The Currency of Hope
Fifth Sunday in Lent, Year C
Written by Christopher Jackson
Art piece: The Unction of Christ by Maria Stankova
I have often found myself wrestling with the promise of hope in a world relentlessly preoccupied with success—whether measured in wealth, achievements, influence, or status. We are constantly told that security comes from financial stability, that our worth is tied to our accomplishments, and that our impact is only as valuable as the recognition it receives. However, as I reflect on our lectionary readings for this week, I am reminded that true hope is not found in our bank accounts, résumés, or reputations. Instead, it’s discovered in the transformative work of Jesus—a hope that flows like a spring in the wilderness, nurturing us even in the driest and most unexpected places.
Isaiah’s message is one of radical renewal. In a passage that might sound almost startling, God declares, “I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth.” This is not about superficial change; it is a promise that even in the barren, harsh landscapes of our lives—the deserts of loss, loneliness, or despair—God can bring forth something vibrant and flourishing. I have often wondered how many times I have felt stuck in my own personal wilderness, thinking that nothing could break the monotony or bring relief. Yet, in those moments, I have seen glimmers of unexpected grace—small, tender signs that life was ready to spring forth anew. Even now, I see places in my life that I thought had dried up, and nevertheless those dry riverbeds have begun to bubble with life again. God has a way of defying our expectations and reminding us that renewal is always possible.
Psalm 126 adds another layer to this story of restoration. It is a psalm that holds unbridled joy in tension with a lingering anxiety and longing. The psalmist remembers a miraculous time when despair gave way to laughter, and deep wounds of loss met the gentle touch of God's love and grace. The return from exile is not remembered as a simple relocation of people but as a transformation of the spirit. This is not a transformation that can be bought, achieved, or manufactured; it can only be given by a God who sees our need and meets us with overwhelming compassion. There is friction in these verses—the joy of what God once did and the uncertainty of whether God might do the same thing again. These are a people who know what God can do—answer their cry for help—because God has done it before. Pain and loss meet promise of renewal, and suddenly, we see the complexity of our own experiences reflected back at us. We wait and wonder what comes next while we remember what God has done for us and for those who have come before us, and here is where hope and anxiety coexist. The more we recall how God has delivered us, our anxiety might be replaced by a quiet sensing of God at work—mending the broken, healing the wounded, and inviting us into renewal.
Then there is Paul’s stirring call in Philippians 3. In a world that so often equates success with a long list of accomplishments and ever-growing bank balances, Paul’s message is a radical invitation to press on toward a higher calling. He reminds us that our past achievements—or even our failures—are not the final measure of who we are. Instead, our true value lies in the transformation that comes through our relationship with Christ. Paul’s words challenge us to let go of the old measures of success that no longer serve us and to embrace a future defined by grace. In a society where we are constantly urged to prove our worth through titles, productivity, and influence, his call is a liberating reminder that our worth is measured by something far more enduring than worldly success. It is measured by our capacity to love, to forgive, and to trust that the best is yet to come.
And then there is the encounter in John 12. This story resonates with me in a new way this season of Lent. I have begun to notice subtleties in this narrative that I had not before. As I read John 12:1-8, I can almost feel the tension in the air. There is an unmistakable sense of uncertainty as Jesus and his followers draw ever closer to Jerusalem. I can almost hear the quiet, anxious questions that must have been whispered between those gathered around Jesus: What is going to happen next? How will Jesus make things right? Is everything going to be okay?
These questions are not unlike the ones I ask myself when I survey the brokenness of our world. Today, the ground shakes; buildings fall; families are separated; violence and hate spread; cities are on fire; and everyone waits with bated breath for what is speeding around the next corner. In the midst of all this, I find myself echoing those same anxious questions: What is going to happen next? How will Jesus make things right? Is everything going to be okay?
Initially, I found myself gravitating toward Judas’s objection in the narrative—“Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?” If it were not for John’s narrative intrusion in verse 6, I might have seen Judas as the prudent one. In a world brimming with so much need, a year’s wages a significant sum. Is this not enough to make a difference that could mean life or death for someone struggling to make ends meet? Yet, as I have come to understand through these readings this week, the value of what Mary did was not measured in denarii at all. It was about recognizing that in the midst of desperate need, there are moments when the encounter with the divine demands our full, unreserved attention.
Jesus’ gentle response, “The poor will always be with you,” has always puzzled me, challenged me, and—to be honest—I have simply never liked the statement. But I am reading it a little differently this week. On one level, it speaks to the harsh reality of a world marred by inequality and brokenness—a world in which poverty and suffering are inescapable truths. However, on another level, it is a call to see that the hope for the poor, and for all of us, is not found in money, status, or achievement but in the person of Jesus himself. His life, his sacrifice, and ultimately his resurrection redefine what it means to be truly rich. In this encounter, I see that hope is not an abstract promise but a tangible reality rooted in the transforming power of love—a hope that stands in stark contrast to the shifting, unreliable foundations of worldly success.
When I sit with these scriptures together, I see them forming a tapestry of hope that challenges our conventional measures of security and significance. They urge us to look beyond the fleeting promises of achievement and economic stability and to hold onto something far more resilient. Isaiah’s vision of a new thing in the wilderness, Psalm 126’s song of restoration, Paul’s call to pursue a heavenly prize, and John’s portrayal of sacrificial love together point to a hope that is both radical and refreshingly different. It is a hope that acknowledges the deep, systemic needs of our world—whether that need is financial, emotional, or spiritual—yet offers a resource that cannot be measured in dollars, influence, or trophies.
The hope for the poor—and for all of us—is not locked up in bank accounts, résumés, or reputations. It is found in a living relationship with Jesus, who redefines what it means to be rich. His sacrifice calls us to invest in what truly matters: the well-being of our communities, the healing of our broken world, and the assurance that even in the midst of chaos, a new beginning is always possible.
Lord, hear our prayer.