‘Hope’ is thing with feathers

Bishop Scott Bullock
Homily from the Opening Mass of the Jubilee Year of Hope/Feast of the Holy Family
Cathedral of Our Lady of Perpetual Help, Rapid City
December 29, 2024

About a month ago, I had the opportunity to go over to the South Dakota School of Mines to meet with the students in the Newman center there. The purpose of the evening was to “Stump the Bishop” — ask a question so difficult that he’s befuddled. Of course, they failed. One of the questions dealt with the theological issue of the so-called Apostolic succession. I’m not sure you know about — that the idea that a bishop like myself was ordained by a bishop, who was ordained by a bishop, who was ordained by bishop, all the way back to the apostles. This is a tenant of our faith that I share in that succession of Gifts of the Spirit and so the question was, “Bishop, that Apostolic succession that you can trace your lineage all the way back to the apostles; bishop, do you know that or you do you just hope that?” 

To which I answered, “yes.” 

It is both because we who are Christians, we who are followers of Jesus, have a great confidence in the hope of his promises. We know that Jesus said to his apostles, “Upon this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell will not prevail against it.” So yes, I both know and trust in that truth. I hope in it with a sure and certain hope. 

So, we begin a Jubilee Year of Hope, and I think it’s worthy to give our time of reflection by considering what is that hope to me? Does it mean wishful thinking or does it mean something more certain. And to begin the Jubilee Year, I’d like to invite a guest homilist, who offers, in my opinion, one of the most extraordinary explorations of what hope is and what it is not. One of the most beloved American poets, the so-called “the Belle of Amherst,” Emily Dickinson. This is what you get when you have a bishop with a literature degree. She will speak to us through her great poem called “Hope” is the thing with feathers. It gets to the heart of what is this elusive thing we call hope. Let’s spend some time with “the Belle of Amherst” and let her instruct us about hope. It’s a nice short poem, but it’s a winner.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.

That’s pretty awesome. Let’s take some time and look closely at it because poetry can be kind of dense. I find this very clever. The poem begins with the word “Hope” put in quotation marks. These quotation marks suggest something that is intangible. Something that has rich meaning and can’t be assumed to be something simple. We’ll spend the rest of the poem then, digging in to what this “hope” thing is.

Next, we have a most clever use of the definite article. Hope is “the” thing. Not a thing, but the thing with feathers. This suggests that it’s the primary thing of hope, and it has feathers. Since there are indeed other things with feathers, of course mostly birds, she must mean something very specific with that word feathers. 

So what is her sense of a feather? It is an extraordinary creation of God these feathers that birds have. A long, thin spine running down the middle — you know what a feather looks like — it’s called a rachis with hundreds of hair-like barbules that fan the air and lift the bird aloft. For Dickinson, then, hope is not a bird, it’s the thing with feathers. It is the thing that lifts us, helps us soar.

Where do we find this thing? The poet goes on to say that it perches in our soul. When a bird perches, it’s ready to soar at any moment, any unpredictable moment. So, too, is hope ready to take flight at any moment. And what does this thing do as it perches in the soul? It sings a tune without words, she says. Words represent, in some ways, rational meaning. When we teach children words, we are helping them put some order and reason in their worlds. The poet is saying that hope sings, suggesting joy of course, but it does it in a most unpredictable and unorderly way.

“And when does this hope cease?” The poet goes on. It “never stops — at all —.” Here we have an example of Emily Dickinson’s use of clever punctuation. I know you’re fascinated by this. She uses two dashes, which lengthen the thought and prompt us to take a moment and reflect. Hope is the thing that never stops or pauses, dash, at all, dash. Pause and think about that. It never ends. Hope in the human soul is deep and never ends

Then we make it to the second stanza which reflects upon when we experience hope and when it is the sweetest. It is in the midst of the gale, a storm, a storm that must be “sore,” that is like an agitated being, that does abash, that does not destroy. The hope-bird, the storm doesn’t destroy it but keeps us not in the cold rain, but comfortably warm in the midst of the storm. Hope is most radiant then  in the midst of the storms of life.

And then finally stanza 3, we’re getting there, for the first time we hear the mention of the poet herself, who recounts like a travelogue, the course of her life, where, in each place, she has heard hope flutter down and speak to her. And then she concludes her reflection, this “thing with feathers” by considering how it is produced in her soul. She notes that never, even “in Extremity” that is, has “hope,” asked even a crumb of her. Here we’re back to the image of the bird. And sometimes we’re thinking, “my hope’s lacking. I’ve got to feed it.” And she says, “No. Hope will feed you.” Hope comes with no effort on her part. It flies in. It flutters down despite the feelings of chill and strangeness in life and lifts her. As crumbs feed a bird, this bird doesn’t demand anything of us, but freely feeds us.

One more time from Emily Dickinson: 

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.

Hope, the thing with feathers. It’s that thing that lifts us and lets us soar, no matter what storms of life come. And while the poet knows not where it comes, in faith we can turn to today’s Gospel and see its source.

Pope Francis has aptly asked us to begin this Jubilee Year, as we did this morning, on a pilgrimage, symbolized by our travel from outside the front of the Cathedral to this place where we meet Christ, our hope — our only hope. Like the journeying of the poet, who finds the “thing with feathers,” that lifts her in the “chillest lands” and the “strangest seas” I think we can see in the Holy Family, in today’s Gospel, the model of finding hope that lifts our souls so they may soar!

With its usual spareness, the Gospel writer Luke gives us only the barest details of the seeming “crisis” of the Holy Family with their lost Jesus, but we can easily fill in the details. The family has traveled to Jerusalem we’re told on pilgrimage with a large crowd. As they travel back with their relatives to their home, they discover after a day that Jesus is not with them. As parents, of course, their minds and hearts race! Is he okay? Has he been cared for? Is he in danger? Is he lost?

Mary and Joseph naturally and with understandable concern retrace their steps to Jerusalem, where they find the son, who reassures them in their concerns that he is okay. He says, “Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?” 

Here then, Jesus points to our single source of hope in this house who is our God. For the “chillest lands” and “strangest seas” across this journey of our life and shake our hope and leave us fearful.  Our efforts to salve our fears and bolster our hope will come up short for we cannot see the end. We cannot see the hope that Christ promises in its entirety, but God knows, and He will feed us here “the crumb.” That is the Eucharist that strengthens our hope as God’s beloved. Who will remain with us, to nourish us and care for us, if we’ll but keep coming to Him. So, in our fears, Jesus speaks the eternal word of hope to his family, to us as well, who come here with concerns and maybe even fears in our hearts. He says, “Do you not know that I, your hope, can be found in our father’s house.” Here, then, is our house of hope!

Listen to the prayer, now, that we’ll hear now in a few minutes for this Mass of the Feast of the Holy Family near its end: “Bring those you refresh with this heavenly Sacrament, most merciful Father, to imitate constantly the example of the Holy Family, so that, after the trials of this world, we may share their company forever. Through Christ our Lord.” 

This prayer then speaks of our hope, that, here fed with the very life of Jesus in the Eucharist, we will be preserved and guided by His presence and in His presence to the very eternal life that is our sure and certain hope. Hope, “that thing with feathers” that lifts our souls, is Jesus himself.  And when the world wonders whence comes our hope, we can answer with Jesus, “Did you not know that it would be found in my father’s house,” where we receive Jesus, our only hope!