From Ken Sehested’s newsletter Prayer & Politiks (Jan 30, 2024).

My friend Richard sent me strong words of encouragement regarding something I’d written, particularly this line: “”Despair is often a disguised form of narcissism. Get over yourself.” He then recounted a recent conversation, saying “I told a friend the other day: “When I think about 2024, I am not as hopeful as you are. But I wish I were. Does that count?”

It is a pertinent question requiring a thoughtful response. I responded:

Thanks for your words of encouragement. I certainly resonate with the sentiment you spoke to your friend; though I would use the word “optimistic” instead of hopeful. When it comes to public policy, I am as pessimistic as I’ve ever been.

To think that Trump has a shot at a new term is an utter gobsmack. To think that the climate could cross its catastrophic point of no return during my lifetime is terrifying. To think that auto- and plutocracies are on the rise here and around the world makes my heart hurt. To think that Israel feels it’s legitimate to kill tens of thousands of women and children in Gaza to sustain its “security” is barbarous.

In my way of thinking, hope is a deeper current, not seriously affected by surface turbulence. In fact, there are many times when I wish-to-god that I could get rid of hope, because its grip can be painful to bear. Giving up on hope would at least calm my troubled mind—then I could spend my time fantasizing about unicorns and pixie dust, reserve my genuflecting for Mammon’s altars, and give myself over to cravings for bagels, bacon, and bourbon.

Then I think about that famous prayer from Merton, who wondered aloud about where he was going and whether the Beloved was pleased with him. He then pens a phrase that has been a frequent source of comfort over the decades: “I believe the fact that I intend to please You does in fact please you.”

So, yes, intentions do count—though we’re never allowed to drift into passive onlooking amid history’s ragged-jagged outcomes.

So, after moments—sometimes seasons—of fretfulness, I resume singing a simple chorus we return to in our worship services: “You gotta’ put one foot in front of the other, and lead with love.”