My hope is built on nothing less: when you think the unthinkable

In just six weeks, it will be that time of year when our family sits down to watch for yet one more time the movie, “It’s a Wonderful Life.” We could quote most of the lines, but anyone doing so while the movie is playing will be banished from the room.

There are many quotable lines in that movie, not least is when the angel Clarence says to George Bailey: “You see, George, you’ve really had a wonderful life. Don’t you see what a mistake it would be to just throw it away?”

If Clarence didn’t know it otherwise from talking with George, he’d already been warned by Joseph, his supervising angel, that George would be thinking just that very thought on this very night. That is why Clarence Oddbody AS2 had been sent down: to rescue George from doing the unthinkable.

I know what it is like to think the unthinkable: throwing away God’s most precious gift.

I have been to dark places in my life. Not the least, by any means, were those times when I thought that very thought. My mind was so muddled, so overwhelmed with concerns beyond my capacity to sort out. “Trapped” is the word that comes to mind. There’s no way forward and you can’t go back and there are no escape routes sideways, up, or down. In those times, THAT has crossed my mind.

Growing up, I never heard anyone talk about THAT except in very sad, hopeless terms. Hushed tones about what happened to So-and-so. For those of us who had THAT thought, THAT was the thing you couldn’t tell anyone else because no one would understand, or worse, they’d put you away somewhere. And you’d be even more trapped than you were before. And so, you struggled on, alone in your thoughts.

When I was young, I could not fathom why anyone would ever contemplate taking their own life. It was beyond me. I may have been over my head in woes; I may have faced troubles beyond comprehension, troubles no kid should ever experience. But back then I was more likely to think about just getting away from it all, running away – leaving all, except my own life, behind.

But as I grew older, those very thoughts came, thoughts of letting go of God’s most precious gift. Life was more than I could bear.

Almost.

Somehow at those times I found a way to move forward. As I moved forward, I don’t think I was in a singing mood – then, or even for a while after. Sometimes it is all you can do to acknowledge you’re still breathing. Singing takes a lot of breath.

Yet when I look back at those darkest of times, what I hear are lines of old poetry put to tune, words that speak of what was sustaining me. And a certain song gushes out.

When I was a boy, people talked about how dark life had been until Jesus came and changed everything. As if it was never dark again.

In my case, Jesus came first, before the darkness. Oh, there might have been darkness in my life already, but I was too young to make sense of it all. The darkness – or darkness I could perceive as darkness – came later.

It’s not supposed to happen that way. I am supposed to be in darkness and then find Jesus – or Jesus finds me – after which all is peace, love, and joy forever more. No more darkness, no more doubt.

But discovering faith doesn’t banish darkness ever after. Those testimonies from my youth must have been too simple. Incomplete.

I came to faith as a youngster and had what I can honestly describe as a growing relationship with Jesus. But times of darkness did come and sometimes they came in like what the hymnwriter Edward Mote describes as “the whelming flood;/ when all around my soul gives way…”

I compare it to what I’ve seen of flood devastations. Watching the floods destroy Appalachian valley communities in the wake of Hurricane Helene gave me that same feeling. You are sitting high and dry. Your house has withstood storms that have washed through the valley below for generations. And then, all of a sudden, a dark, muddy, raging torrent pours down from higher up and, in a flash, your house no longer stands. And you are washed away with it, fighting for your very life.

Mote describes ground that is sinking sand. He is referencing the story Jesus taught, a parable of two builders, one who built his house on solid ground and the other who built his house on earth more likely to give way.¹

I doubt the builders who built those houses high above the rivers in North Carolina thought there was a chance in a thousand years the river would rise that high. But rise it finally did. And the earth gave way, taking the houses with it. Jesus doesn’t picture a house high on a hill so much as houses built on rock versus sand. But the imagery still fits, that of being anchored into something that can withstand once-in-a-thousand-years storms.

The rains come. The floods come. The winds blow. Both houses take severe beatings, maybe even lose a few shingles. Jesus doesn’t say that last part – they didn’t have shingles back then. But he does say, one house stood and the other fell, and the difference was in the foundation. The house that remained standing was built on rock; the one that didn’t was built on sand. Sand gives way, rock doesn’t.

Jesus then goes on to explain the story. The rock in the story refers to the sayings of Jesus – that and the doing of them by the one who is listening. Not just hearing Jesus’ teachings but putting them into practice. That is what anchors a life.

The time for anchoring a house – or a life for that matter – is before the storms hit. We’ve all seen people preparing for hurricanes or typhoons. They are boarding up windows and placing sandbags in front of doors, maybe even lashing down the manufactured home – and getting out of there.

There’s less prep time before tornadoes, tsunamis, or earthquakes. But the idea is the same. You fortify your house before the storm comes. Here in the Pacific Northwest, we have fewer concerns about windstorms than they do elsewhere, though we have had them. What we talk about here is “The Big One,” as in an earthquake of severe magnitude. We are due one, they say, as if it were on anyone’s bucket list.

In an earthquake, old buildings which have not been reinforced are most susceptible to collapse. Chunks of the structures might fall on bystanders below. Old bridges could give way in an instant. Retrofitting, they call it, when you reinforce the building or bridge to withstand all but the most severe of earth shakings.

Such retrofitting is costly, unaffordable for all but the wealthy. In Portland, Oregon, old church buildings are most susceptible to the Big One and the city has put out dire warnings, warnings that go unheeded because their congregations can ill afford the cost.

Not cheap. But then cleaning up after a storm or earthquake is not cheap either, something folks in hurricane zones are discovering. Property insurance costs are going through the roof in places like Texas and Florida. People are talking about those lovely beach settings as being beyond affordable.

Better to move to the mountains, they say, far from hurricanes, they say. Until Helene comes banging on the door of your mountain cabin by the stream.

You cannot escape the storms of life. To live is to struggle.

Doubt is a form of struggle. People have a funny relationship with doubt. They think it the opposite of faith, that somehow you can’t have both at the same time. Well, I must be weird.

Because I’ve been there, done that. I’ve had faith and doubt all mixed up together – all at the same time. I’ve written elsewhere how unbelief is really the opposite of faith, not doubt. Unbelief stops asking questions, while doubt keeps seeking answers.

Mote, who penned those words “whelming flood,” was a British guy born the end of the 18th century. A pastor, he was also a songwriter. His most enduring creation was “My Hope is Built on Nothing Less.” We sing variations of that song to this day. My favorite is to the tune of “Solid Rock” by William Bradbury. I like it for its strong, almost defiant, melody, as if daring the darkness to even try and blot out the face of Jesus.

It is one of my favorite hymns. Feel free to sing it at my funeral. But if you do, sing it as forcefully as you can, defiant-like against the storms of life.

My hope is built on nothing less
than Jesus’ blood and righteousness;
I dare not trust the sweetest frame,
but wholly lean on Jesus’ name.

Okay, maybe it does have 19th century phrasing. But it is poetry, a poetry that sustains like oatmeal for breakfast. Enough to keep you going for hours – for a lifetime even.

I wish I knew more about why or how Mote wrote that hymn, why he penned the words, “In every high and stormy gale,/ my anchor holds within the veil.” What had he experienced? What memories came to mind as he wrote those words? All I know is that he died 150 years ago tomorrow and left us the legacy of that song.

But he died knowing this: that whatever else was true in his life, his hope (read, his confidence) was that he would be dressed in Jesus’ righteousness alone, as he stood faultless before the throne. For Mote’s hope was “built on nothing less/ than Jesus’ blood and righteousness.”

I am most certain that Mote faced many storms in his life, some quite severe, no doubt. You don’t pen such words having lived only in la-la-land. Such faith comes not by avoiding doubts and storms of life, but by plowing through them – securely anchored in the rock, of course. No need to go seeking challenges; they will come to you soon enough.

I never expected my life to transpire the way it has. I guess one never does. But I can say that the Rock I anchored my life into at the tender age of 6 – and have continued to re-anchor in my 20s, 30s, 40s, right up to today – is still holding me fast.

I’d love to show up at my own funeral, though that would probably mean a lot more funerals the same week. Nevertheless, I’d love to show up and come down and stand by you as you sing “My hope is built on nothing less”. You can read the words in the hymnbook or on the screen up front, if you wish. I’ll sing them by heart – and I’ll sing them loud and clear.

On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand:
All other ground is sinking sand;
All other ground is sinking sand.

Sing it again, my friend, all the stanzas, and let the words sink deeply into your spirit, fortifying you like oatmeal in the morning, more than enough to last a long, hard day.

If you are struggling against a flood of despair, you can reach out to me here – your comments will not be published. There is hope, my friend. From this far away, I can only listen – and pray, something I promise you I will do.

As a bonus, I invite you take a moment to listen: https://youtu.be/uhVwVHC6_n0?si=aIJJGIHSRoaUoBF0

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Public domain photo: Isla de mouro, Santander, Spain, by hagemannandreas

1. Matthew 7:24-27. ↩︎