hope – sethlewis.ie

How Spoiled Milk Reminds Me Of Hope

The cheese was supposed to be cheddar, not bleu. But I opened the bag and saw—and smelled—that the mould had started lunch before me. It used to be good cheese. Not anymore. I threw it in the bin, on top of the cut flowers that used to be stunning before they wilted and fell to pieces. The green leaves outside are beginning to change colours. Soon I’ll be crunching my way through their fallen glory, and they’ll fade away and feed the soil for next year’s growth. Someday I’ll fade away, too. Everything good comes to an end on this planet. Every blessing, every joy, every life. Refreshing milk sours. Even water stagnates.

It’s a good reminder. When the world was fresh and budding at the dawn of history, when the blessings were untainted with decay and the sweet enjoyment of our first parents was unmarred by any dark expectation of disease and death, when everything was good and right and lovely—that’s when Adam and Eve were tempted. That’s when they chose to accept God’s beautiful gifts, but reject the God who gave them. They forgot that the gifts could never last without him.

How to Change Your Perspective on Time

I saw the sun rise over the beach recently. I’ve seen it rise countless times before, but it still surprised me. Not only was it larger and redder than I remembered—and more beautiful than I can describe—it was also moving faster than I expected. I could measure the speed of its rising against the buildings on the horizon, and I saw it launch itself above them into the sky in the span of mere minutes. Does the sun always move this fast? It must, but I don’t normally perceive its speed so clearly because I don’t normally have stationary objects to measure it against.

Life is like that, too. Time constantly moves us, steadily, relentlessly, without ever adjusting its stride or changing its course. We easily lose track of its movement among the busy challenges and joys of living, but sometimes—like the sunrise at the beach—we realise. Sometimes, we see time measured against hard, immovable facts like the growth of trees or children, the passing of birthdays, or the whitening of hair. Sometimes, it comes as a surprise—but time is not concerned about our consternation. It continues unabated, never slowing, never quickening, always moving forward. The movement of time is a simple fact. We cannot change it. The only thing we can change is how we view and react to it, and I’m convinced that our perspective on time has everything to do with hope.

The Trouble Underneath

The problems in our world are easy to find. A quick glance at the headlines will prove that point at any time, any day. The more challenging search is for solutions that actually work, although there are always plenty of proposals. Every politician has a proven plan. Every organisation has a confident vision. Every government and charitable society invests its energy and resources into problem-solving—and yet, for all that, the problems persist, unsolved.

Easter Isn’t Over

Easter Sunday was a few days ago now, but that doesn’t mean it’s over. The effects of what we celebrated last Sunday continue to grow, slowly, like the buds of spring continue to open all around us and the fresh green continues to deepen into maturity and the apple blossoms transform themselves, somehow, into delicious fruit. Jesus said, “unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit” (John 12:24). Then he died—for us. Now, 2,000 years later, his resurrection is still bearing fruit—transforming the cold, dead hearts of sinful, proud, selfish people who trust in his forgiveness and salvation into living, loving, new creations—a transformation that is every bit as glorious and surprising as the growth of a tiny, dull little sunflower seed into a towering, thriving wonder of nature. This is how God works. He does nothing by half-measures. He doesn’t ease off once he’s done enough to get by. He goes on, and on, and on—working wonders far beyond anything we could ask or imagine, and glories no mind has conceived (1 Corinthians 2:9). That’s why, in 1 Corinthians 15, Paul uses seeds as an illustration of the resurrection of God’s people:

Realism And Resurrection

Perhaps it’s a product of growing up, but I do feel that the passing years have tarnished the old optimism I remember from the world of my childhood. There were always deep problems in the world—even I knew this growing up—but there was also a general sense of progress in the air, at least as I remember it. There was a hopeful feeling back then that our problems were not insurmountable, and better days were ahead. Science was supposed to solve some of our challenges, politics would solve others, and culture and civilisation would inevitably advance, even if the process was slow and bumpy. Those were the days when the unified, peaceful vision of a harmonious humanity depicted in shows like Star Trek felt like it could be a real possibility someday—minus the teleporters, of course.

Now we’re not so sure. The world feels different. Maybe our new technologies haven’t been all that we hoped they would be. Maybe our political leaders have burned us too many times and left us disillusioned with the system. Wars have continued relentlessly, as have human trafficking and slavery and corruption. Selfishness, injustice, and cruelty still plague our cultures and institutions, and they can pop up unexpectedly in our own hearts, too. Things are still moving quickly, but it’s become clear that movement isn’t necessarily progress. The old optimism of my memory has given way to a tired realism that doesn’t expect as much, hope as much, or feel as disappointed when everything goes sideways—isn’t the whole world constantly spinning sideways anyway?

A Christmas Selection Box 2024

One of the standard features of Christmas in Ireland is the chocolate selection box. It’s a great tradition—who wouldn’t like a box filled with a variety of different chocolates to enjoy over the holidays? I can’t give you chocolate today, but I’ve made it a tradition to collect and share a variety of Christmas treats every December from around the internet. Enjoy!

Assisted Suicide And The Meaning Of Life

Our representatives in Dublin are voting this evening on whether to approve recommendations for assisted suicide in Ireland. This is only an indicative vote, a first step towards changing our laws, but it is a step that will pave the way for official legislation to be brought forward in the future. The argument in favour of this change is usually framed in the language of compassion and choice—that those who are suffering greatly should be able to end their suffering—and their lives—on their own terms. There are, however, many significant concerns raised in the debate as well. For example, there is the unspoken (or perhaps spoken) pressure to die that allowing this option places on good-hearted people who hate to be a burden on others. Is that really a free choice? Or consider the obvious cost-cutting incentive that assisted suicide gives the health service to end lives rather than provide expensive palliative care. Does that really promote compassion? These concerns are reason enough to oppose assisted suicide, especially in light of the heartbreaking evidence from countries who have already started down this road. But I have another more fundamental objection. I know that the one great benefit and argument for assisted suicide is that it ends suffering. This is true enough. The trouble is that it ends suffering not by treating or managing it, but rather by ending the sufferer. In doing so, assisted suicide creates a new category for our culture—a category of human life that society agrees is simply not worth living.

Beyond Measure

When we speak about blessings, we usually speak about the good things we enjoy, like family, friends, a nice holiday, or a great coffee. These are wonderful blessings, worth counting, and giving thanks for. And yet I was reminded recently (through a prayer of thanks offered by a friend) that when the Bible speaks of blessings, the language it uses is often far more extreme than the language we’re accustomed to using ourselves. Paul tells us that “no human mind has conceived” the greatness of “the things God has prepared for those who love him“ (1 Corinthians 2:9). In other words, God’s blessings for his children are literally off the charts, stretching beyond the borders of imagination. “My cup overflows”, says David, in Psalm 23, and in Psalm 16 he speaks of how,

“You make known to me the path of life;
you will fill me with joy in your presence,
with eternal pleasures at your right hand.”

The Challenge Of Choosing Between Bitter And Better

There may only be one letter between bitter and better, but like street signs on the same post, the two words point us in opposite directions. And these signposts are planted firmly, with the same two arrows, at every difficult junction we face on the road of life. No matter how well we may have chosen in the past, or how poorly, the same choice always presents itself all over again: will we let the difficulties of life make us better? Or bitter?

It’s obvious, isn’t it? One choice is literally named “better.” So that’s clearly the choice we’ll always make. Right? Why would we willingly choose to travel a bitter road when a better option is always available to us? The answer is this: we don’t always believe the signposts.

Another Chance (a poem)

It’s been months since I paid any attention to the long-lost autumn leaves that are lying in the grass alongside the roads and paths that I walk on. The glorious colour they impressed me with when they fell is nothing but a memory now. Then again, have you seen what frost can do to a leaf on the ground? This morning, every vein of every leaf is highlighted in white—the intricate patterns stand out in shimmering relief—and once again my eyes are drawn in renewed wonder. A few weeks ago, I would have told you that these leaves were far beyond their glory days. This morning, they shine unexpectedly with a new and different kind of glory. Our Creator can make beauty shine from a pile of dead leaves, and anywhere he wants, and long after we’ve given up hope of it ever coming again.