When the ashes are smudged on our foreheads, we begin the journey through Lent. Often, the journey feels ominous, heavy, and brooding. With somberness, we recall all that is not quite right within our own souls and in the tapestry of life. How do we move through the personal and communal sadnesses and crises of life to arrive at the joy of Easter?
I have been reminded recently of the depth of the practice of hope. My former classmate, Dr. Norman Wirzba, has written beautifully in a book called Love’s Braided Dance: Hope in a Time of Crisis about the possibility of hope. In a recent video conference, he shared about teaching a class on climate change at Duke and his students asking him at the end of class, “Do you have hope?” He said he didn’t like the question. A better question is “What do you love?” Because based on what you love, you will invest your energy into particular actions.
“Love is the hope-producing power that guides our minds, hearts, and hands when it is activated in us.”
If you love sports, you will watch it. If you love your grandkids, you will want good schools and safe parks for them. If you love the animals, you will protect them. If you love the stranger, you will reach out to them. If you love your friends, you will care for them.
Dr. Wirzba has challenged me to stop thinking about hope as a noun. I cannot honestly say every day, “I have hope.” In some situations, it simply feels hopeless. But we can say every day, “This is what I love, and I’m going to act on that love.” In this way, hope becomes a verb. We hope when we tutor at Hartman, serve food at Micah, take a casserole to a neighbor, sing in the choir, read a news story, walk in the park.
On this journey with Christ through the 40 days of Lent, we both acknowledge the sadness and bravely hope.
Grace and Peace,
Carla
