Hope as Resistance

The first candle of Advent calls us to hope. The word Advent in Latin means “coming.”
We wait for the coming of hope.
Hope.
How do we hope in today’s society?
What does it mean to await hope? How do we believe hope will arrive?

How do we hope when hundreds of children are murdered daily with missiles funded by our tax dollars – and made in our own backyard at Boeing in St. Charles? What does hope look like when the money making of war is valued more than human life? How do we believe in hope when the city of Atlanta is actively cutting down a forest so the police can learn to take up arms against civilians? How can we hope while everyday folks wait for over 11 hours in the emergency room for basic healthcare? What does hope look like when people make $1100 a month and rent is more than half of that? How can we await hope when we get weekly calls of human beings cold, sleeping in abandoned buildings and seeking shelter? What does it mean to hope when our own mayor has displaced camp after camp without any regard for human life nor any plan to address the unhoused crisis in our city?

Hope is not naive optimism. Hope is not believing things will get better when our experiences tell us otherwise. Christ did not walk around thinking things were going to look up for him or his friends. The state killed him just like he knew it would. Just like the state continues to kill Palestinian children, the trees in Atlanta and Tortuguita who defended them. The state kills and we await dignity:

For a job that pays the bills. For adequate healthcare, substance abuse treatment and mental health support. For a safe place to lay our heads at night. For food and child care that are affordable. For the ability to retire. Many are exhausted, barely surviving, and asking the meaning of our very lives. We wonder if dignity will arrive. And amidst desperate pleas for better, our government gives our money to weapons manufacturers. Our politicians and the 1% cashout their stocks joyously as human life is suffocated – by bombs or by lives lived hustling to make rent.     

Hope is when we refuse to accept this. Hope arrives when we say enough is enough. When we proclaim our dignity the state refuses to honor.

Hope came when we blocked Boeing employees from getting to work. When we fervently chanted “if they [our government] won’t stop the bombs, we will.” Hope arrived when we fell silent as the names of the Palestinian children murdered were read aloud. She was present in our tears at the unfathomable evil taking of human life. Hope was among us when we encouraged Boeing workers to open themselves to a different path: “quit your jobs, you are better than making bombs.” Hope abounded when fellow protesters danced the dabke, joyously proclaiming a culture and a people that cannot be bombed away.

Hope arrived when we protested outside the Decatur jail in Atlanta. People inside waved to us through tiny holes considered windows. We yelled “we love you, you are not alone.” In January 2023, a forest defender was murdered in Atlanta. With their hands raised and sitting cross legged, Tortuguita’s life was taken by Georgia State Patrol. Hope persisted when Tortuguita’s mother made an altar in the park across from Decatur jail. We prayed together for a better world. It came when the cops surrounded the park, and our prayers continued. Hope was furthered when a child, pen in hand, asked me what she should add to this altar. When I said, a prayer, something you’re grateful for, anything that brings you joy, etc. This child wrote “you did a good thing,” and placed it by Tortuguita’s picture. The world through the child’s eyes saw the truth of the matter: a person sitting among trees defending our collective breath, is indeed good. Hope.

Hope is when we refuse to let people be alone in sickness and trauma. It is when we reject being treated like animals. When we remind the overwhelmed and burned out hospital staff that they are taking care of someone beloved. Hope is when we choose to pray for the staff, acknowledging that they, too, are part of a system that fails to see their dignity. Hope abides when we see our connections to one another. That amidst a system that continues to value profit over human life – we open one another’s shared humanity. Hope arrives with open hands and an open heart: we pray for all to be well, happy and peaceful (even especially our enemies).

Perhaps hope comes in Mary’s magnificat. When we live like her son; a life that strives to cast the powerful from their thrones and lift up the lowly. When we work to fill the hungry with good things, and send the rich away empty. (cf. Luke 1:46-55). Maybe hope also comes when we practice love for one another amidst this call. As Tortuguita’s mother repeated again and again to over 500 protesters: “When you march, let anger [hate] fall by the riverside, and open to love. Repeat after me: I love you. Forgive me. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

The Georgia State Patrol killed her son. And somehow and in some way, she found herself building an altar and calling on us to resist in love.
And so we light the candle of hope. And we go, and do like our mothers.

Lindsey Myers lived at the Phoenix Catholic Worker from 2016-2018. She currently works at Assisi House where she helps support and house formerly unhoused and marginalized folks. She resides at the Sophia House community and enjoys sunshine and a good cup of joe.