How Do We Find Hope Now?

A few years ago, I read a book by one of my favorite authors, David Brooks, called How to Know a Person. A lot of people read the book—in this country and in this church. It’s very popular, and it taught me a lot. It taught me how to be more curious about people. It taught me the difference between niceness and kindness, which, as a Southerner, I always need reminders of.

But there’s one chapter that has really stayed with me. Brooks talks about his childhood friend, Pete. Pete had what we would call a “rich life.” He had a wonderful family, deep relationships, and professional success.

And yet, Brooks tells the story of walking with Pete through a deep depression toward the end of his life. He describes all the ways he tried—and failed—to help his friend. All the ways he sat across the table and tried to bring light into Pete’s darkness. He says, “I gave him advice,” and that only signaled to Pete that I didn’t really understand what he was walking through. He tried to change Pete’s perspective, saying, “Look at all this great stuff you have. These beautiful relationships. Look at this life that you’ve built.” But that only made Pete feel guilty, like he wasn’t looking at his life through the correct lens.

Sometimes Christmas feels like what Brooks describes here: a familiar friend making an annual visit, hoping to cheer you up, only to find that you’re not in the mood.

On a bigger level, as Christians, Christmas reminds us of this phenomenal, earth-shattering news—that Jesus, God in the flesh, is coming to make everything that is wrong right. And yet, sometimes it doesn’t land. It feels far away. It feels distant. So the question is this: How do we find hope now? God, how do I hear you now?

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Isaiah 9 is a familiar passage that’s often read at Christmastime. It’s written to a people who are in deep darkness—a blend of their own brokenness and the brokenness around them. And they’re about to walk further into it. They’re about to walk into exile. They will stand in the rubble and ruin of a former life they once lived, asking themselves, “How did I get here?” and “Will this ever end?”

The reason this passage matters is because it is bursting with hope. What we celebrate at Christmas is that God put on flesh to defeat our greatest enemies of sin, death, and Satan. He’s bringing justice to every place of injustice. He’s healing everything that is broken. He’s saving sinners like you and me.

This is good news. There has never been better news. And yet, as we walk in darkness, this good news can feel far away. So I want to focus on one of the names given to Jesus in Isaiah 9: Wonderful Counselor.

When I first read that phrase, my modern understanding of a counselor kicks in. I think of an expert therapist—someone who sits with you and asks good questions. And while fifty minutes with Jesus would probably change your life, that’s not what Isaiah’s original audience would have heard. They would have heard “counselor” as someone who advises the king. Someone who understands the complex situation of a nation. Someone who knows people and keeps their ear to the ground.

Ultimately, someone who knows what to do. And when we sit in darkness, we want someone to show up who knows what to do. Isaiah proclaims to people in darkness that there will be one who shows up and knows exactly what to do.

My wife and I are reading Harry Potter for the sixth time in our marriage. (We’ve been married six years.) Most of the story is told from the perspective of teenagers. They’re emotional, erratic, reactive, and they have little understanding of the bigger picture.

Each time I reread the story, I notice something happening in my own body. You enter into the chaos with them, and then something shifts when Dumbledore walks in. Here is this bold, wise, authoritative, powerful wizard. He doesn’t bulldoze the teenagers. He doesn’t talk down to them. He arrives with a plan and executes it in the most tender way. He sees them.

Reading those moments reminds me of a deep longing in my own heart. I want someone to show up who knows what to do.

That’s part of the goodness of what Isaiah is telling us. There is an authoritative leader with broad shoulders who can carry the weight of the world. He has a plan to make every wrong thing right. But how does that help me now?

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Later in Isaiah, chapter 42 says this: “A bruised reed he will not break, and a faintly burning wick he will not quench.” Part of the wonder of his counsel is that he has so much power and authority that he can read me when I’m on one-percent battery—and he doesn’t turn away. He doesn’t shut me down. Instead, he takes the small ounce of faith, the small ounce of trust I have in him as I walk through darkness, and he fans it into a flame of hope.

Jesus is a Wonderful Counselor because he knows how to read a room. He knows how to read you. He knows that you are living in a blend of your own brokenness and the brokenness of the world around you. And he invites you. He draws you in to be with him. He has broad shoulders. And he is tender enough to invite you to come and sit with him.

The hope of Christmas is this: your darkness, my darkness, and the world’s darkness are no match for his light.