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IT is not, perhaps, immediately obvious in what sense hope is a virtue at all. To the ordinary man it probably appears to be either a disposition or else a particular kind of desire. In the former case it can scarcely be distinguished from optimism, and is often irritating and sometimes not even laudable; in the latter, it is not necessarily virtuous, but may be only an expression of selfishness. But this arises from a grave misconception and misunderstanding of the nature of the theological virtue of hope.
Hope is defined as "a motion of the sensual or
rational desire or of the will towards a future good which it is difficult but possible to obtain".
Hope tends towards & future good, for we do not hope for that which we already possess, and thus differs from pleasure
or enjoyment and is more akin to desire. Yet it differs from desire, because desire is of any kind of good, but hope is of a good
that it is difficult to obtain, but yet possible. We do not hope for something that we can easily get for ourselves, nor yet for
something wholly out of reach. But desire takes no account of the possibility or impossibility of gratification. We are apt to
sigh for the moon. Again, hope is for a future good; in this it differs from fear. It is for a possible good; and in this
it differs from despair. Thus there are four qualities in the object of hope.
It is good, future, difficult and possible.
Now the object of our hopes may be obtainable either through our own efforts or through the good offices of other people. And so, sometimes we hope relying on ourselves, and sometimes relying on others. When we hope relying on others, hope has, as it were, two objects. There is first the thing itself for which we hope; and secondly, the person upon whose help we rely to realise our hopes. The first is called the material object, the second the formal. In this, hope is like faith: we believe a statement, the material object, on the authority of a person whom we trust, the formal object.
The formal object of the theological virtue of hope - that is, the reason why we hope - is the almighty power of God helping us. For if we were to be asked why we hope for eternal salvation, we should reply "because God is ready to help us". And He is not only ready but able. This almighty power of God helping us includes, of course, the goodness of God towards us in His readiness to help, and His loyalty to His promises contained in Scripture that He will help us. But the true formal object of hope is neither God's goodness nor His loyalty, but His omnipotence. For our hope would be impossible, for all the goodness and loyalty of God, if He lacked the power to help.
The material object of hope - that for which we hope - has already been stated to be
our eternal salvation.
More accurately, it is God Himself, in Whose presence we hope to live and with Whom we hope to enjoy perpetual communion.
This is the primary and ultimate object of hope.
In addition to this, there are innumerable other things for which we legitimately hope.
But they are means to the attainment of our fundamental hope.
Thus forgiveness, grace, virtue are proper objects of hope.
And so are more mundane things, such as life, happiness, beauty or friends, for these things enable us to love and thank God.
They are gifts from God, and as such we may legitimately hope for them.
The primary material object of hope, then, is God.
And if we sometimes call this hope eternal life or eternal salvation, we must be careful to understand exactly what we mean by
such phrases. For if we mean by them our own eternal happiness, our own subjective state of enjoyment, and make that the final and
ultimate object of hope, then it is difficult to refute the charge that Christianity is a somewhat mercenary religion.
We are treating God as a means, we are using religion for what we can get out of it.
It is not that we love God or want to be with Him, or anything of that sort; it is only that we want to make sure that we shall
always be happy.
But eternal life or eternal salvation does not mean simply our eternal
happiness.
It means the state of being with God.
And we desire eternal life not for its own sake as meaning our eternal survival, but because it is the essential condition of
being eternally with God. We hope to see and to be with God, and that eternally. We do not hope for this primarily because it will
make us happy, as though the happiness were something separable from the being with God, and the being with God the means of
acquiring that happiness. We hope for it, for the sake of God, because we desire to be with God.
Nevertheless, it remains true that eternal life with God does involve the satisfaction of all our wants and desires. Even when we say with Augustine "my soul is restless till it rest in thee", consciously and deliberately to hope for this does include an element of selfish desire. Is not this a blemish on religion? And does it not prevent hope from being a virtue? Many Christians have taken this view. The answer to it is partly to be seen in what we have already said. In true Christian hope we do not hope for our own happiness as the ultimate end, but as a necessary condition of our glorifying God. But it may well be doubted whether much Catholic phraseology on this subject is not very misleading. The stress that is so often laid on Heaven as the reward of merit, of good works, and the frequent exhortations to virtue which appeal to fear of judgement, do gravely blur the true Christian doctrine that we seek eternal happiness not for its own sake but because that happiness redounds to the glory of God. On the other hand, few things are more striking in the Bible, in the Old Testament and New Testament alike, than the frank and unabashed use of the doctrine of rewards and punishments. Even in our Lord's teaching it occupies a very considerable space. And it is a fact of common experience that men seldom begin by acting from the motive of duty alone, but tempted first by the hope of reward they gradually come to a love of the action for its own sake. Much Christian evangelism has been based upon this experience and has verified its accuracy. And in any case it is a patent exaggeration to call the Christian use of this motive of hope, mercenary. For a mercenary man is one who acts solely for the sake of money, or some temporal advantage. But the Christian neither hopes for earthly reward nor acts exclusively from the hope of eternal reward. The hope of eternal reward may indeed be an inducement to Christian living, but it is not the sole motive of action.
Or we may put it in this way.
We know that virtue is rewarded: that happiness is the result of good living.
But we do not necessarily practice virtue for the sake of that reward.
This is in strict accordance with the New Testament.
We are to give a prophet a cup of cold water, not for the sake of the prophet's reward, but in the name of a prophet, because he
is a prophet, for God's sake. Nevertheless we shall get a prophet's reward. And it is entirely legitimate to hope for that reward.
It does not do to worry overmuch about the purity of our motives. It may be that in this or that instance we were moved more by
the hope of reward than by the love of God. Yet the nature of the universe is such that ultimately the reward and the proper
motive of virtue are merged. For the reward, our eternal happiness, is the glory of God. And as we advance nearer to the
receiving of that reward, so does hope centre less and less upon the reward as such, and more and more upon God. For so hope is
formed by love.
But, it may be argued, if the object of hope is our eternal happiness,
whatever way we conceive it, it remains our supreme good; and a man cannot help hoping for his own good. Hope, therefore, is not a
virtue but a necessity. This is not true, because hope involves an act of will. Just as faith, though primarily a matter of the
intellect, yet essentially includes an act of will, so hope, though concerned with appetite, also contains an act of will. This is
because, as St. Thomas puts it, there are two appetites in man, the sensual, and the intellectual, or will. Movements of the
sensual appetite involve feeling or passion, but movements of the intellectual appetite do not. Now, the good, which is the object
of the virtue of hope, is not a sensible good but a divine good. Therefore hope is a movement not of the sensual appetite but of
the intellectual, or the will. This may be put in a simple way, perhaps, by saying that though a man must necessarily hope for his
own happiness, he is free to choose in what his happiness shall consist. He may hope for temporal pleasure or for heavenly. And
for a man to turn his back upon earthly happiness and set his hopes on Heaven obviously involves an act of will. And we do not
need to be reminded that, in order that we may be able to hope for God and God's gifts, it is necessary that the will be moved by
God Who inspires in him such hope. In so far as man is earth and earthly, he hopes for earthly things. It is only in so far as he
is raised above himself to a supernatural sphere that he is able to hope for heavenly things. Hope therefore, like faith, must
be an infused virtue.
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What is the relation between faith and hope?
From one point of view they seem the same: for what is the difference, say, between a sure and certain hope of the resurrection
and a faith in God's promises?
According to St. Thomas, faith precedes hope.
For both the immediate object of hope, our eternal happiness, and the formal object of hope.
God's power to help, are propounded to us by faith.
That is to say, hope is based on faith.
But it is not the same thing.
For it is clearly different to believe in the fact of a general resurrection and in the fact of God's power and desire to raise us
from the dead, and to hope that we shall actually rise.
For faith is absolutely certain, but hope, from our point of view, is only relatively certain.
In so far as hope is based on faith, it shares in faith's certainty.
Thus we have a sure and certain faith that there will be nothing lacking on the part of God in procuring our salvation. But in so
far as hope must also take into account the part that we have ourselves to play, an element of uncertainty necessarily enters.
"Let him who thinks that he stands, take heed lest he fall." Thus hope, like faith, is certain of God's power and desire
to help us: but uncertain lest we, by the use of free will, should frustrate God. We believe in the general fact of God's desire
to save: we hope that we, in particular, shall be saved.
Thus fear, godly fear, is in a way a component part of hope.
This seems odd at first, because hope is of some future good, but fear is of a future evil.
How then can fear be a part of hope?
For we hope for God, and we cannot be afraid of God, directly.
For God is not something evil.
The answer is that the object of godly fear is not God Himself, but either the punishment that God inflicts because of sin, or the
guilt of sin that separates from God.
Thus there are three kinds of godly fear.
There is first the fear inspired solely by the threat of punishment. We desire our own happiness, and we are deterred from sin
because "the wages of sin is death". But if we could be certain of avoiding God's punishment, we should cheerfully and
gladly continue in sin. This fear is called timor servilis. It is characteristic of the slave who obeys his master from
fear, not from love.
In direct contrast with this, is the fear that is inspired wholly by
love of God.
It is the fear of offending God, of causing Him displeasure and of being separated from Him. It is fear, not of punishment, but of
guilt. We will bear the punishment almost gladly, if it will wipe out the guilt and reunite us to God. This is called timor
filialis. It is the fear of sons, who obey their father because they love him, and fear to disobey him because that will cause
him hurt and prove them bad sons.
Between these two kinds of fear stands a third.
It is inspired indeed by the threat of punishment, yet it does not exclude also a hatred of sin itself.
It is a fear of both guilt and punishment.
It is called timor initialis, because it is a beginning of a proper timor filialis.
It is the state of those who are beginning to love God but have not yet perfect love; and so, although they fear guilt because
they do love God, yet also they fear punishment because they still love themselves.
Timor servilis, in so far as it is truly servile and self-regarding, has obviously no merit. In so far as we fear punishment and for that reason alone abstain from sin, we have no true fear or love of God; we have only a selfish and fearful apprehension of evil to ourselves. Yet in so far as the punishment that we fear is a punishment inflicted by God, this servile fear is not wholly bad. For in a sense God is its object. It is right to "fear Him Who hath power to cast both soul and body into hell". Even this servile fear may be called that "fear of the Lord" which "is the beginning of wisdom". For it disposes us, as it were from outside, to obey the commands of God and to refrain from sin. And this is the first effect or beginning of wisdom. "The fear of the Lord casts out sin" (Eccles. i, 27).
Yet the true fear that should accompany the Christian all through his life is the timorfilialis. This fear is actually the result of love of God, and the more we love, the more we fear. For, if we love and as we love, we must always fear offending Him. This fear is the "beginning of wisdom" in another and a deeper sense. It is the first fruits of wisdom: wisdom's first lesson is that man should revere God and subject himself to Him. He who possesses this fear has learnt this lesson; such wisdom has become a part of himself. And in this sense fear is the first of the gifts of the Spirit.
It has been proper to consider fear in connection with hope, because it is the other side
of hope.
We have a sure and certain hope of eternal happiness, as far as God is concerned; we have a sober fear, as far as we ourselves are
concerned, lest we offend God, and be separated from Him and so lose our eternal happiness. That this hope and fear is a virtue,
and that it is our duty to cooperate with God when He inspires it in us, will become clear from another angle, if we consider
briefly the two vices which are opposed to hope. The first of these is presumption.
We presume by relying too much either on our own powers or on the mercy of God. Thus, for
instance, the Pelagians have the sin of presumption, because they think that man can attain salvation by the exercise of his own
powers, and that the help of God is not necessary but only useful. And all persons who give up the practice of religion, not
because they think the creeds false, nor because they think the Christian moral ideals wrong, but because they think they are
competent to pursue those ideals by themselves, have this sin of presumption. Others sin by presumption when they rely too much on
the loving kindness of God, as for instance that God will forgive us whether we repent or no: and that He will give us grace even
if we do not bother to use the sacraments. Very often this kind of presumption is made a handle for sin, as when we say that
"we may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb", meaning it is just as easy for God to forgive, or that He will anyway
forgive, a grave sin as a small one, or twenty sins as one sin. And the whole attitude towards God expressed in the phrase "Ie
bon Dieii'", and the tendency to postpone amendment of life to one's old age, borders on this sin of presumption.
And it is a sin, first, because it maintains a false and dishonourable view about God, - that He does not really mind about sin.
Secondly, because this attitude causes us to neglect the means of grace and forgiveness, and is one form of blasphemy against
the Holy Spirit. It makes the Holy Spirit powerless.
Thirdly, it is a sin because it offends against the proper fear of God and of offending Him, and against our proper hope in God.
It abuses this hope in one of two ways: either it has the wrong object - our own powers, or it has a wrong conception of what is
possible with God.
The sin of despair is more directly opposed to the virtue of hope.
For it has the same object as hope, namely, the almighty power or willingness of God to help us.
We despair that God will forgive us, or we despair of ever, even by the aid of divine grace, attaining to eternal happiness.
St. Thomas calls this the greatest of all sins, greater than not believing in God at all, greater even than hating God. For this
reason, that when we despair we give up all efforts to serve God and sink into torpor, or indulge recklessly in sin. It comes
about because we no longer think eternal happiness possible, and so we cannot hope for it: and as it is impossible and
hopeless we give up trying. It is therefore the exact opposite of hope. And it throws up very clearly into light the relation
between hope and faith. For it is possible to fall into the sin of despair and still retain faith. For faith is about general
propositions: but hope and despair are concerned with particular cases. Thus we may indeed believe that God does forgive sins, and
does bestow the grace of His Holy Spirit upon people freely. But we despair that He will ever forgive us our sins, so
sinful as we are, or that the power of His Holy Spirit will in fact be given to us to enable us to live closer to God.
As despair is the gravest of sins, so in some cases are those who have this sin the most
pathetic. Not always, for sometimes this sin springs from a distaste of virtue that is rooted in worldliness. As when a man gives
up too easily the pursuit after God because it is an arduous pursuit, and one that he thinks not worthwhile. And sometimes it
springs from a defect of faith - because a man does not really believe that God or eternal happiness exist. But those two cases
are not really cases of despair, strictly speaking.
They are sins against love and faith respectively.
Against love, because the man loves the world more than God.
Against faith, because he does not believe God's revelation to man.
But true despair flows from that strange and awful sin called acedia.
Acedia is a kind of sad dejection of spirit, in which a man feels out of sorts with God, the world and himself. It is an acute and
universal boredom. Nothing is any good. Nothing gives any pleasure. In particular, spiritual goods, prayer, worship, communion
with God seem dust and ashes. We are sick of religion. This acedia is a direct sin against love, and should perhaps have been
treated in the next chapter, only that its first-born child is despair. It is a sin against love, because love rejoices in the
friendship and communion with God, and is happy in everything that has to do with God; but acedia is bored with it all and turns
its back.
After the Children of Israel had been delivered out of Egypt and fed with manna and given water from the rock, they soon tired of it all, and the journey to the Promised Land seemed endless and they cried, "Why hast Thou brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? ... Our soul loatheth this light bread." This is acedia. When the Christian laden with the gifts of God and brought on his way to the Promised Land of eternal happiness cries in disgust "My soul loatheth the means of grace, and is sick of this hard and stony pilgrimage". This is the state of many clergy, who have grown tired of the exercise of their office.
And when this distaste for religion has come upon a man, quickly he falls a victim to despair. He feels that there is no good to be expected of him, that God has forsaken him. It is no use for him to pretend any more. So this dejection or sadness, issuing in despair, leads to a languid torpor of the will. And so long as a man stays in this condition of despair, truly he is to be despaired of. And so it has been said "To commit a grave sin is death to the soul: but to despair is to descend into Hell". What then are the remedies for this dreadful state of acedia or despair?
First, a man should be urged to reflect on the great evils that flow from this state. "Why stand ye here idle all the day?" No man honours a loafer, most despise him. Therefore be up and doing. This morbid idleness induces boredom, boredom leads to vices, vices but increase your self-discontent and loathing. But work and prayer make a man happy both in this world and the next. And so, secondly, a man should be urged to reflect on the sure and certain mercies of God/and to meditate on the parables of forgiveness - the lost sheep, the lost son. And thirdly, a man should use to the utmost the sacraments of penance and the eucharist. For by worship will he be lifted out of himself and his love for God rekindled. It is unwise to refrain from worship and the use of the sacraments because they leave us cold and we have a distaste for them. In such circumstances it is right for a man to force himself to go to church. For if he gives up worship, he increases his malady and at the same time deprives himself of its only cure. Yet the way to worship is prepared by purposed amendment of life and the performance of good works - acts of charity and of self-discipline. He who so prepares himself for worship will find his worship grow less cold and distasteful.
As, then, with faith, so also with hope, the will must be roused to cooperate with God when He puts in our hearts good desires. And the will must be roused to meditate upon the great goodness of God in offering us so wonderful a destiny. But we must neither presume on this goodness nor yet despair of it. We must hope, with a sure and certain hope, that to us also will God finally give the unspeakable gift and reward of Himself. We believe in God, and because we believe, our hope is set on God. But without love, neither faith nor hope is much. To believe without love: even the devils do that. But to believe with love is to strain towards God, and eagerly to search Him out, and penetrate as far as He allows the mysteries of His being. To hope without love is, as we have seen, selfish. It is to hope to get something out of God. But to hope with love is hope perfected; hope which has passed beyond self-regard and looks with loving eyes not so much on what is given as on Him who gives: it hopes for a reward, not for what it is but for the source from which it comes.