The Christian Hope

by Kathleen Bliss


Feast of the Holy Apostle Timothy of the Seventy

Anno Domini 2021, January 22



A subject much under discussion, not only in a theological but in a practical way, is that of Christian hope. It is not difficult to see why this should be so. The general gloom of the times is enough to account for a return to a much neglected aspect of Christianity. A further urgency is given to the discussion by the fact that Christianity is not alone in offering men a hope, but has a powerful rival in the Communist faith which derives much of its influence from the fact that it also has a messianic element in it, the promise of a time of deliverance for the poor and despised of the earth, the promise that all who rally to it are espousing a cause which is bound to triumph on this earth within human history and, according as men labor earnestly for it, within a measurable space of time. What the Christian has to offer as an alternative in the way of hope is scoffed at as so much “pie in the sky when you die.” Certainly it would be difficult to find Christians who now preach a gospel of unlimited compensation for hard work, low pay and bad conditions, in a sweet by-and-by. That kind of interpretation of Christian hope belonged to an era when economic laws were thought to be as immutable as the law of gravity. It was a response to economic fatalism.


It sometimes looks as though Christians are beginning to make the same sort of response to a widely prevailing international fatalism. It is difficult both to believe that atomic war is inevitable and to hold on to an expectation of a Kingdom of God on earth. Some Christian propagandists in this country have already been heard to say that Christianity is a faith which enables men to live without earthly hope. The question whether men can live without any hope in this world, of whether God has made us beings capable of or intended for such living, when He endowed us with astonishing powers of looking and planning ahead, is one far too big for discussion here. Another question, whether the interpretation of Christian hope as an other-worldly promise is true to the teaching of the Bible, is a subject of age-old debate, raised again with urgency by the circumstances of our time. Both these questions about the nature of Christian hope carry within them the huge problems of the Christian doctrine of history, which again is coming to the fore and is exciting in some quarters even more interest than the debate between religion and science. We have obtained from Professor Butterfield, Regius Professor of Modern History in the University of Cambridge, the promise of four Supplements in the New Year on Christianity and History, a subject on which he has been lecturing to crowded audiences in Cambridge this autumn.


The question of Christian hope is not, therefore, to be disposed of in a few lines of a News-Letter, but one aspect of it is illuminatingly touched upon in Canon M. A. C. Warren’s book, The Truth of Vision. One does not expect exhaustive treatises from authors who leave home before seven every morning to come to London to deal with the practical affairs of a great Missionary Society. The question he tackles in practical fashion and out of a wide experience of, and a profound belief in, the missionary activity of the Church, is the relationship of the Christian hope to the task of the Church in the world. “Is hope,” he asks, “an active and dynamic sense of expectation, which looks for and finds a divine activity everywhere and then identifies itself with that activity, or is it, in fact, an attitude of resignation, genuine in its piety but quite incapable of making any kind of challenging impact upon the earth?” He suggests that part of the reason why we find it so difficult to answer the question, what is Christian hope, is that we have lost faith in the on-going mission of the Church, or, not being sure what that mission is, are disappointed at the Church’s failure. History takes its course: it is not being directed by the Church, and it is sheer illusion to say so. But Canon Warren has not lost faith in the Church’s mission. The Church, in his view, “is in the world to redeem the world, by preparing the world for the coming of the Kingdom.” The Church is everywhere a minority; nor can Canon Warren find any warrant in Scripture for the hope that it will ever be anything else. Nevertheless, when as a faithful minority it has performed its task of preaching the Gospel throughout the length and breadth of the inhabited globe, it has done what its Lord commanded—it has made the necessary preparations for Him to bring the promised Kingdom. His point of view is expressed with simplicity and has at least the merit, lacking in so many attempted expositions of the nature of Christian hope, of tying together the practical obedience of the Church daily in the world with the eschatological expectation of the end of history and the return of our Lord.


*From The Christian News-Letter No. 327, 22 December 1948, edited by Kathleen Bliss.

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By Mark C. Watney August 25, 2026
Inside the head of my three-month-old granddaughter, Lucy, said G.K. Chesterton is, "a new universe, as new as it was on the seventh day of creation...a new system of stars, new grass, new cities...and new seas." And this is because, he adds: The gravity of astonishment at the universe...dwells in the eyes of a baby three-months-old [and] the universe is put upon its trial and forces us actually to remodel our conduct...we seem to be dealing with a new race, only to be seen through a microscope...[with] delightful bulbous heads, three times too big for the body. But Chesterton's central thesis in this essay is not that babies are so marvelous, but that our treatment of each other as adults, in contrast, is so broken. "It is our attitude towards grown-up people that is wrong," he writes, because we no longer see each other with astonishment and wonder (unless, that is, we are falling in love). But babies remind us that humans really are astonishing, and this "revolutionary theory of the marvelousness of all things" should force us to "remodel our conduct" toward everyone we meet. A baby seems to be a necessary icon for us, correcting our eyesight which grows old and struggles to see "the weight of glory" in each other as teenagers, adults, and perhaps especially, as old people. Even though he did not reference icons in his essay, we seem to drift very easily into what could be called a type of iconoclasm, an inability to see each other as image bearers of God Himself. William Wordsworth describes us as "trailing clouds of glory" when we first arrive here "from God, who is our home." But soon, he says, "shades of the prison-house" begin to smother us, and we forget. "We bow to grown people," says Chesterton in this same essay, "take off our hats to them, refrain from contradicting them flatly, but we do not appreciate them properly." God speaks to us, like we are working through in St. John of Damascus , through the "cataphatic or apophatic spectrum of theology," or literally from the spoken word (cataphatic) or unspeakable word (apophatic). Apophatic I noticed has the same root in Greek as Infant does in Latin. Both mean "unspoken." God has given us both bibles and babies, speechless wonders through which He means to unglaze our eyes and fill us with astonishment. MARK C. WATNEY is professor emeritus at Sterling College, assisting in its newly established C. S. Lewis Center. He has given papers at Harvard's Center for Hellenic Studies and Dordt College
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