I have recently begun to wonder if we moderns have made a mistake in our clinical vocabulary.  For some time now, psychotherapists have referred to the people who come to see them as their “clients,” as opposed to the older language of “patients.”  The word “patients” seemed too paternalistic, conjuring up images of helpless people in hospital beds, wearing humiliating backless gowns, being tended by powerful doctors with poor bedside manners.  “Clients” sounded somehow more egalitarian, suggesting someone who merely comes for a consultation.  It’s a business transaction–you share your expertise, I pay you a fee.

Ironically, though, it’s the etymology of the word “client” that implies dependence: the image is of a less powerful person having to lean upon (as in “incline”) someone with more power.  The word “patient,” however, can be traced back to the root meaning of suffering, distantly related to the word passion.  That, it seems to me, is the better metaphor for therapy, especially in a postmodern age.  We don’t want to define clients by their dependence upon our expertise.  Instead, as therapists, we deal with people who have become defined by their suffering; we, as fellow sufferers, help them learn to endure it.  They begin as patients; we help them learn patience.

And that is why hope is such a central virtue in the Christian life.  Paul writes:

Therefore, since we have been made righteous through his faithfulness combined with our faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.  We have access by faith into this grace in which we stand through him, and we boast in the hope of God’s glory.  But not only that!  We even take pride in our problems, because we know that trouble produces endurance, endurance produces character, and character produces hope.  This hope doesn’t put us to shame, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us (Rom 5:1-5, CEB).

Paul doesn’t use the word “patience” here, but hope is clearly the product of the patient endurance of suffering, which changes us for the better from the inside out as the Holy Spirit encourages us with whispers of God’s love.  Paul can “boast in the hope of God’s glory” because the promised future is so real to him that he can almost taste it.  Even if he has to suffer continuously for the gospel in this lifetime, he will endure it for the sake of this glorious future.

This is true biblical hope, not the watered-down version that seems to be so widespread among us as Christians.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard someone misuse Romans 8:28–“We know that God works all things together for good for the ones who love God, for those who are called according to his purpose” (CEB).  Christians often cite that verse to encourage one another, like a somewhat more sanctified way of saying, “Hang in there!  Everything will work out, you’ll see.”  Sometimes, of course, things don’t work out–leaving sufferers questioning either their own faith or God’s goodness or both.

But verse 28 can’t be understood without its context, in which Paul speaks again of the true nature of Christian hope.  Here’s part of that context:

I believe that the present suffering is nothing compared to the coming glory that is going to be revealed to us.  The whole creation waits breathless with anticipation for the revelation of God’s sons and daughters.  Creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice–it was the choice of the one who subjected it–but in the hope that the creation itself will be set free from slavery to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of God’s children.  We know that the whole creation is groaning together and suffering labor pains up until now.  And it’s not only the creation.  We ourselves who have the Spirit as the first crop of the harvest also groan inside as we wait to be adopted and for our bodies to be set free.  We were saved in hope.  If we see what we hope for, that isn’t hope.  Who hopes for what they already see?  But if we hope for what we don’t see, we wait for it with patience (Rom 8:18-25, CEB).

There again is Paul’s anticipation of future glory, in which our physical bodies will be redeemed from death and decay, all of God’s children will be revealed for who they are, and creation itself will finally join the party.  This is not a promise that God will work out all of our troubles in our lifetime–if we would just have enough faith!  Rather, it’s a promise that in the end, sin, death and decay will not have the last word, and all our suffering will be eclipsed by glory.  As Teresa of Avila once said: “In light of heaven, the worst suffering on earth will be seen to be no more serious than one night in an inconvenient hotel.”

Meanwhile, we groan in the waiting.  We aren’t 100% conformed to Jesus’ life and character yet, but then again, we’re not spiritually dead either.  The Spirit’s work in our lives has given us a taste of the new creation, and we want more.  If you like, we’ve been given a few bites of the richest spiritual chocolate, and we won’t rest until we’re bathing in the stuff.

That’s what makes me wonder about Paul’s last line in that passage.  “If we hope for what we don’t see, we wait for it with patience.”  That hasn’t been my experience.  The more I hope for something that I want but don’t have, the more im-patient I’m apt to be.  I’m 8 years old all over again, shaking that box under the Christmas tree, hoping that it’s what I really want–and being anything but patient as I wait for the opportunity to get at what’s inside.

Think about the things you’ve really hoped for–the things you pounded on the doors of heaven about, the things you’ve asked others to pray about on your behalf.  How patiently did you wait for God’s answer?  The point is, we don’t just suffer from adversity, we suffer frustrated hope.  We long for things we can’t see and don’t have.  And sometimes, it hurts to wait.

But I am forced to ask myself: which hope do I want?  Paul’s hope allows him to be patient–to endure–through every kind of suffering imaginable.  My typical way of hoping–well, let’s just say I grow impatient even if I have to stand in a long line at the grocery store.

What would it take to cultivate the kind of hopeful imagination that Paul has?  Perhaps we could begin by distinguishing Hope, with a capital H, from our various hopes (small h)–our longings, dreams, and wishes.  Some of our hopes are little more than selfish desire.  But others have the whiff of God’s kingdom about them.  And there is no knowing which of these, in God’s gracious providence, may be caught up into Hope.  Even those who have misunderstood Romans 8:28 have seen God do miraculous things, for which they were truly and faithfully grateful.

Next, we could begin to pay attention when we grow impatient.  What is the frustrated longing that lies beneath it?  I will need to recognize what my hopes are to be able to hold them up to the light of Hope.  How is my present longing related, if at all, to the groaning of all God’s children, and of creation itself, for our eventual redemption?  How, in my frustration and impatience, can I take hold of the vision of a God who is sovereign over my situation and good in all his intentions?  And what do I do or think differently, here and now, to live into that vision?

It takes imagination to groan patiently.  Our hopes must be taken up into Hope, and our stories must be taken up into God’s Story of restoration and redemption.  We don’t deny that suffering is real; that’s why we groan.  But we can also interrogate our impatience, and cultivate the faith that our future glory is greater than our present suffering.  That is our Hope, and none other.