Hope – A Reflection by Rev. Klaas Hendrikse (1947-2018)

Klaas Hendrikse (1947-2018)

Whilst I’ve been recovering from my operation – and, alas, it’s been dragging on – I’ve tried to use my time constructively to work up an English translation of Klaas Hendrikse’s (to my mind) wonderful book, God does not exist and Jesus is his son (2011). Well, today I finished a second read through during which I made a number of corrections. And, since I remain convinced that there is a potential English language readership out there, I decided to send it off to Hendrikse’s publishers to see if they might be interested in publishing an English translation – and, I should add, not necessarily mine! Of course, in these cash-strapped days, I’m not holding my breath, but you never know . . . Anyway, all this served to remind me that for quite a while now I’ve been meaning to post an English translation I made last year of Hendrikse’s final sermon given in June 2018, just 23 days before he died. (Back in April 2025 I also posted a translation of a sermon given by him on the 6th August 2017 on the subject of Upbringing and Tradition.) So, long overdue, here is that sermon.

—o0o—

Hope – A Reflection by Rev. Klaas Hendrikse

This is the English translation of Klaas Hendrikse’s final reflection, delivered on 3 June 2018, on the theme of ‘Hope’. Rev. Hendrikse passed away on 26 June 2018 at the age of 70.

The Dutch original can be found at this link.

Introduction

Ships – or the boats of inland skippers – sometimes bear very peculiar names. And I don’t mean ZZ-32 or BRU-55. That’s too functional, like cows: Aaltje-14, Clasina-22.

No, I mean something far more romantic: Cornelia, or Maartje – you can guess as much. But sometimes it’s more profound: Perseverance, or Trust – or how about Never Thought (Nooitgedacht)?

I remember there was once a boat moored regularly in the little harbour of the village where I was born that bore the name Esperanza. I don’t know why I never forgot it – I had no idea what it meant at the time. Perhaps I just thought it was a pretty girl’s name.

And I don’t really know why it came to mind while preparing for today. But suddenly it was there: Esperanza… hope.

The memories of that boat are from the 1950s. The Netherlands – and certainly the Alblasserwaard – was still largely Christian. So behind that name, there must surely have been some kind of faith.

We can’t ask him anymore – the skipper: what do you hope for… what do you believe?
But we can ask each other. And that’s what we’ll do in a moment.

Reflection

‘I hope to meet you, as long as I may live…’ That’s what we just sang. Yes, but what exactly do you hope for…?

•     that you stay healthy for a long time
•     that the weather is fine when you go on holiday
•     that your children will be happy
•     that you’ll get the job you applied for
•     that the test results show nothing malignant

None of this is in your own hands. Hope always has to do with the future – a farmer hopes for a good harvest, he hopes towards the future.

Just like expectation: that too is future-oriented. You expect that something will happen or someone will come. But hoping is different from expecting.

You expect:

•     to be home by 10 pm
•     to pass your exams
•     to catch the train

Those are things you can influence: hurry up a bit, study hard.

We speak of hope when something lies beyond our control – beyond our reach.

When a father says to his son, ‘I hope you’ll work harder at school’, it’s hope we’re hearing. But if the son replies, ‘I hope so too’, then it becomes questionable – if not hopeless.

Hope always looks ahead. How far? That depends on the time and culture you live in. The hope of our ancestors was directed towards a distant future. Back then it was common – or even normative – to believe in an afterlife, eternal life, life-after-death, however one described it.

So death was not seen as meaningless. Its meaning lay in the expectation – or hope – of crossing into another existence.

That belief, for the most part, has vanished. And with it, death has lost its ‘meaning’. Now the meaning (if we can use that word) of death is that it must be postponed and overcome.

To achieve that, we pin our hope on human and technical capabilities.

And we can do a great deal today. As a result, we live longer, and death is kept further from view. And when it does approach, medical science can often hold it off a little longer.

Through our belief in science – through new ways of postponing death – hope itself has changed.

In other words: hope for life-after-death has disappeared, replaced by hope for longer life – because that’s all we feel we have left.

To sum up:

Faith in medical science has replaced belief in the hereafter. 

And instead of ‘hope sustains life’, it’s now more accurate to say: ‘hope sustains longer life’.

Hope looks ahead, as we said. And that forward gaze is always positive. Hope sets its sights on a turn for the better.

That’s why hope can be a force – one that keeps people going inside.

Just look around at how many people live with the hope that their great longing will one day be fulfilled – whether it’s for a partner or a lottery win.

Or look at the news: refugee camps full of people hoping for a better life.

Hope is that strong: hope for better times has helped people endure the most hopeless of circumstances. Hope for healing gives people strength to undergo the most dreadful treatments.

That’s why we say: hope keeps our spirits up.

But the phrase ‘living between hope and fear’ says it all – because everyone knows: there is also false hope. Hope always walks alongside fear.

Fear too is a force – a force that points to the possibility of the wrong outcome:

•     things may not turn out well
•     your hope may not be fulfilled
•     something terrible could happen
•     the harvest or the operation may fail

There is also despair. Sometimes people lose all hope. Life can strike without mercy. Tomorrow everything could look different. The line between hope and despair can be a narrow ledge.

We read it and hear it every day: bombings, civil wars, people fleeing in fragile boats across open seas – desperate.

It’s almost beyond our comprehension, but countless people around the world have never known peace. They don’t even know what it is.

At some point, isn’t it simply beyond hoping?

Yes – when so much sorrow and hatred are sown, sometimes hope can no longer hold out against fear and despair.

How do they keep going? We don’t know.

We can say very little about the world and the lives of others. And even less about people who live surrounded by violence, grief, and despair. How do they keep going?

And if they’re believers, or Christians – how do they hold onto that? Do texts like the ones we just read, about faith, hope, and love, still mean anything to them?

These are not only their questions. They are ours too – and those of people around us.

Probably this applies to everyone: whether it’s about believing or hoping – if you never experience anything of it, how can you keep going?

Faith needs hope – the hope that things don’t have to stay the way they are.

Faith without hope isn’t really faith. And the other way round: can you even hope at all, if you don’t believe in something?

Today, more people seek their salvation outside the church than within it.

Salvation? Or is it hope?

Of course, it’s called by other names. Many people now call themselves ‘ietsists’ – ‘something-ists’ – keeping the door ajar. The door to hope? What else?

All those seekers do believe – maybe not in God, but certainly in hope.

They too are looking – just like you and me – for hope amid the vulnerability of life.

In other words, or in other questions – isn’t that what everyone is doing: looking for hope in response to our fragile existence?

We read in 1 Corinthians 13 about faith, hope, and love.

Paul says love is the greatest. I suspect he means that you cannot keep believing or hoping without love.

Because hope can take a long time – too long. And when it takes too long, it can hurt:

•     You can wait too long for peace
•     or for things finally to go well for the people you love
•     or for someone to come into your life who loves you above all else

Then hope needs feeding. It’s not a matter of ‘you either have it or you don’t’. No – sometimes it’s there, and then it’s gone again.

But if you’re without hope for a while, maybe I can hope for you. And vice versa.

Maybe I can carry hope for a bit when you can’t. And vice versa.

I can’t do it alone. Neither can you.

You can’t hope alone – you need each other.

Hope has to be kept alive – like a flame that must be fanned, so it doesn’t go out.

Paul would say: what’s needed is the nourishment of love that doesn’t give up.

‘Faith, hope, and love – and the greatest of these is love’, he said.

And when he said that, he wasn’t looking up (not towards God), but around him – towards people.

We also read from Psalm 14 this morning. In hindsight, not the best choice – a rather hopeless text, and not really hopeful enough to end with.

There is another story about hope – a very old one – about a princess from ancient Greece. Her name was Pandora, and she was so beautiful that some of the gods grew jealous of her beauty.

As a gift (though not a kind one), they gave her a box that she must never open.

You know how these stories go – so you can guess what happened. She lifts the lid and releases all the miseries that now plague the world: disease, misfortune, and madness.

But another god – a compassionate one – manages just in time to have her close the box before everything escapes.

What remained inside was the only remedy for all the released misery: HOPE.

Gracious God.

—o0o—

At the farewell gathering on 3 July 2018 following his death, the words he himself always spoke at the end of his services resonated from our congregation:

‘God goes with you as a support at your back, as the ground beneath your feet, and as the fire in your heart.’