The Deception Of Hopelessness

Between Good Friday and Resurrection Sunday lies an uncanny deceit.  Its yawning chasm of despair is almost palpable, a silence so intense and invasive that it drowns out all sound, especially the voice of hope.  On this Saturday, this Sabbath of meaninglessness, there is no future, only an interminable present that stretches into infinity, a present where dreams and hopes and purpose, having been nailed to a tree, are tossed like so much rubble into a dark and lifeless tomb.

On this day after Good Friday, in the throes of anguish and despondency, this is the deception:

The loss is so great, so intransigent, so immovable, that it cannot be restored or repaired.  Nothing matters.  All hope is lost.  All dreams are shattered.  There is no tomorrow, only an endless today whose borders are defined by pain and misery, by failure and dejection.

Only in retrospect can we know this is a lie.  The deceit is hollow and its shrill voice lacks truth.  But we cannot yet know that this is a lie, since it is not yet Resurrection Sunday.  The dawn has not yet broken into new life, new hope, new purpose. There is only hopelessness and despair.

There is, however, a lifeline before us, a rope to which we can cling even when we believe that we have no strength to hold onto its grip, even when we doubt its veracity.  Here is the truth that the deception of hopelessness would have us ignore:  Saturday will come to an end.  Though it may seem otherwise, Resurrection Sunday is only a day away.  There is hope.  There is purpose.  There are dreams yet to be realized.  The night of despair will give way to a morning like no other.  Sunday is almost here.  Hold on.