“It’s the hope that kills you.”
Ted Lasso (out of context)

I am starting this blog post with a quote from the show ‘Ted Lasso.’ In the episode titled “The Hope That Kills You,” our titular character, Ted, is presented in contrast to a deeply cynical mindset. This attitude suggests: Don’t get your hopes up. Don’t expect too much, or you’ll get hurt. It implies that anticipating good things only magnifies our suffering when they don’t come to fruition. This sentiment is common among football fans—and I imagine sports fans in general. Ted’s message challenges this way of thinking, which is rooted in fear and apathy, as it tries to protect us from disappointment. He counters this perspective by embracing hope, believing it is essential for confronting uncertainty.

Ted’s argument is certainly important, hope is often linked to greater resilience, motivation, and overall well-being, encompassing physical, mental, and emotional aspects. However, Christian hope does kill you, not by crushing our spirit through disappointment, but by killing off our illusions of progress, control, and solutions. But unlike Christian hope, which embraces fragility and faithful presence without guaranteeing outcomes, American political hope tends to demand control and certainty, craving to secure the future on our terms.

Hope lies in the difficult, daily work of being human. It is not grounded in the binary optimism of American politics, but in the slow moral formation demanded by the Christian narrative. A costly, embodied witness to a different way of life that acknowledges the painful truth precisely because genuine hope exposes us to a particular fragility and faithfulness in our interactions with others and the world around us. It is about risking love, patience, and presence even in times of pain and messiness. This hope, whether political or otherwise, is not something we can control; instead, it is for us to receive.

Politics of Hope

The Civil Rights Movement, deeply rooted in the witness of the Black church, achieved vital legal advances—most notably the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which outlawed discrimination based on race, color, religion, sex, or national origin. Yet despite this progress, systemic racial inequalities remain entrenched in American society. Still, many mistakenly believe the struggle for justice and equality ended with those landmark victories. This illusion is particularly dangerous for the Church, because it tempts us to forget a model grounded not in the pursuit of power, but in a hope rooted in God’s justice breaking into the world. That legacy stands in stark contrast to the growing influence of Christian nationalism in our time.

Christian nationalism rests on the problematic assumption that Church and political power should be intertwined—whether in conservative or progressive forms. Unlike the Civil Rights Movement, which bore witness to the kingdom, Christian nationalism treats the kingdom as something to be secured through control of political systems. Drawing from Ken’s April sermon on “what we believe the goal of Christianity is,” and his Hope post on “Natural” Hope, we see how many Christians fall into the temptation of viewing political participation as a guaranteed way to realize the kingdom of God.

This may be the central temptation of Christian nationalism in all its forms: the belief that through political power and influence, the Church can establish God’s reign on earth. But this conflation mistakes the tools of empire for the mission of the kingdom. The kingdom of God is not a political project or human achievement, but a spiritual reality that calls the Church to faithful presence, humility, and patient hope beyond any earthly institution or agenda.

As theologian Dr. Jonathan Tran notes, the danger of Christian nationalism lies not only in its politics, but in the spiritual damage it inflicts on the Church’s witness:

“The greatest damage of Christian nationalism and the temptations on the left and the right of Christian nationalism is the damage it does to the church. Because what Christian nationalism tempts us to believe, what it tempts us to do, is to evacuate the Gospel of God and to replace it with an impoverished political imagination. […] To say that, in so far, as Christian nationalism is now what American Christianity is, this vaunted dream on the left and the right, both its crude and sophisticated versions of the Christian nation, the Christianized nation of a Christian America, that in so far as that is what Christian American Christianity comes to, then my hope that what is happening now will be God killing American Christianity and making room for the church.”

My left-leaning political convictions are closely tied to my pursuit of a degree in Public Health, grounded in the belief that government has a moral responsibility to protect the well-being of its people. Like many others, I lived through the COVID-19 pandemic witnessing overwhelming pain, loss, and systemic strain. In that season, I placed hope in the government’s ability to negotiate with pharmaceutical companies—especially around vaccine development and distribution. Yet, I came face to face with a painful reality: the same systems I hoped could save lives often prioritize profit, making access to life-saving medication feel like a privilege rather than a basic human right.

The church is not to fix the world but to live as a witness that God’s kingdom has come—and is still coming. This means caring for the poor, advocating for women, protecting the vulnerable working class, and seeking peace—both within society and in political spaces—while always recognizing these efforts as expressions of our witness, not as ends achieved through political power. Christian nationalism misuses these good desires by tying them exclusively to political power as the path to the kingdom. The church’s task is not to conquer the world’s brokenness through government but to embody a different politics that critiques, challenges, and offers an alternative to the powers that be.

The Church’s Hope

The Incarnation—God becoming human in Jesus Christ—is central to understanding hope. It represents God’s willingness to be present with us in our humanity, which is the deepest expression of hope. This event reveals God’s true nature by entering into our lives through nearness, vulnerability, and love. The Church serves as a witness to the incarnate God, embodying His love by being present, serving, and living in solidarity with others.

Hope is made possible not by removing suffering, but by being faithfully present in the midst of it. Hope recognizes the story of God by embodying His presence rather than focusing on future outcomes. In our culture, there is often a desire to escape, fix, or rationalize suffering. However, Christian hope stands in contrast to this by choosing to remain with one another in times of pain, vulnerability, suffering, or disability. In other words, being present in suffering creates the space for hope to flourish. Hope is the assurance that we are not alone, even in suffering, and that God is with us. Hope is then received through the presence of God made visible in the Church’s faithful love towards our neighbors. 

Central to this embodied hope is empathy—the call to enter into another’s reality not just emotionally, but physically and relationally. Empathy is often thought of as a feeling, but the Incarnation shows us that empathy is embodied. Jesus does not just feel what we feel from a safe distance; He lives it. Walks it. Suffers it. “And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth” (John 1:14 NRSVUE). We don’t serve others from a place of detachment or superiority, but in imitation of the God who stooped low to serve and suffer alongside.