Lord is near. Perhaps you are wondering how you can survive in this world, how you can thrive.
This is how: you come as you are called. You stretch out your hands. You lift up our heart. You taste and see that the Lord is good. You let the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, guard your hearts and your mind. And you discover that the Lord is near.
And then you seek regular reminders of the promise that the Lord is near, the Lord is near, the Lord is near. You sing out loud about the balm that makes the wounded whole, because you can, and because the hymns bind you fast to hope. And you remember that though you walk through the valley of the shadow of death you shall fear no evil. And you recall the incongruous instruction to rejoice always because the Lord is near. And even if you cannot imagine where you will find the means for rejoicing you know that you must find the will to do so. You bind yourself to God by this promise, this covenant, and you will only, ever, always be a prisoner of hope, and hope alone, and you rejoice, for the Lord is near.
Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
12 December 2021
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia
