High Hopes When All Is Not Well

Some of us are old enough to remember a simple song that used to show up on the radio and in cartoons. It wasn’t trying to be profound. It wasn’t aiming for insight. It was lighthearted—almost silly. And yet, it stayed with people far longer than you’d expect.

--- High Hopes

Next time you're found

With your chin on the ground

There a lot to be learned

So look around

… Just what makes that little old ant

Think he'll move that rubber tree plant

Anyone knows an ant can't

Move a rubber tree plant

… But he's got high hopes

He's got high hopes

He's got high apple pie

In the sky hopes

Everyone knew how that was going to end. An ant can’t move a rubber tree plant. The song even admits that outright.

There’s no suspense, no false optimism. And yet the refrain keeps returning to the same idea—the ant just keeps going.

He doesn’t stop to calculate the odds.

He doesn’t pause to ask whether success is likely.

He doesn’t quit because the task is too big.

The song celebrates persistence, not success. Refusal, not strength.

The strange thing is that people remember it decades later—not because they believed ants could move trees, but because somewhere along the way, many of us recognized ourselves in it.

Especially as we got older.

Life has a way of putting every one of us in front of our own rubber tree plants—things larger than we are, heavier than we can lift, and more complex than we can fix. Situations where effort doesn’t guarantee progress and sincerity doesn’t ensure results.

When we’re younger, we tend to assume that belief will be rewarded quickly. That doing the right thing will lead to the right outcome. That faith is a kind of leverage—something that tips the scales in our favor if we use it correctly.

Time teaches us otherwise.

Time teaches us that some prayers linger unanswered.

Some problems refuse to budge.

Some hopes remain unresolved.

When that happens, believing begins to feel exposed. Not heroic—exposed. Faith no longer feels like confidence. It feels like risk.

That’s when many people quietly begin asking a different question.

Not “Is God real?” but “Is it reasonable to keep believing when nothing seems to change?”

That little ant matters because he doesn’t answer that question with success. He answers it with persistence. He keeps going, not because he’s confident the tree will move, but because stopping would mean surrendering hope altogether.

And that’s closer to biblical faith than we often admit.

Scripture does not define faith as optimism.

It does not define faith as certainty.

It defines faith as trust—lived out over time—especially when outcomes are delayed.

Which brings us to the deeper issue many of us face today.

A lot of people are not living in active crisis. They’re living in quiet strain. Life keeps moving, responsibilities continue, and faith is still present—but something feels thinner. The confidence is quieter. The expectations are lower.

Not because belief has disappeared, but because disappointment has accumulated.

We still believe.

But we believe cautiously.

We still hope.

But we hope with our fingers half open.

Over time, faith can begin to feel heavy—not because it has failed, but because we’ve learned not to expect too much from it. We adjust our hopes downward to protect ourselves from being disappointed again.

That’s not rebellion.

That’s fatigue.

And Scripture does not shame that experience.

The book of Hebrews was written to people who knew that tension well—people who had believed, obeyed, endured, and were still waiting. People whose faith had not collapsed, but had been stretched thin by time and uncertainty.

Hebrews does not scold them for that.

It honors them.

Hebrews 11 is not a chapter about people who always won. It is a chapter about people who trusted God when winning was no longer guaranteed. People who faced silence, disappointment, and contradiction—and still chose to remain loyal to God.

This message begins there.

Not with triumph.

Not with certainty.

But with belief that refuses to walk away when all is not well.

That is the kind of faith Scripture takes seriously.

And that is the kind of faith we need to talk about.

--- Faith When God Seems Silent

One of the most difficult tests of faith is not suffering itself, but silence.

Pain we can understand. Loss we can name. But silence unsettles us in a deeper way.

When God seems quiet, faith feels exposed. There is nothing to lean on except trust itself—no reassurance, no explanation, no clear sense that anything is moving in the right direction.

The Bible does not shy away from that experience, and few stories capture it more honestly than the story of Job.

Job was not confused about whether God existed. He was not rebelling against God. He was not careless with his faith.