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In the spring of 1948 I was attached to the office of the Regimental Chaplain in Salzburg, Austria. We had the opportunity on many a lovely spring day of touring the countryside as we ministered to various military units stationed in the vicinity.
On such a day, the Chaplain and I were driving along a mountain road when we saw the entrance to a cable car, a lift to a ski area high above. Neither of us were interested in skiing, but we were anxious to get a view of this beautiful country. We stopped the jeep and got out to look the situation over.
We could see the huge cables stretching from tower to tower up the mountainside. Way, way up there, the cables disappeared into clouds that hovered around the mountain peak. Before us was the station where you entered the car, with massive machinery and great wheels turning to move the cars up and down. We could see huge concrete abutments, with great cables firmly embedded in concrete, poured into the very roots of the mountain.
But up there, where the cable car was going, nothing was visible but vapor and clouds. The cables disappeared into clouds.
We were quite sure they weren't anchored to the clouds - but it would have been very reassuring to have actually seen something solid that held them. Neverteless, acting on faith that the suspension cables were as firmly fastened above as they were below, we got on board. Upward and upward we soared, at each tower experiencing that momentary downswoop that took our breath away.
Up and up, until we entered the clouds and for a few moments were wrapped in their whiteness. Then, one more tower, and the car burst into brilliant sunlight, and came to rest in the station at the peak of the mountain.
We stepped out, and took in the vast panorama before us. But, first, I paused to look at the anchors that had held us. Here, as below, the huge suspension cables were embedded deep in concrete, poured into the rock of the mountain. We were as secure as the mountain was secure.
What a difference the point of view made! From below, the anchor that held us was invisible; stepping onto that car was an act of faith "the evidence of things not seen."
The writer of Hebrews talks about such an anchor, the Anchor of Hope.
"Because God wanted to make the unchanging nature of his purpose very clear to the heirs of what was promised, he confirmed it with an oath.
God did this so that, by two unchangeable things in which it is impossible for God to lie, we who have fled to take hold of the hope offered to us may be greatly encouraged.
We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure. It enters the inner sanctuary behind the curtain, where Jesus, who went before us, has entered on our behalf. (Hebrews 6:17-20 NIV)
The believer's Hope is anchored in the Eternal. True, it is anchored in the sancturay, "behind the curtain." We cannot now see the massive moluntain in which it is anchored, but His word (and He cannot lie!) tells us that our Hope is in an unchangeable God.