“Cynics in every age miss what is available to them.”
— Jon Tyson
“The cope is framing hope as pathetic and embarrassing and optimism as delusion. The upside of never trying is never having to feel the pain of failure”
— Chris Williamson
I DON'T WANT TO BE THIS WAY
If I’m honest, one of the things I wrestle with most as a man is cynicism.
I can spot it rising in me quickly.
A jaded comment. A smirk instead of a celebration. A mental “yeah, right” instead of wonder.
It’s easy for me to identify problems. It’s much harder to hold onto hope.
And in my worst moments, I excuse it as discernment.
I call it wisdom. I act like I’m protecting myself from disappointment, but deep down, I know what’s happening, I’m wrapping myself in the safety blanket of cynicism.
It’s comfortable. It’s cold. And it slowly chokes out the part of me that wants to live with expectation.
Cynicism has never made me a better father. It’s never helped me show up with more love for my wife. It’s never helped me dream more deeply, lead more faithfully, or reflect the heart of Jesus.
Candidly, It’s one of the things I dislike most about myself.
Because I don’t want to be the man who sits on the sidelines with his arms crossed. I want to be the one who celebrates what’s good, believes what’s possible, and runs toward the celebration when grace shows up on the doorstep.
THE OLDER BROTHER SYNDROME
In Luke 15 we read about the prodigal son.
Jesus tells the story of the younger son who squanders his inheritance and comes crawling back home, only to find grace, be embraced and be welcomed home in celebration. Many of us know that part well.
But the part that grabs me is the older brother.
Luke 15: 28 says, “But he was angry and refused to go in…”
He heard music and dancing and refused to join in the celebration.
He knew the story. Knew the cost. Knew his brother’s failures.
But instead of running toward grace, he stood outside, indignant, arms folded, scowling at the celebration.
That’s what cynicism does.
It keeps us from entering the joy of the moment.
It tells us it’s safer to stay back. To stay skeptical. To resist rejoicing. To hedge our bets in case the whole thing blows up.
But in the process, we miss what’s available to us.
THE SAFETY BLANKET THAT STRANGLES
The concept of the cynicism safety blanket comes from a quote I heard from Chris Williamson. Is says:
“It’s the cynicism safety blanket. The cope is framing hope as pathetic and embarrassing and optimism as delusion. The upside of never trying is never having to feel the pain of failure.”
Cynicism often feels like the intellectually superior position.
It wears the mask of wisdom.
It postures as depth.
It sounds like intelligence. Measured, careful, skeptical.
The cynic rarely looks foolish.
Because if it all falls apart, they’re the first to say, “I told you so.”
And if it somehow works out?
Well, they’ll shrug and call it an exception..
Cynicism is a safe throne to sit on.
The cynic’s comfort isn’t courage. It’s cope.
A psychological strategy dressed up in intellectual clothing.
A way to avoid vulnerability by pretending detachment is enlightenment.
Because when you believe nothing good lasts, you never bother holding on.
When you assume people are always self-serving, you stop believing for their good. When you expect everything to fail, you never risk building anything worthwhile.
Cynics may avoid disappointment, but they also miss delight.
They never look like fools, but they never taste wonder.
Yes, hope can hurt.
Yes, dreams can die.
Yes, people can disappoint you.
But if the price of avoiding pain is killing your ability to believe
That’s not safety. That’s destruction.
GOSPEL-CENTERED OPTIMISM
You weren’t made for apathy.
You were made for awe.
For faith. For fire. For risk.
There were cynics when Jesus walked the earth.
When He healed the sick.
When He broke bread for thousands.
When He called Lazarus out of the grave.
And still they said:
“It’s a trick.”
“It’s a fluke.”
“It’s dangerous.”
They were too smart to believe.
Too logical to be moved.
Too guarded to receive what was right in front of them.
And so they missed God in the flesh.
Cynicism didn’t make them wise. it made them blind.
You see, faith isn’t naïve.
Hope isn’t delusional.
Joy isn’t shallow.
It takes far more courage to believe than to dismiss.
Far more strength to keep your heart tender than calloused.
Anyone can scoff.
Anyone can deconstruct.
Anyone can roll their eyes from the sidelines.
But it takes guts to build,
To love,
To serve,
To believe, again and again, even when you’ve been burned.
Jesus said the pure in heart would see God.
Not the clever. Not the guarded. Not the detached and dismissed.
The gospel doesn’t call us to delusion. It calls us to resurrection.
A man came back from the dead. Let that sit.
We don’t just believe things can get better, we believe death itself is not the end.
The story of Jesus is one where all seemed lost. Betrayed, crucified, laid in a tomb. But three days later, the ground shook and the stone rolled away.
Our King walks out of the grave and declares, “I make all things new.”
That is not sentiment. That is power.
That is not naivety. That is reality.
That is not wishful thinking. That is resurrection hope.
So yes, our world is broken. But the cross wasn’t the end. And neither is whatever you’re facing right now.
A FINAL CHARGE
You weren’t made to live with your arms crossed. You weren’t made to be the older brother standing outside the celebration. You weren’t made to hedge your hope to avoid the pain.
So let go of the safety blanket.
The gospel is worth trusting.
The risk is worth taking.
The people around you are worth believing in.
Your story is worth living into.
Don’t let cynicism steal what God is trying to birth in you.
Be the man or woman who believes again.
Who prays with fire again.
Who loves without flinching.
Who shows up with joy when no one else is.
Let yourself care.
Let yourself desire.
Let yourself believe that God is a God of the good things.
The alternative is a life where nothing hurts, but nothing heals either.
No failure, but no redemption.
No joy, but no meaning.
You don’t need to protect yourself from hope.
You need to return to it.
Because the bravest thing you can do in an age of cynicism is to believe that love is real, that goodness is coming, and that faith still moves mountains.
So risk it.
You might look foolish. You might get hurt.
But you just might live.
You’ve read the end of the book.
He wins.
So go live like it.
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