The play Thunder Rock flopped in New York City, but in London, England, in the fall of 1940 it became a sensation. In the story, a lighthouse-keeper on Lake Michigan reflects on the passengers whose ship went down near there in 1848. Throughout endless days and lonely nights, he re-creates these forlorn passengers who had fled Europe as immigrants and now in this wreck had lost what little they owned. They were discouraged, the world was against them, their hope was used up.
The lighthouse-keeper imagines he is personally addressing the passengers. He urges them to hold on. There is plenty of reason for hope, he assures them, because at that very moment in Illinois there is a young man named Abraham Lincoln. Madame Curie has been born. Florence Nightingale is alive. Pasteur is in Paris. Lift up your spirits, he calls to them. There is good news just ahead.
In his 1941 book on war-time London, I Saw England, CBS newsman Ben Robertson tells that story. He adds, “The citizens of London went to that show, night after night, and wept. It was a play for a city that had prepared itself to die.”
When we are facing death every day, hope is more than an emotion. It’s a difference-maker.
When Scripture speaks of hope, it means an expectation and a desire. We want it, we have reason to expect it.