ICYMI: If you didn't get earlier hopeletters, find them here.
It’s been 592 days since the last hopeletter.
I honestly thought I’d never write one of these ever again, but here we are.
The short story goes like this: I was writing the fifth volume of another way and part of the writing process was coming to terms with some doubts, some questions, some unprocessed pain.
What I didn’t expect was that I would begin to lament some difficulties and find that Jesus would not answer in any way.
For me, it had been true, especially in lament, that He would be there. But this time, anything resembling the presence, the leading, the comfort, the voice—gone.
In the midst of my doubts and my questions,
I simultaneously ran to Jesus
and hope receded.
Faith reduced like a sunset.
Slowly at first.
Then all at once,
it was gone.
So I went dark. Dark in at least two ways.
Dark because, for reasons beyond my control, hope and faith both vanished.
Dark because, for reasons entirely mine, I scrubbed the internet of my ministry efforts.
You may have noticed. Probably not though. It’s ok. I’m not fishing for some sort of retroactive compassion. I had no impulse to convince anyone else to leave Jesus. If any bit of light still worked for you, I desperately didn’t want to snuff that out. I had no interest in reducing any light. I didn’t wish my state on anyone.
I buried it all. There was no funeral. No fanfare.
I just quietly opened my hands, all alone, let it slip through like sand and resolved that it was finished.
“Will the Lord reject forever?
Will he never show his favor again?
Has his unfailing love vanished forever?
Has his promise failed for all time?
Has God forgotten to be merciful?
Has he in anger withheld his compassion?”
•••
Your path led through the sea,
your way through the mighty waters,
though your footprints were not seen.”
Psalms 77:7-9, 19 NIV
About a month ago, Jesus broke the silence.
If hope can set like a sun, it can rise in an instant as well, where moments starts to feel slightly less dim, then all of a sudden, day breaks and hope is everywhere.
I thought the dark would never end.
And just like that it's over.
Now it's like I’m walking around inside the heart of Christ.
That time seemed to be my forever fate and even as I’ve looked back on the other side as just a season, there are a few names I had given it.
the dark night of the soul
a crisis of faith
the mighty waters
my bedroom beyond Sheol
avoiding the spots where we’d have to speak
there and back again
But the mighty waters is the name I've settled on because of that part in Psalm 77.
I made it through.
As I’ve processed how this return of hope has moved me into a place where I am going to start writing and preaching again, I want to make sure that this piece of my story is shared in the capacity that it can for the time being.
So I’ve written the long version of this story as well.
It’s long. Much longer than an email.
There are words and songs and pictures and poems and of course, more words.
Here's how it starts:
Sometimes hope lives among the pages. The chapters are laced with it. The story arcs aren’t always easy, but we travel through life, ascending and descending on strings tied to hope and possibility. Even the dark chapters are typically accompanied by some sort of hopeful illumination. The heavy parts are at least still acquainted with the lighter things.
But other times, hope dries up. The bottom falls out, and the strings are severed. These times, hope is only in the bookends.
This is a story about hope. But for reasons I wouldn’t know till much later, hope only lived in the bookends.
So if you get curious, it’s available here.
https://kurtlibby.com/bookends
So what about you?
Where does this leave us?
I’m not sure about the cadence of writing these hopeletters again. It won't be three a month anytime soon, (I feel like I'm learning how to walk again) but I do know that I’m more convinced than ever that exploring another way together is what I’m here to do.
The aim of these emails, the stories and questions and hope I want to share hasn’t changed. But I have.
In many ways I’m more Kurt than I’ve ever been.
And in other ways, I’m so untangled from my past while learning what it looks like to walk in the freedom I’m experiencing.
If you’re not in a place where you can explore what it means to live in Christ without the entanglements with us right now and need to unsubscribe below, believe me, I know the feeling and please take care of yourself. I won’t take it personally but I will hold you in my heart in the ways that I can.
And last of all, if you have a response, a story to share, a question or any encouragement at all, please don’t hesitate to reply.
Much love my friends.
–Kurt