The last time the world felt quite this fragile was after the election. I remember reading posts about trust in God's plans. I remember confidence that all would be well because of Christ our King being in control of what is ultimately important. I also remember the fear and uncertainty. Not knowing what would happen next, and the seeming tension between these two opposites.
We are aware of every verified case of COVID-19 across the globe, a blessing in that awareness leads to better strategy; but also a confirmation that we should be afraid. Cities across the world are closing down to slow the spread of the virus, and we wonder when someone we know will be infected. My son's school is preparing for the likely event that they will begin remote learning at some point.
My son was on the playground with his friends this afternoon after school, and they were playing a variation on tag they called "infection".
We hear experts at every level telling us: Stay at home. Keep your distance. Wash your hands. Cover your mouth. Don't touch your face.
The homeless shelter I volunteer with is shutting down beginning March 15th, two weeks early. While I can appreciate the desire to contain infection to a smaller population, I can't help but wonder: where will those men sleep? When we all isolate to keep our families safe, what will happen to those who are alone? And no matter what we do, some populations will be more affected than others. As always, those most impacted by the reactions of public officials will be those who cannot afford to wait for paid leave bills to be passed; who can't put food on the table; who don't have jobs or homes.
There's talk of FEMA responding to emergency declarations in some capacity. I was wondering what that would look like, but I suppose if an entire city is shut down (including grocery stores and gas stations), we're going to need emergency rations.
And I have to confess that my immediate reaction is denial: it won't be that bad, it can't be that bad. These are overreactions. Which I don't think is hope, properly understood, as much as it is a simple desire that things will work out.
I'd like to be realistic: it is certainly possible that it will be that bad. In this life, bad things happen and there isn't always an immediately obvious silver lining. Regardless - for those who have been affected already and have lost loved ones, it already has been that bad.
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Various cultures have presented a saying (preserved in the Church): memento mori (remember death). I don't say all this to be morbid, but while hope does not disappoint, neither does it pretend. We live straddling a line that both divides and connects two worlds: the present world that is passing away, and the world to come, where every tear will be wiped away.
All the same, we straddle that line - we don't exclusively live in the world to come. We are living here - in this world - which means we can't simply distance ourselves from pain and suffering. We don't want those we love to suffer, and that is entirely valid. Hope doesn't require stoically pretending that everything is fine, as if this life no longer means anything in light of the resurrection.
In light of all this, what does hope look like?
- Hope, properly understood, knows that this world is transitory - but also remembers that God is acting in our lives, in our midst, in the sorrows and tragedies.
- Hope looks at suffering in the other and sees meaning - but also an opportunity for compassion.
- Hope, based in faith, believes in ultimate justice and mercy - but not necessarily within our lifetimes.
- Hope means believing in redemption - but does not deny the cross.
- Hope somehow maintains peace, confidently trusting in Providence - and therefore leads to a deeper love of the other, knowing that we are actually participating in bringing about God's plan.
- Hope draws near to God, the source of - and destination of - our hope.
- Hope continues to look up in prayer - sometimes because we are at a loss for anything else to do.
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