The Wounded Hope of God

Photo by Mihály Köles on Unsplash

This description from Walter Brueggemann’s commentary on Jeremiah 3-4:4 jarred me. “The wounded hope of God” sounds a bit dangerous to me. It rattles the way I think about God. Does God hope? Can he be wounded? What does that mean for us? How do I reconcile his impassibility— that God does not experience pain or pleasure from the actions of another being—with the language in this text about his yearning for his people who are unfaithful? It’s a longing so strong that it “violates the torah.” How so?

This section opens,

If a man divorces his wife

and she leaves him

          to marry another, can he ever return to her?

Wouldn’t such a land become

          totally defiled?

But you!

You have prostituted yourself

          with many partners—

can you return to me?  (Jer. 3:1)

Here we have an allusion to the law in Deut. 24:1-4, and we see this connection between woman and land (I’m resisting the urge to go down that rabbit hole, here). In Jeremiah, we see Judah as an adulterous wife. And yet, Yahweh calls Judah to return because of his “unfailing love” (3:11).

In this poem, the word of God goes from the picture of the wayward bride to that of the son, saying he “longs” to give them their inheritance. And yet, “as a woman may betray her lover, so you have betrayed me, house of Israel (v. 19). They have lost their desire. Reading this today, how do we see the Holy Spirit speaking to the church?

I can’t just reduce this to a metaphor. The metaphor of bride and sons speaks to our status. It’s not merely used as a literary device for us to downplay, but to stir us beyond the metaphor. To beckon a memory of who we are in Christ and stir that longing of our own for that “most beautiful inheritance” (19). For where we belong.

And I can’t just explain this away as anthropomorphic language that God uses to describe himself so that we can have some sort of connection and understanding. We could ask, understanding of what? The strength of his covenantal love for his people. It’s the very strength of this language in this context that so highlights the creator/creature distinction. God’s “unfailing” love is not vulnerable to fluctuating emotions or what other’s do to him. He doesn’t have love to grow or lessen; he is love. His longing is not to be pitied, and that is made very clear in the next chapter.

Does God hope? Does he really long? Can his hope be wounded?

His hope is the only hope that can be real, that can be answered. And we know—we learn—hope bears wounds. Flesh. It’s the story told to us in creation: Adam wounded in the side; his bride fashioned from the (sacred) wall of his side. He “dies” alone and awakes to behold woman, not made from the dirt. Bone of his bones, flesh of his flesh, provoking his praise and longing. She is a picture of where they are headed in hope together—Zion.

We think our desires are strong but they are so pathetic. Contemplating for a moment on God’s, “How I long…”, on his prodigal love that comes for us, reveals how very lost we are. How far we are from desire—its essence.

Brueggemann says, “What counts now is the reality of the husband, who with bitter yearning and affronted loyalty, still is open to relation, even against the wisdom of the torah. If perchance the relation can be resumed, it will be outside the righteousness of the torah. It will be the odd righteousness of the first husband (Yahweh) who violates the torah for the sake of the relationship (cf. Ps. 143:1-2) Yahweh’s powerful yearning risks defilement for the sake of covenant (cf. Luke 7:34-35)!”

We know this righteousness. These are the wounds Christ bears. And from his pierced side, the church is born. This is the longing that he takes on in the flesh and carries to the cross. Not only our wounds, the wounded hope of God.