If you have ever stood on the deck of a ship in a storm, you know the feeling. The deck pitches and rolls. The wind tears at the rigging. The horizon disappears and reappears. And in the middle of all that chaos, the only thing keeping the vessel from being driven onto the rocks is a heavy iron weight, dropped down through the dark water until it grips something solid below.
That is the picture the writer of Hebrews chose to describe what the Christian has in Christ:
We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure. It enters the inner sanctuary behind the curtain, where our forerunner, Jesus, has entered on our behalf. Hebrews 6:19–20
An anchor for the soul. Not for the bank account. Not for the marriage. Not for the career. For the deepest, most unshakable part of you — the part that goes on after every other thing has been shaken loose.
What hope is not
The world uses the word hope to mean a wish. "I hope it doesn't rain. I hope my team wins. I hope the test comes back negative." A hope-and-a-prayer kind of hope. A maybe-it-will, maybe-it-won't kind of hope.
That is not what the Bible means by hope.
Biblical hope is the confident expectation of a promise from a God who cannot lie. It is not "maybe." It is "absolutely." It is not based on how things look in the storm. It is based on the One who calmed the sea with three words: "Peace, be still."
Where the anchor is set
Notice where the anchor in Hebrews 6 is anchored. Not on the ocean floor. "It enters the inner sanctuary behind the curtain, where our forerunner, Jesus, has entered on our behalf."
The writer is using temple imagery. The inner sanctuary — the Holy of Holies — was the most sacred place on earth in ancient Israel, the place where the very presence of God dwelt above the mercy seat. Only the high priest could enter, and only once a year, on the Day of Atonement, with blood not his own.
When Jesus died on the cross, the curtain in front of that sanctuary tore from top to bottom — torn by the hand of God Himself. The way was opened. And then Jesus, the perfect High Priest, entered that sanctuary not with the blood of bulls and goats, but with His own blood, on our behalf.
That is where your anchor is set. Not on the shifting sands of your circumstances. Not on the strength of your own faith. On the throne of God, in the very presence of Christ Himself.
What this means in the storm
One — Storms do not move the anchor
Your feelings can change. Your circumstances can change. The opinions of others can change. But the anchor of your hope is set in a place beyond the reach of any storm. Christ entered the sanctuary once for all. He is not going to be removed from the throne. The anchor holds.
Two — The chain may stretch, but it will not break
There are seasons when faith feels thin. When you cannot pray. When you cannot worship. When the chain between you and the anchor seems stretched to its absolute limit. Be encouraged: it is the anchor that holds you, not your grip on the chain. Even when your hand goes slack, the anchor does not move.
Three — The anchor is a Person
This is the part that ought to take your breath away. Your hope is not a doctrine. It is not a denomination. It is not a religious system. Your hope is a Person. A risen Lord, with nail-scarred hands, who knows your name and is interceding for you at this very moment.
Drop your anchor today
If you have been trying to anchor your soul to something less — your bank balance, your relationships, your reputation, your health, your political tribe, your understanding of how things should go — friend, take it from a weary pastor: those things will fail you. Every one of them. They were never strong enough to hold you.
Drop your anchor on the One who is. Cast every weight onto Him. Trust Him with the storm you are in right now. He has gone before you into the sanctuary. He is not surprised by what you are facing. And the anchor He set for you, He set forever.
Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful. Hebrews 10:23
The wind will keep blowing. The waves will keep coming. But the anchor holds. It always has. It always will.
In His Hands,
Rev. George H. Stoddard