Father Joseba Kamiruaga Mieza, CMF
In these weeks following the election of Pope Leo XIV, one word has resounded more clearly than others in the messages sent from across the world: hope.
The peace the new pope evoked in his first message touches a longing shared by many. It echoes the same spirit that moved Pope Francis to open the Holy Door at the end of 2024, inaugurating the Jubilee of Hope. This Jubilee was not only a symbolic act, but a call to all of us: to become pilgrims of hope.
But what does it mean, truly, to hope today?
Hope is not naïve optimism. It is not simply “expecting things to get better.” Nor is it a retreat into illusions or dreams detached from our struggles. Real hope, Christian hope, is bold and daring. It stretches us beyond ourselves. It is not born out of certainty, but out of trust—trust in God’s promise, and in the goodness we have already experienced.
As the theologian, Jürgen Moltmann, once wrote: hope is an intense desire for the future. Not a passive wish, but a posture of the heart that leans forward. Its root meaning, drawn from ancient languages, speaks of moving toward something, of stretching beyond balance, of risking love without knowing the outcome.
This kind of hope does not come cheap. It is often born on the edge of despair. As Thomas Merton reminds us: “perfect hope is acquired on the brink of despair”. It does not deny our pain, or our fear—but it refuses to let them define us.
Pope Francis, in Fratelli Tutti, says that hope lies deep within the human person. It is the longing “for a life lived to the full, for something great, something that fills the heart and lifts the spirit.” This hope calls us out of our comfort zones and invites us into a broader, more generous vision of life.
Without hope, we become imprisoned in fear. Without hope, we shrink from the future and retreat into protective bubbles. We start consulting our fears instead of our dreams. As Pope John XXIII once said, “Do not consult your fears, but your hopes and dreams…”
In my ministry as a Claretian missionary, I often meet people who have lost this sense of horizon—especially the poor, the elderly, the lonely. But I have also witnessed how even a small spark of hope can become a light for someone else. A smile. A prayer. A hand held in silence. Hope is contagious.
We owe it to ourselves—and to one another—not to let that hope die. Not because we have all the answers, but because we have a God who walks with us, and a Church that reminds us that even the impossible is possible with him.
Hope is not about security; it is about salvation. The saints understood this well. Those who gave their lives for others were not necessarily safe, but they were saved. They understood that to live is to risk, and to hope is to love.
In today’s world, where anxiety and cynicism often dominate public life, and where technology can make us more connected yet less human, hope is not a luxury—it is a necessity. It is the virtue that makes resistance possible, that opens paths to reconciliation, and that nurtures communion over competition.
The future is not yet written. Christian hope doesn’t deny the darkness—it walks through it with a light that cannot be extinguished. As the poet, Emily Dickinson, said, “Not knowing when the dawn will come, I keep all the doors open.”
Let us, too, keep our doors open.
Let us be a people of hope—not shallow optimism, but the kind of hope rooted in faith, forged in struggle, and nourished by love. Let us refuse to become passive, to settle for comfort, or to hide behind walls of fear. Hope makes us creative. It gives birth to new ways of being Church, new paths of encounter, and new courage for the road ahead.
Because deep down, to live truly is to hope.
Let us, therefore, walk with hope along the path given to us by Pope Francis: “Continue to cultivate dreams of fraternity and be signs of hope!”
