I am writing this on the occasion of the birthday of our first son, Elisha. And a son’s birthday lends the opportunity to think back to stories about how he got to be the adult (husband and father) he has become. In this case, one particular story comes to mind. It is a story that shaped his life immeasurably. It has to do with hope as a means to overthrow inertia and the effects of human sin (as touched upon in the previous post).

At the age of sixteen Elisha decided he would break the high school long jump and triple jump records. These were two very concrete goals, and both were a far reach. He decided that this meant he would have to concentrate on only one sport, so he gave up soccer that fall, and he did not try out for the high school basketball team that winter. He went from three sports to one.

His dad was very disappointed. I knew he was an exceptional and versatile athlete, and I expected he would be a three-letter athlete for three years in high school. His specific goal now meant that he would focus solely on track and field, not even the 100-meter or 400-meter sprint. His aspiration targeted an event only very few people ever watch: the jumping pit.

With this dream before him, he altered his whole life to reach that end. He ate differently, he spent more time alone, or sometimes with his father at the track at night—running up and down the stadium steps, jogging around the track, jumping up the steps on one foot, and then running down. After this, he would do it all again.

I watched in amazement.

What drives a seventeen-year-old to focus for years on a single athletic accomplishment, especially when there was so little “reward” except for the personal satisfaction of knowing that you did it? There would be no special trophy, parade, or banquet. There might be an announcement at the school and maybe a recognition at the spring sports assembly.

That’s it. His efforts were driven only by an internal remarkable resolve.

And he did it. Both the long jump and the triple jump records were broken before he graduated. This changed his life. Elisha became a college athlete, then a coach, and now he owns an elite track club where he trains not only jumpers, but also heptathletes and decathletes.

This is how God has made us. We are people who, by God’s design, are driven by hope, vision, and purpose. How we use this need for hope and purpose will shape our lives, our relationships, and our experiences. But this capacity for hope and purpose is God-given:

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope. Romans 15:13 (ESV)

Hope is similar to glory: there is both ultimate glory (heaven and when Jesus returns) and there are little glories, or proleptic glories, that anticipate God’s fulfillment of all things in him. And with hope, we have purpose in anticipating eternal life, but we also have proleptic hope, partial fulfillment in this life. When we work hard to complete a course, to finish a degree, to raise a child, or even to break a track record, our lives are pointing toward our fulfillment as God’s created beings: beings of hope. A line from the movie Chariots of Fire comes to mind. Eric Lidell says, “When I run, I feel God’s pleasure.”

However, there are many people without hope. Perhaps those without hope have been beaten down by others, trapped by life’s circumstances, or have physiological or chemical issues that create depression. Many people without hope are hurt by others: by governments, by institutions, by family, or even by friends. We see it all around us.

It is obvious that today we live in an age of anxiety where hope and resolve have defaulted to the lower impulses of “lazy brain” or have succumbed to the negative effects of our fallen natures. Rather than aspire to the higher graces of forgiveness and mercy, it seems the human impulses of despondency or anger prevail in discourse and relationships. Hope, when it is strong, will endure setbacks. A triple jumper may turn his or her ankle or get sick before the championships. But these struggles are setbacks, not failures. Hope keeps you moving forward, whether in school, or track and field, or in the Christian life.

How does a seminary instill hope? How do we strengthen the Christian resolve of our students so that they “expect great things from God and attempt great things for God” as missionary William Carey is quoted as saying?

This kind of hopeful resolve is a deep work in our souls. It usually is shaped on the anvil of suffering and disciplines. When we take up our cross and follow Jesus (Matthew 16:24), we are on the path of unshakeable hope. The cross is suffering; the following is discipline.

Steady, reliable, attentive. These are the characteristics of a person of hope. And I pray that our community continues to exhibit such characteristics even in an age of anxiety, division, and anger. Hope is the foundation for resilience, courage, and charity.

Dr. Scott W. Sunquist, President of Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary, is author of the “Attentiveness” blog. He welcomes comments, responses, and good ideas.