Suffering Produces Hope
by Walter Brueggemann
(The following is an edited text of a paper presented in Baltimore, MD on April 2, 1998, on the occasion of the Dr. A. Vanlier Hunter, Jr. Memorial Lecture, sponsored by the Institute for Christian and Jewish Studies.)
It is odd that folks should meet together in
Baltimore on a Thursday night in April to
reflect upon hope, especially since we in the
United States seem already to have
everything, and need hope for nothing more.
And yet, it is not odd that Jews and
Christians should meet together–on any
occasion–to think about hope, because Jews
are the most elemental hopers in the world,
and, in decisive ways, Christians have
learned about hope from Jews. And so, we
Christians hope with Jews. When Jews and
Christians hope together, moreover, we
express our shared oddity, for we hope,
characteristically, in a context that is either
satiated and indulgent, or in despair and
incapable of hope. Either way, hope is a
distinctive act that belongs to us together.
I The Context of Loss
It is correct to say that the destruction of
Jerusalem in 587 B.C.E. at the hands of the
Babylonians, and the exile that followed, are
the defining realities for ancient Israel in the
Hebrew Bible. There
surely were people in
Jerusalem who never
departed, but in the
liturgical and
imaginative life of
emerging Judaism,
the loss of home, the
displacement that
followed, and the
apparent loss of God,
were the defining
realities–for that
generation, and for
all generations to come.
The text shows, in many places, that coming
to terms with the loss of Jerusalem was the
overriding intellectual and religious agenda of
ancient Israel. Indeed, coming to terms with
that loss has continued to be an overriding
Jewish agenda, even until our own time.
Ancient Israel “came to terms” with these
losses as it did with all loss: by its capacity
to tell the truth about itself–to claim the
loss, and to express publicly and repeatedly
all the hurt, the grief, the rage, the doubt,
and the bewilderment of what it means to
have the focal center of life and the engine of
faith taken away. With the destruction of
Jerusalem in 587 B.C.E., Judaism became a
people displaced from its center and true
home.
In a very different way, and yet strangely
parallel, Christians are defined by the huge,
massive loss of that dread Friday we call
“good.” As Israel had invested the city of
Jerusalem as its center of possibility, so
Christians, for reasons we ourselves do not
fully understand, invested the person of
Jesus with the same cruciality. Jesus became
for Christians the peculiar carrier of God’s
promises in the world in a way similar to the
way Jerusalem had become for Jews the
embodiment of God’s possibilities in the
world. Early Christians were compelled by
Jesus, and they struggled about how to
speak of him. They called him many names
out of their Jewish repertoire, among them
“Messiah/Christ,” by which they meant to say
that Jesus was a human agent who carried
and implemented God’s dreams for the
world. As Jerusalem signified possibilities for
peace, justice, freedom, and security in a
Jewish world, so Jesus was seen from the
start by Christians as a revolutionary force
for transformation in the world.
So Jesus went to Jerusalem–that is the great
decision and great journey of his life–and
there he encountered all the forces of
resistance and status quo because that is
how an urban center tends to work; and
there, eventually, he was executed by the
Romans as a trouble-maker. Just as exiled
Jews pondered the loss of Jerusalem, so
Christians pondered the death of Jesus.
Indeed, half of the gospel story in the New
Testament is about that final week of his life:
from the entry into Jerusalem on Palm
Sunday to the supper and the trial and the
execution. And then darkness and turmoil.
Among exiled Jews the end of Jerusalem
unleashed huge visions of disorder, for
Jerusalem had been the power of order that
held the threat of chaos and disorder at bay.
And so, in exile, they sang of their beloved
city:
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. . . though the earth should change,
though the mountains shake in the heart of
the sea;
though its waters roar and foam,
though the mountains tremble with its tumult
. . .
God is in the midst of the city;
it shall not be moved (Psalm 46:2-5).
In much the same way, early Christians saw
in Jesus a power to fend off disorder. And
then came death and darkness and
earthquake and terror. In ways we do not
understand, this loss of Jesus became the
key confession of the early church,
symbolized among Protestants by a cross,
and among Roman Catholics, by a cross with
the body depicted as either suffering or in
triumph. And the mantra of Christian faith
became “Jesus, and him crucified.”
Now it is important, as we meet together,
that Christians understand better than we do
why the loss and recovery of Jerusalem are
pivotal for Jews; and that Jews understand
better why Christians can go on and on
about Friday and Sunday. But I suggest that-
-together–we have a more important,
shared agenda, more important even than
our understanding each other, namely, that
Jews and Christians–even together–do not
live in a vacuum. Jews–with the enduring
loss of Jerusalem–and Christians–with the
enduring death of Jesus–live in a culture
that is now defined by loss, and, therefore, I
propose that our peculiar and shared
traditions of loss are a huge resource for
faith and life in our time.
The loss, now among us, that touches
everything public and personal for everyone,
conservative and liberal alike, includes:
• the failure of the old social fabric, now
deeply in jeopardy;
• the failure of the old consensus of
intellectual certitudes;
• the failure of old patterns of privilege and
domination that we count on;
• the failure of economic viability–except for
the privileged few–so that
“down-sizing” of claims and possibilities goes
on everywhere.
So now we–together–must engage in what
ancient Jews did in Babylon, and what
ancient Christians did in Jerusalem and in
Galilee: embrace the loss that is more than
can be imagined. We are the people who
know loss best because it is definitional in
both our traditions. We are the people who
know best what it is like to give up what is
over. We are the ones who are entrusted
with resources to help our communities and
our society move beyond the loss.
Now, as then, there are some who engage in
denial and nostalgia, imagining that not
much is happening, that the loss is not deep,
not permanent. . . except that
Jerusalem really was gone;
Jesus really was dead;
old patterns really are over: no denial; no
nostalgia.
Now, as then, there are some who engage in
fantasy and in irresponsible private actions,
out of touch with social reality. But then–get
this!–some, in the loss of Jerusalem, and
some, in the death of Jesus, engaged in
massively buoyant acts of recommitment to
the future. It is that massive, buoyant act of
commitment to the future that is our proper
agenda and our proper topic. And here I
reflect with you on that agenda.
II The Primacy of Memory
The primary ingredient–and primary
resource–of faith that is indispensable in a
season of loss is active, determined,
concrete, resilient memory. The loss of
Jerusalem and the death of Jesus might have
resulted in forgetting and abandoning. But,
of course, they did not. Jews and Christians
did not forget; they did not abandon. Rather,
each tradition engaged in an intense and
disciplined recovery of the past.
It is now believed that Judaism–in exile, and
just after–engaged in a massive
reconstitution of memory that led to the
formation and codification of the Torah. The
materials of the Torah are, of course, very,
very old. But as near as we can determine, it
is precisely in the sixth century that the
Priestly traditions codified the holiness rules
that caused Judaism to develop internal
disciplines of odd fidelity. And it was the
traditions of Deuteronomy, linked to Moses,
that codified the rules about widows and
orphans and illegal immigrants that made
Judaism into a community passionate for
social justice. All this, as near as we can tell,
among exiles who grieved Jerusalem. And, of
course, we know the deep, enraged resolve
of the Psalmist:
How can we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign
land?
If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right
hand wither!
Let my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth,
if I do not remember you,
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if I do not set Jerusalem above my highest
joy (Psalm 137:4-6).
In that moment of the priests and the
Deuteronomists, the whole of the book of
Genesis was gathered–all the mothers and
fathers, all the tales of barrenness and
hopelessness, all the miracles of sons and
daughters born, all those tales that remind
us that the entire past of Judaism is a collage
of miracles from a good God who does not
quit–even in the face of profound loss.
It is in exile, or soon thereafter, that we get
Psalm 136, a liturgical chant for Jews that
remembers the classical story: everything
from creation through Egypt and Pharaoh
and the Red Sea and the good land. And all
the while this dominant memory is being
recited, the congregation is saying, after
every half verse,
ki l’olam hasdo,
ki l’olam hasdo,
ki l’olam hasdo,
for his steadfast love endures forever.
God’s faithfulness, God’s fidelity, God’s
loyalty last always, even now, even in exile,
even in loss. It is not different among early
Christians who reorganized their lives around
the Friday loss. They could not understand
the defeat of Friday any more than Jews
could understand the loss of Jerusalem. But
what those early Christians did–just like the
Jews that they were–was to build their loss
into a stylized memory which was soon
transformed into liturgy, for Paul writes early
on:
“I received from the Lord what I also hand
on to you,”
which is Paul’s way of retelling the
established formula. This became the classic
formulation of the Eucharist–the church’s
great festival of thanksgiving–for “he took
bread, gave thanks, blessed and broke and
gave.” And then in this festival of suffering
love, they said:
“this do in remembrance of me (I Cor 11:23-
24).
Eucharist is a remembering, and since that
time Christians have, in this liturgical act,
recited the great deeds of God, the great
miracles of creation, the ancestors of
Genesis, Exodus, land, culminating in Jesus.
Of Jesus, they remembered his acts of
healing and forgiving and cleansing and
feeding. Thus, this festival of thanksgiving
and of suffering love connects the death of
Jesus to an act of remembrance in which this
community recalls its life saturated with
goodness and mercy of miraculous
proportion. For all their differences, the
cadences are in harmony:
For Jews: “for his steadfast love endures
forever;”
For Christians: “this do in remembrance.”
Both communities resisted forgetting. In the
midst of loss, both communities remembered
that life consists in powerful acts of
generosity and transformation on the part of
God that cannot be explained, acts of
generosity and transformation that we call
miracles. In the midst of loss, our two
communities recited miracles as a refusal to
forget.
Now I tell you this because in our society,
which is in the midst of profound loss–of a
world we have trusted and that is no more–
we face a deep amnesia. For Jews and
Christians, loss evokes memory. For the
society around us, loss evokes amnesia . . .
and the outcome is a society without
reference, without buoyancy, and without
staying power for things human.
I suppose the temptation to amnesia is broad
and deep and complex among us:
• the temptation for grandchildren of
immigrants not to remember the price paid
for being here;
• the temptation of African-American
grandchildren not to embrace the costs of
the civil rights struggle or the massive
racism in its midst;
• the temptation of Jewish children not to
want to take the time or the discipline to live
either the possibilities of Torah or the pain of
the Shoah;
• the temptation of the affluent not to
remember the suffering that has produced
structures of freedom and procedures of
justice.
The list goes on–the loss of the concrete;
the embarrassment of the particular; the
irrelevance of rootage–and the great lever
for amnesia is televised consumerism in
which everything is reduced to now, to
commodity, to private gain and individual
comfort, to thin humanness, while all the
density of communal miracles and communal
particularity is lost.
It is not our business tonight to do a cultural
critique of society, except to notice what a
seduction and a temptation this culture of
amnesia is to Jewish faith and to Christian
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faith. For without vivid, concrete, nameable
memories of miracles, we are out of
business. But, of course, the truth that our
communities hold in common, but do in very
different ways, is that we are indeed
passionate communities of memory who
experience seasons of loss as seasons of
passionate memory.
III Suffering Produces Hope
Now I come finally to our proper theme. Our
two communities are twinned in loss; our
two communities are twinned in memory.
The loss in each case has evoked memory. I
do understand that this twinning in loss and
in memory is not fully commensurate, for
Christians have been for a very long time not
only dominant, but abusive and oppressive,
while Jews have been for a very long time
subservient and abused. I understand that
historical reality and do not take it lightly.
But our work just now is to see if we can
reclaim the twinning of loss and the twinning
of memory in ways that will keep us twinned
in hope.
The amazing thing about our communities of
faith, evident in our common life, is that
memory produces hope in the same way that
amnesia produces despair. Ponder that:
memory produces hope. We Jews and
Christians are people who recall the defining
memories and miracles of their lives. We
hope in and trust the God who has done
these past miracles, and we dare to affirm
that the God who has done past acts of
transformation and generosity will do future
acts of transformation and generosity. By a
profound, elemental, and unshakable trust,
Jews affirm that the deep loss of Jerusalem
did not disrupt God’s power and resolve in
the world. By a profound, elemental and
unshakable faith, Christians affirm that the
deep loss in the death of Jesus did not
disrupt God’s power and resolve in the world.
And that is the key issue in hope. If our
embrace of God’s past is thin, we may
imagine that God is now defeated. If our
embrace of God’s past is thick and palpable,
we will continue to trust in that same God.
We watch while those Jews in exile took their
memories and turned them to the future.
Right in the middle of the poetry of the Book
of Lamentations–the poetry of deep loss and
sadness–the poet is ready to quit:
Gone is my glory,
and all that I had hoped for from the Lord
(Lam 3:18).
But then this–an invitation to newness–only
three verses later:
The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases,
his mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
The Lord is my portion, says my soul,
therefore I will hope in him (Lam 3:21-24).
This voice of Judaism in loss recalls God’s
steadfast love (hesed), God’s compassion
(rahamim), and God’s covenant faithfulness
(‘amunah), and therefore ‘I will hope in him.’
These three words–hesed, raham, ‘amunah-
-are the three great, pivot words of faith:
steadfast love, compassion, faithfulness.
Israel in exile recalled these, recalled
concretely how God had acted, recalled
miracles of fidelity. And then Israel in exile
uttered this stunning affirmation about the
future: ‘al-ken, “therefore.” The “therefore”
is the turn that believing people make from
past to future, affirming that the future is
surely to be shaped and governed by God’s
steadfast love, God’s compassion, and God’s
abiding faithfulness. The future is not a
shapeless void. The future is not a chaotic
barbarism. The future is shaped by God’s
gracious transformative miracles, as was our
past.
That same Isaiah in exile famously declares:
Do not remember former things,
nor consider the things of old.
Quit reciting ancient miracles. Do not be
locked into that old, precious remembering:
I am about to do a new thing,
now it springs forth,
do you not perceive it (Is 43:19)?.
God is doing something new that is
congruent with God’s past actions, and
faithful, discerning people are able to see, to
notice, to embrace, and to receive that
newness as it is given by God. And then this
poetic tradition of exile fills out the future in
acts of buoyant imagination: even in times of
barbaric imperialism, God is giving newness.
God will stay with it until God has brought
the world right.
I want you to observe this extraordinary
claim that is being made in the face of evil,
disorder, social chaos, and imperial abuse:
God has not quit; God will make it right,
because God will yet do what God has always
already done.
In the prophetic imagination of Jeremiah,
Ezekiel, and later Isaiah, moreover, there are
many scenarios of God’s good future for
Israel. This material is all poetic imagination.
We call it “prophetic.” If you like, you can
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say it is “inspired by God.” But at least you
must imagine little groups of displaced Jews
listening to these poets with their fabulous,
determined visions of how it might be:
• Ezekiel envisioned a restored temple in
Jerusalem;
• Jeremiah enjoined a new covenant with
Israel, wherein God would completely forgive
and start again with this people;
• Isaiah anticipated a wondrous, triumphant
homecoming to Jerusalem, led by a
victorious God who has defeated Babylon.
All these poets invited Israel beyond the
concrete circumstance of their lives to a
world that was soon to be enacted by the
word of God.
I imagine these people deep in loss and deep
in memory, gathered to listen to something
like Martin Luther King’s I Have a Dream
speech. It is a dream rooted in God’s own
passion, a dream that tells of God’s resolve
to make things new, undeterred by
circumstance. As you know, King’s Dream
speech was of things he could not explain; it
was a vision that defied and overrode
circumstance. People of hope are always
people who so embrace the promise that
they will not settle for present circumstance.
So these exiled Jews–the most passionate,
the most faithful–took these dreams and
hopes as the truth of their life. They acted
toward that future.
It is not different with the early church. The
early Christians had engaged so deeply with
Jesus and were so sure he was the
quintessential carrier of God’s goodness, that
they knew Friday was not the end. The tap
root of Christian hope is that they turned the
old memories of Jesus toward the future. The
one who had healed the sick, had forgiven
the guilty, and had raised the dead would do
more. As they made that turn, they arrived
at Easter, the tap root of all Christian future.
In the Easter event lie all the hopes of the
Church. Easter is not an act of magic
anymore than Jewish homecoming is an act
of magic. It is, like Jews coming home, a
miracle wrought in God’s fidelity. Those early
Christians came to know in the Easter event
that God’s power embodied in Jesus is still on
the move in the world. Jesus is still
summoning and inviting and recruiting
people to subscribe to his passion for God’s
future in disciplined ways. As Judaism
emerged in the long and unfinished process
of homecoming, so the church takes its life in
the Easter conviction that what was begun
on that Sunday is powerfully underway as
God’s good resolve for the earth.
Paul, in his Letter to the Romans, studies the
amazing miracle of Christian hope, and
articulates a stunning calculus of the life of
faith:
We boast in our sufferings, knowing that
suffering produces endurance, and
endurance produces character, and character
produces hope, and hope does not disappoint
us, because God’s love has been poured into
our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has
been given to us (Rom 5:3-5).
This statement is expressed in Christian
cadences, but it strikes me as close to the
core of what makes us distinctive together
with Jews:
suffering . . . endurance . . .character . . .
hope . . .
and hope does not disappoint us.
This is the speech of a community that
refuses to give in. It is the speech of a
community that refuses the present loss as
the last truth; a community that knows that
God is not finished. God is not finished, and
so Christians, in the tensive claim of the
Eucharist, where we say, “Do this in
remembrance of me,” also say after Paul:
As often as you eat this bread and drink the
cup,
you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes
(I Cor 11:26, ital., mine),
which is a Christian way of acknowledging
that things are not finished, and God must
yet complete the future that is now
beginning.
The capacity to turn memory to hope in the
midst of loss–a capacity that is defining for
Jews and Christians alike–is not a
psychological trick. It is a massive
theological act that is not about optimism or
even about signs of newness. It is rather a
statement about the fidelity of God who is
the key player in our past and in our future.
And therefore, when the good news of the
future is announced to the exiles, Isaiah in
exile asserts:
Here is your God: hinneh eloheken (40:9).
Your God reigns: malak eloheka (52:7).
And, in parallel, Jesus asserts:
The kingdom of God has come near;
repent and believe the good news (Mark
1:15).
The two statements are completely parallel.
Jewish hope and Christian hope are grounded
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in the reality of the God who will and does
work newness.
Hope wrought out of loss and suffering by
way of memory is an appeal to God. But the
world of amnesia, which is a world of denial
and nostalgia, has little access to God. In
this world, God does not appear to be a live
or relevant player, and where God is not a
player, as Dostoyevsky has seen, “everything
is possible”–everything brutal, everything
greedy, everything violent–because greed,
brutality, and violence are the fruits of
idolatry and atheism, the fruits of a world
without God. Such acts and attitudes and
policies are the work of those who do not
remember steadfast love, compassion, and
mercy. It is the work of those who seek to
have their future on their own terms. And so
we Jews and we Christians, in a society of
atheism and idolatry, are always again
deciding about God’s future among us.
IV Us and the Others
These “hopers”–Jews and Christians–were
people in demanding and difficult
circumstance. And so they asked, first and
inevitably, how will this effect us? Hope
tends to stay very close to home.
On the one hand, hope for Jews in exile was
focused upon the recovery of Jerusalem and
the rehabilitation of Jews in the homeland.
The text is saturated with that hope, and of
course, that preoccupation, so deep in the
text, clearly is at work in the politics of the
state of Israel and a variety of Zionist claims.
It could hardly be otherwise, then or now,
given the long story of brutality. So Jews in
exile imagined and hoped for and counted
upon a recovery of the land and the city,
perhaps as a gift of Cyrus, the Persian, and a
lot of human courage and cunning and
initiative.
The amazing thing is that in the midst of
such justifiable preoccupation with self and
community, these same lyrical dreams are
not narrowly for the community. There is a
spill-over beyond the community, because in
the end, this is God’s future and not the
future of the Jews. And so, for example, the
book of Isaiah is framed in chapter 2 with a
vision of all nations coming to Jerusalem for
Torah that will make peace possible:
Many peoples shall come and say,
Come, let us go up to the mountain of the
Lord . . .
For out of Zion shall go forth Torah
and the word from Jerusalem . . .
They shall beat their swords into plowshares,
and their spears into pruning hooks;
nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
neither shall they learn war any more (Is
2:3-4).
This vision is indeed of Jerusalem, but there
is no hint of Jewish privilege in this prophetic
vision. It is a gift of God in Jerusalem, but a
gift for the whole world, a gift that must not
be kept as close monopoly.
Chapter 2 of Isaiah is matched by chapter
65, at the end of the book, about a new
Jerusalem, a new heaven, and a new earth
that exult in the new rule of God that
touches everyone, everywhere, from
Jerusalem on out. No doubt the urgent issue
of our hope is to adjudicate promises for us
and promises beyond us.
On the other hand, Christian hope, too, was
hope for the world. Except that these earliest
Christians, who had risked a great deal by
being seen in public with Jesus, were
concerned for themselves. You can see in the
gospel narratives that while they were
making large, loud claims for the risen Jesus,
they were also creating narratives by which
to gain power in the early movement. We
can see that Peter is the dominant engine of
the future in the early church. While he is
remembered as having denied Jesus at the
trial, claiming not to know him, there is
competition in the narrative to claim who got
to the Easter tomb first, and at the end of
John (21:15-19), Peter is treated to special
address as the coming dominant power in
the church. And so the special celebration of
Peter in Matt. 16:18 is much prized by
Christians–Protestants and Catholics alike:
I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I
will build my church, and the gates of Hades
will not prevail against it. I give you the keys
of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you
bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and
whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in
heaven (Matt 16:18-19).
Now my reason for dwelling on this is that
the concern for the control of the future life
of the church seems to me parallel to the
Jewish preoccupation with Jerusalem for
Jews. And in the Christian tradition as well,
while there is much that is turned in on the
church, there is also a reach beyond the
church to the world, insisting that the Gospel
carried in Jesus of Nazareth is not for
Christian preeminence or domination in the
world, but rather it is affirmed that in Jesus
of Nazareth, God’s good governance of all
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7
creation has begun in a fresh way. And so in
Christian faith, there is an endless juggling
act of Christian hope to adjudicate promises
for us and promises beyond us.
I do not suggest that the cases are parallel,
but I do suggest that for these two
communities of hope, the same tough issue
is present in both, although in very different
forms. As we become anxious, the tendency
is to focus on the promise to us, when in
precisely those times, it is the promise
beyond us that matters most.
In both Jewish and Christian faith, because
these communities of hope are concrete,
identifiable, institutional entities, there is an
easy readiness to draw the hopes of God
toward us–toward Jews, toward Christians–
because of our awareness of the fragility of
our historic communities. But this readiness
lives in tension with another awareness.
Because our shared and common hope is in
God, it is clear that these hopes cannot be
fully packaged in and filtered through us, but
reach to the world in practices of hesed,
raham, and ‘amunah in ways not managed
by us or by our communities.
V Us and Beyond Us
This tension of us and beyond us may take
yet another form. It is clear that for both
Christians and Jews, the dominant form of
hope is prophetic messianism. That is, it is a
hope that will come to fruition in the
historical process, for the historical process,
and by human agents. In the loss and
recovery of Jerusalem, that human agent is
variously identified as Nebuchadnezzar or
Cyrus, or, eventually, Ezra. These are known
human agents who will do God’s work in the
earth. And there is clear evidence that the
prospering of early Judaism depended upon
the funding of the Persian empire, a very
human enterprise. In Christian hope, the
matter is parallel. For all our doctrinal
formulations that are endlessly problematic,
it is the core claim of Christianity that the
human person of Nazareth, whose name and
family and home town are known to us, is
the agent of newness. Post Easter, post
Pentecost, it is the spirit of Jesus that brings
the future. I suspect that all of us would
hope through such human claims, Jewish or
Christian.
But, of course, there is more. There is more
because these expectations have not worked
out so well. Jerusalem was not–on
anybody’s schedule–recovered in that
ancient world: a huge and definitional
disappointment. And so, in the emerging
work of Rabbinic Judaism, there was a hope
that pushed beyond the prophetic, beyond
the messianic, beyond human hope, into
another realm of discourse and into another
realm of expectation. That hope is called
apocalyptic: a theology and a literature of a
cosmic clash between forces of good and
forces of evil who fight desperately for the
control of the future. In this great cosmic
conflict, the community of Jewish faith is not
a participant, but only a bystander who
awaits the outcome with confidence.
Apocalyptic literature of the period is “serious
literature” that assures the faithful that they
may be confident, because while the struggle
is deep and violent, the outcome is sure, and
the faithful need only trust and be at peace.
The rhetoric of this faith is enormously
imaginative, voicing images and symbols
that are outside the normal scope of human
discourse and imagination, the kinds of
images, symbols, and phrases needed to talk
about a conflict that is out beyond us: out of
reach, out of access, out of control.
It is important to recognize that this
literature, for all its very peculiar character,
is a theological act of hope. It is a candid
acknowledgment that for an interim, perhaps
a long interim, the struggle will be hard, with
violence and disorder. But the outcome is
sure: God will win and we are safe! That is
its theological claim, though it arrives at that
point in ways we think odd.
The rabbis who ordered the Hebrew Bible, on
the whole, looked upon this discourse in
negative ways. They found it odd and
offensive, inviting extremity. For the most
part, they were able to keep it out of the
Bible, to muster biblical hope in more
reasoned discourse. But they could not
completely omit it, so it is there in Jeremiah,
Zechariah, and especially Daniel. And the
reason they could not keep it out is that the
times were so desperate, the needs, so
intense that some required a faith that could
match the crisis in its intensity and
shrillness. Thus the rhetoric matches the
crisis, for it goes deep into the reality of
chaos and disorder and there finds the God
who is perfectly capable of defeating all that
threatens life. It was clear to such voices
that common-sense and ordinary faith would
be no match for the threat, and so it was
essential to go deeper.
It is not different in the New Testament. The
central claim of the church is that Christ’s
spirit is at work to bring God’s rule among
Walter Brueggemann : Suffering produces Hope
8
us. But that early church lived in a context of
enormous threat and despair, in which this
literature and this hope is massive in its
daring claim. The early church fathers, like
the early rabbis, sought to organize the New
Testament for a different sort of faith. But
they could not do so, first, because of the
context, and second, because the cosmic
victory claimed for Christ over the powers of
death and chaos would not be derived from
present action, but would be a deep and
profound newness that had to come from
outside. And so they imagined, appealing to
the book of Daniel, that the newness of God
would come like the intrusion of a cloud
entering the atmosphere. They strained to
find language that would express this utter
otherness of the God who would win and
keep us safe.
So there is in the mouth of Jesus a warning
and an invitation that God’s rule will come
suddenly among us–abruptly, violently–to
bring the world to joy and obedience:
Therefore, keep awake–for you do not know
when the master of the house will come, in
the evening, or at midnight, or at cockcrow,
or at dawn, or else he may find you asleep
when he comes suddenly. And what I say to
you I say to all: Keep awake.” (Mark 13:35-
37).
The early church sang in its deep
expectation:
The kingdom of the world has become the
kingdom of our Lord
and of his Messiah,
and he will reign forever and ever (Rev
11:15).
The hope of the church, derived in form and
content from the hopes of Judaism, is that
the present trouble will be overcome by
God’s good rule. In the end, God will win and
we will be safe.
Now this matter of apocalyptic faith that lives
at the edge of both the Hebrew Bible and the
New Testament warrants our attention for
three reasons:
12. Apocalyptic faith is more than a little
embarrassing for those of us who are urbane
and sophisticated in faith, for it violates our
more respectable reason.
13. Yet, it makes assertions that are pivotal
for our faith, because we Jews and Christians
trust deeply in God’s future, and we need a
way of rhetoric to speak our faith.
14. But this rhetoric of apocalyptic is
profoundly open to distortion and abuse. The
theological verdict that “God will win and we
are safe” is an unthinkable gift that admits
that things are beyond are control, but will
turn to the good. The rhetoric is candid to
acknowledge that God’s control is not yet
visible and in the meantime there is acute
threat and violence.
It is a wrong move–and an easy move–to
conclude that we must participate in the
violence in order to assure the victory of
God. Such a practice–now evident in many
places (among them the vigilante in this
country, supported by Christian zealots and
echoed in other places by Jewish zealots)–is
a deep betrayal of Jewish and Christian
apocalyptic faith, for it confuses our
engagement in violence with the deep faith
that leads to watchful, confident, quiet
waiting. I am aware of the problematic of
such a claim–to wait and hope–given the
rich history of waiting, resistance, and
violence. Whatever judgment may be made
on strategic grounds, we should at least be
clear that the faith we share is not a faith in
human violence, but a trust in God’s
governance in and through whatever
violence evil may do. I suspect that we shall
continue to struggle in our faith communities
with this matter, struggling with the claim
that God’s power and God’s governance do
indeed redefine our life, and we are
permitted neither to quit nor to despair nor
to seize life in our own hands, as though God
were not present to us.
Jews and Christians are indeed people who
wait in confidence, recognizing that our
agendas are profoundly penultimate and not
ultimate. What we are now able to face, as
we have not before, is a common waiting for
the gift of God that has not before seemed to
us to be common. I do not imagine that we
can easily, or if ever, overcome the sorry
history of Christian domination and Jewish
suffering. That fact will linger. What we may
be able to see, however, in growing contexts
of trust, is that the good gifts of God’s
governance are an important equalizer that
permits no violence toward each other.
Newness is grounded only in the God who
will win and who will keep us safe, but the
winning is not our victory.
VI So What?
I have tried to trace our common inheritance
of hope that rises from memory in loss. What
I now want to ask is, so what? Does hope
make any difference? And, of course, the
answer is “Yes,” or we would not be thinking
Walter Brueggemann : Suffering produces Hope
9
about it together as we are. But let me say
what that difference is.
People who hope are not people who have a
vague sense that things will work out all
right. People who hope are those who know
the name of God and the characteristic gifts
of God: hesed, raham, and ‘amunah, the
three great qualities that eventuate in
shalom. People who hope have complete
confidence in God’s coming shalom, a rule of
order, peace, security, justice, and
abundance. Without denying any present
disorder, confusion, or distortion, people who
hope, watch, wait, pray, and expect, know
that God’s shalom is as good as done. People
who hope are people who act in the
conviction that God’s future is reliably
“present tense” and act upon it before it is
fully in hand.
The future is not in hand, but it is at hand,
and therefore we count on the winner who
has yet to do the winning. We–Jews and
Christians–need to be asking: what happens
“present tense” if God’s future is secure? And
the answer is: God’s future is enacted as
present neighborliness. If God’s future is not
sure, then the present ought to be shaped
and propelled by greed, injustice,
exploitation, brutality, and barbarism. These
are the fruits of an atheism that believes
there is no future from God. These are the
fruits of an idolatry that has God all confused
with militarism, racism, sexism, ageism, and
ethnic privilege.
We Jews and Christians, however, have no
truck with such self-serving atheism or such
self-destructive idolatry. The commands of
Torah are rooted in God’s coming. Jesus, of
course, was fully instructed by rabbinic
teachers when he named the two great
commandments. They asked him which one
was the most important. He said, “Love God
and love neighbor.” They said, “We only
asked for one.” He said, “You cannot have
one. You always get two. You always get the
neighbor with God.” And, of course, the
rabbis knew that long before Jesus . . .
Now we live in a society that wants to
separate God and neighbor, to keep
something of God without the neighbor who
comes with God. But, of course, we cannot,
because God’s coming shalom, which is sure
for the world, is a gift of neighborliness, and
so widow, orphan, illegal immigrant, poor,
homeless, disabled, homosexual–all those
not like us, all those who are threat and
inconvenience, all those who are citizens of
God’s shalom–count in the way we trust in
God.
I speak to you about an emergency and you
know it is an emergency:
• The emergency is that the human
questions have almost been forgotten among
us.
• The emergency is that the collapse of the
human fabric of our common life fates us to
violence.
• The emergency is that the creation is
jeopardized by our anxious greed.
Jews must look to the state of Israel and its
endangerment. Christians must look to the
church and its vexed future in the West.
Those are our close engagements. But Jews
and Christians are always to look beyond
ourselves and beyond our local needs and
our local claims, because in the end, the
future belongs to the God of hesed, raham,
and ‘amunah . . . eventually, to shalom . . .
and not to us.
The Psalmist confesses:
Not to us, O Lord, not to us,
but to your name give glory,
for the sake of your steadfast love and your
faithfulness
(Psalm 115:1, ital., mine).
And Paul echoes:
Now to him who by the power at work within
us is able to accomplish abundantly far more
than all we can ask or imagine, to him be
glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all
generations, forever and ever. Amen (Eph
3:20-21).
We are so different in our utterance: “not to
us” . . . “to him who is able.” But we are so
alike. We have all things in common:
remembering together,
hoping together,
neighboring together,
set together in God’s generosity,
God’s transformation,
God’s miraculous shalom . . . coming soon.