Hope in the Dark
In my studies on the problem of evil, I came across this phrase “there are no theodicies in concentration camps”—now, a theodicy is just a fancy way to say an explanation of why a good God lets suffering happen. I immediately disagreed with the statement, though. One, from my personal experience of suffering. And two, because I have a different quote hanging on the wall of my study at home. And it’s this: “I believe in the sun even when it is not shining. I believe in love even when I cannot feel it. I believe in God even when He is silent.” And I know the story behind it, with its Jewish origins from Nazi Germany.
Those words came from a Cologne cellar in World War II, where nine Jews hid from the Gestapo for months. Darkness was their everyday world—cold, damp, silent—but they didn’t ditch God or think He wasn’t good or working good. No, they etched that hope on the wall, a gritty testament that hope exists in the blackest pits. And that there is theodicy in concentration camps.
That’s the same place we find the psalmist in today’s text, Psalm 119:81-88, the kaph stanza. The Psalmist is having to have hope in the dark. But I want to tell you right now that the dark is where hope exists. Because even in the darkest of places, the sun is still shining. The light is still there. So there’s always hope.
Desperation is where faith dies or deepens. (81-83)
The psalmist is gasping for relief. In verse 81, he says, “My soul longs for your salvation.” The Hebrew word for “longs” here means to be utterly consumed with desire, to be worn down by waiting. This isn’t casual impatience, like waiting for water boil. And the longer you stare at it, the longer it takes to boil. This is someone who has reached the end of himself, like a weary traveler in the desert, desperate for water, with no oasis in sight.
Desperation exposes what we really believe. It shows whether faith is just something we talk about or something we cling to. It’s easy to trust God when life makes sense—when the job is secure, the family is healthy, and everything’s going smoothly. But what about when suffering drags on? When the waiting feels endless? When your prayers seem unanswered? That’s where faith either falls apart or digs in deeper.
The psalmist doesn’t see the rescue yet, but he refuses to let go. He says, “I hope in your word.” In the Bible, “hope” isn’t just wishful thinking—it’s a confident expectation. It’s not hope-so hope. It’s know-so hope. The Hebrew word is the same word used in Psalm 130:5-6, where it says,
5 I wait for the Lord, my soul waits,
and in his word I hope;
6 my soul waits for the Lord
more than watchmen for the morning,
more than watchmen for the morning.
Think about those watchmen—they’re guards on the city walls in ancient Israel, standing through the dead of night, keeping watch for enemies or thieves, their eyes straining for the first light of dawn. They’re longing for morning because it means safety, the end of danger, the end of their anxious wait, and they know it’s coming even when the darkness feels endless. That’s the psalmist’s hope—a deep, aching wait for God’s promise, trusting it’ll break through like the morning sun. But it exists amidst the dark.
Then in verse 82, he says, “My eyes long for your promise; I ask, ‘When will you comfort me?’” This isn’t the first time in Scripture someone has pleaded with God like this. Job, after losing everything, cried out, “Where then is my hope? Who will see my hope?” (Job 17:15). The prophets groaned under the weight of suffering and waiting, with Elijah even crying out, “It is enough; now, O Lord, take away my life, for I am no better than my fathers… I have been very jealous for the Lord, the God of hosts. For the people of Israel have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword, and I, even I only, am left, and they seek my life, to take it away” (1 Kings 19:4, 10). Even Jesus, in His darkest moment on the cross, prayed, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46). The psalmist’s words echo the experience of every believer who has ever walked through suffering and felt like God was silent.
In those desperate, dark moments, when you can’t see and don’t understand, we often scramble to figure out what God’s up to, what’s His purpose, what is He doing? There’s a concept in the studies of the problem of evil called skeptical theism that says we don’t have to understand or see where God is or what He’s doing—and that’s a relief! One of the philosophers have argued, to make his point, about “noseeums.” It’s a silly term that has a deeper meaning. It means that if you don’t see, like a tiny mosquito hovering, it doesn’t mean it’s not plotting to snack on you later! You can’t see it, but it doesn’t mean it’s not there. And you will likely see the effects of it afterwards.
We might not see the good in our present difficulty—lost jobs, shattered dreams, prolonged waiting, or that deafening quiet—but Romans 8:28 shouts that God’s working it all for good, even when we’re squinting in the dark, like, “Lord, I know you’re there, but I can’t see right now.” Faith digs in deeper here, trusting His hands are moving, even when our eyes can’t see it. God’s goodness doesn’t need our approval to be real.
Then he gives this raw, painful image in verse 83: “For I have become like a wineskin in the smoke, yet I have not forgotten your statutes.” This metaphor would have hit hard for the original audience. In ancient Israel, wineskins were made of animal hides, used to hold wine or water. But if you hung a wineskin too close to a fire, the smoke and heat would dry it out, making it brittle and cracked—useless for holding anything. That’s how the psalmist feels. Worn out, withered, like he’s been left too long in the heat of suffering. Yet, even as he feels like something discarded and ruined, he declares that he still clings to God’s Word.
That’s real faith. It’s not just believing when life is good. It’s holding on when everything falls apart. It’s choosing to trust when the waiting stretches longer than you ever imagined. The psalmist doesn’t feel strong—he feels like he’s falling apart. But faith isn’t about feeling strong. It’s about knowing the One who is. And even when he feels like a shriveled, useless wineskin, he refuses to loosen his grip on the promises of God.
God hears the prayers of the broken. (84-86)
Desperate people pray desperate prayers. The psalmist isn’t offering a polished theological statement here. He’s crying out in raw honesty, “How long must your servant endure? When will you judge those who persecute me?” (84). These aren’t the words of someone trying to sound spiritual. They’re the words of a person barely holding on.
This is one of the most repeated cries in Scripture: “How long, O Lord?”[1] The prophets cried it. The psalmists wrote it. The martyrs in Revelation 6:10 cry out from beneath the altar, “How long before you will judge and avenge our blood?” The people of God have always felt this tension between the promises of God and the reality of suffering. The psalmist isn’t doubting God’s justice—he’s asking when it will come. And that’s what faith does. It doesn’t ignore suffering or pretend it doesn’t hurt. It takes that suffering straight to the throne of God.
There’s this lie that creeps into our minds sometimes—that we need to clean ourselves up before we come to God. That we need to put on a brave face and pray the “right” words. You know, like when you’re trying to sound all spiritual in a prayer group, and you throw in some big words like “verily” or “beseech,” because you think it makes you sound closer to God? But the psalmist doesn’t do that. He doesn’t suppress his pain. He pours it out. “The insolent have dug pitfalls for me; they do not live according to your law” (85). His enemies aren’t just opposing him—they’re actively trying to trap him. They want to see him fall.
Maybe you’ve felt that. Maybe you’ve experienced betrayal. Maybe you’ve been lied about. Maybe you’ve watched people who reject God seem to prosper while you’re struggling just to stay afloat. And in those moments, everything in you wants to scream, “God, do you see this? Do you care?” The psalmist asks those same questions. But look at where he turns: “All your commandments are sure; they persecute me with falsehood; help me!” (86).
He’s weary. He’s worn down. But he still clings to what he knows is true: God’s Word is sure. His promises do not fail. His justice will come. The psalmist doesn’t suppress his pain—he brings it to God. And that’s what we’re called to do.
You don’t have to get it together before you pray. You don’t have to find the perfect words. God isn’t waiting for a polished speech—like you’re auditioning for a role in a Bible movie. He’s waiting for you to come as you are. You don’t need to pretend with God. You just need to cry out. Because He hears the prayers of the broken.
The enemy can press in but not prevail. (87)
The psalmist isn’t speaking in metaphors here. He’s been hunted, persecuted, and pushed to the edge. In verse 87, he says, “They have almost made an end of me on earth.” That word “almost” matters. It tells us the enemy came close, but they didn’t succeed.
“Almost” is the space where faith is tested. You’ve heard the saying, “Almost works only for horseshoes and hand grenades.” In horseshoes, you toss that horseshoe toward the stake, and even if you don’t get a ringer, if you’re close enough—say, within a horseshoe’s width—you still get a point. You’re measuring it out, hoping it’s close enough to count, and when it is, you’re like, “Yes! I’ll take that point!” And with hand grenades—well, you don’t even have to hit the target directly. You just need to get close, and kaboom—it still does the job. But in life, “almost” can feel a lot scarier. It’s like the enemy is lobbing a hand grenade your way, and you’re watching it land, thinking, “Is this close enough to take me out? Am I done for?” Or it’s like you’re playing horseshoes with your faith, and the enemy’s attack lands so close to the stake, you’re measuring it, heart pounding, wondering, “Is this close enough to end me?” That’s where the psalmist is—he says, “They have almost made an end of me on earth.” The enemy got close—too close—but here’s the good news: they didn’t succeed. In God’s hands, “almost” means the enemy doesn’t get the final say—God does.
We see this pattern all throughout Scripture. Joseph was almost left for dead in a pit by his brothers, but God raised him up to save a nation (Genesis 37–50). Israel was almost wiped out by Pharaoh’s army at the Red Sea, but God split the waters to deliver them (Exodus 14). Daniel was almost devoured by lions, but God shut their mouths (Daniel 6). The early church was almost crushed by persecution, but the gospel couldn’t be stopped (Acts 8:1–4). And Jesus was almost silenced by the grave, but three days later, He walked out of it in victory (Matthew 28).
The world has always pressed in on the faithful, but the faithful press on. The psalmist doesn’t deny the weight of suffering. He acknowledges that he was almost undone, but he doesn’t waver in his commitment. The last part of verse 87 says, “But I have not forsaken your precepts.” His enemies had done their worst, but he was still standing—because his faith wasn’t in his ability to hold on. It was in God’s ability to hold him.
You might be in an “almost” season right now. Maybe the enemy—whether it’s doubt, fear, or circumstances—has come so close that you’re wondering, “Is this going to be the thing that takes me out? Is this close enough to end me?” But here’s the truth: just like in horseshoes, where “almost” can still score a point, and with hand grenades, where “almost” still has an impact, in God’s plan, “almost” means the enemy doesn’t win. They got close, but God steps in and says, “Not today.” If you are in Christ, you are pressed, but not crushed. You are persecuted, but not abandoned. You are struck down, but not destroyed (2 Corinthians 4:8–9). So don’t give up. The enemy can press in, but they can’t prevail.
The love of God gives us life. (88)
In your steadfast love give me life,
that I may keep the testimonies of your mouth.
I want to tell you about a painting I did called “Hope in the Dark.” It’s this bold purple heart, thick with paint, set against a dark background of blacks and purples, with streaks bursting out like a battle between light and darkness. Right outside the heart, I wrote the word “Hope” in the same dark shade as the background—barely visible, on purpose, because hope in the dark isn’t always easy to see. And inside the heart, there’s a brush stroke that looks like a question mark—also on purpose—because in our darkest moments, we’re asking, “God, where are You?” Every painting I do, I also write a poem, and I want to read this one in full, because it points us straight to the hope we have in Jesus through the steadfast love of the Lord:
Hope that is seen is not hope at all,
for who hopes for what he has?
Love has been taken, all hope is lost,
in the darkness left to stand.
Fear surrounds me, doubts engulf,
despair my constant friend.
The battle rages, alone with the dark,
when will this suffering end?
Behold, a Light is peeking through,
One acquainted with the dark.
He’s been there. He’s felt it.
He has experienced the hurt.
Amidst my deepest sorrow,
soaked in endless tears,
weary from the weight of suffering,
He has always been near.
He took the blow that darkness threw.
He met death face to face.
He went the road alone, He knew
I’d be traveling it one day.
He’s been there. He’s done it,
Traversed the waters of the deep.
He’s beckoning from the other side,
“Come ye weary.”
Though the darkness meant for evil,
Though the thief stole my heart,
I know the Light is ever present,
So I will hope in the dark.
I painted this in January 2015, in honor of my twin, my friend, who I lost in April of 2014. And that poem captures the cry of verse 88, where the psalmist prays, “In your steadfast love give me life, that I may keep the testimonies of your mouth.” He’s in the dark—despair his constant friend, that question mark heavy on his heart—just like those Jewish refugees in that Cologne cellar. But he clings to God’s steadfast love, the Hebrew word hesed—a fierce, covenant-keeping love that doesn’t quit. And that love is Jesus, the Light peeking through, the One who’s been there, felt it, experienced the hurt.
Jesus stepped into our darkness, taking the blow that darkness threw. He went to the cross, bearing our sin, our shame, our suffering, and cried, “It is finished” (John 19:30). He met death face to face, so we wouldn’t have to. And on the third day, He rose, proving His love is stronger than death. John 1:4 says, “In him was life, and the life was the light of men.” That’s the life the psalmist is begging for in verse 88—life that comes from God’s love, life that Jesus gives to the weary, the broken, the ones who feel like they’ve got nothing left. That’s why the psalmist says, “Give me life, that I may keep the testimonies of your mouth.” He’s not obeying to earn God’s love—he’s obeying because he’s been loved, because the love of God changes everything.
So if you’re here today, feeling like the psalmist, like those Jews hiding in the dark cellar, like the words of my poem—surrounded by fear, doubts, despair—hear Jesus calling to you, “Come ye weary.” His love is here, right now, in your darkest moment, saying, “I see you, I love you, and I died to give you life.” Maybe you’ve never trusted Him—do it today. Run to Him, rest in Him, let His love be your light. And for all of us, let’s hold onto this: even when hope is barely visible, like that word outside the heart in the painting, it’s still there. Even in the dark, there’s always hope—because Jesus is always near.
[1] https://www.thegospelcoalition.org/article/how-long-o-lord/; https://www.desiringgod.org/articles/how-long-o-lord
