In recent weeks, I’ve sat with many members of my community who have shared their deepening concerns about the path our nation seems to be taking. Public servants speak of sleepless nights, wondering if their careers in government service will suddenly end, their expertise and dedication deemed unwelcome in a shifting landscape. Migrant families in our communities whisper of their growing fears—some hesitating to attend church, others wondering if they’ll be forced to leave the only home their children have ever known. The economic uncertainties weigh heavily too, as households grapple with the ripple effects of new tariffs and trade disputes, watching their cost of living climb while their financial security feels increasingly precarious.

These anxieties echo through our community: educators describe how their students carry the weight of their parents’ fears into the classroom, while healthcare workers witness how stress and uncertainty manifest in the physical and mental wellbeing of those they serve. These are not abstract political debates—they are lived realities that touch the very essence of how we understand ourselves as people of faith and as a society.

As I’ve prayed with these conversations and sought to make sense of our present moment, I’ve found myself drawn to an ancient story of hope in troubled times: that of Simeon and Anna, two faithful souls who maintained their vigil of hope through decades of occupation and uncertainty. They are both old, and the scriptures say that they have waited their whole life to see the Messiah.

And we live in that after-time! We live in a time of the kingdom of God unfolding before us, which was first witnessed by Simeon and Anna. What does it mean to wait and hope today?

Fear vs. True Freedom

I think for me and many others, fear is prominent in our hearts. But fear can drive us away from our centre, from that inner place where God resides. Ignatian author Margaret Silf talks about this idea of a “Who Centre”, an inner core where our true selves meet God. It’s a place of freedom. She invites us to ponder whether we are being drawn or being driven. Is fear driving us? We can imagine a horse being driven by a whip: Moving forward, not out of trust and faith but because of fear. True freedom, Silf says, is when we are drawn. Drawn naturally into the sphere of God.

Politics today often operates through the mechanism of fear – fear of the other, fear of change, fear of loss. Leaders who rule by fear create a constant state of anxiety and hypervigilance in their citizens. This fear-based approach to governance drives people away from their deeper wisdom, from their capacity for nuanced thinking and compassionate response. When we’re driven by fear, we lose touch with that still, small voice within that helps us discern truth from manipulation. The rhetoric of fear crowds out the subtle movements of the Spirit, replacing divine wisdom with reactive impulses.

Anchors in Troubled Times

One of my favorite hymns is “How Can I Keep From Singing,” particularly the lyric that says “no storm can shake my inmost calm.” How often we can feel the turbulence of the surface: Our daily anxieties and the fears amidst political turmoil. But somewhere inside, in the depths, is a calm, a stillness – a place where we can truly find a trusting anchor in God.

The anchor is the symbol of Christian hope. Many find that in moments of anxiety or stress they turn to foundational spiritual tools like particular prayers or scripture passages. What are your foundational anchors? What prayers sustain you? Which scripture passages give you strength? What traditions ground you? These things are anchors that hold us steady in troubled times, and they are tools to help us access and remain in our “Who Centre”.

The song “How Can I Keep From Singing” also implies that we can maintain a certain holy joy amidst the tumult. No wonder Jesus kept repeating that we must become like little children in order to experience God’s kingdom. God’s kingdom is joyful, without fear, void of ego. Jesus knew that there is a wisdom inherent in childlike wonder. Children have a certain authenticity that gives them the freedom to laugh and play as a spiritual practice. True joy is an expression of our “Who Centre”.

Laughter and Leadership

For all the leaders who claim moral authority, how many have you seen laugh? How many have a true, childlike belly-laugh? I too often see people who are angry, resentful, or driven by their egos. Real laughter – not the polite chuckle of social convention, but the kind that wells up from deep within – is perhaps joy’s most honest expression. It’s a moment when our carefully constructed facades fall away and something genuine emerges. Think of a child’s uninhibited laughter – it comes from a place of complete presence, of being fully alive in the moment. This is precisely the kind of authentic joy that seems absent in leaders who are disconnected from their humanity, who have forgotten how to inhabit that space of genuine delight. When we laugh truly and deeply, we momentarily set aside our anxieties about control and our preoccupation with power. We touch something fundamental about what it means to be human: our capacity for surprise, for delight, for seeing the holy absurdity in life’s journey. This is not frivolity, but rather a profound form of spiritual wisdom that recognizes our own beloved limitations and celebrates our dependence on grace. As theologian Karl Barth noted, “Laughter is the closest thing to the grace of God.”

I think joy is a litmus test for authentic leadership. True leaders not only serve the common good, but can laugh at themselves and find a genuine joy in their work. Pope Francis said, “Narcissists are continually looking into the mirror, painting themselves, gazing at themselves, but the best advice in front of a mirror is to laugh at ourselves.” This capacity for joy, for finding moments of lightness, is not a denial of suffering, but rather a source of strength to face suffering and injustice with greater resilience and compassion. It allows us to remain human and connected to our deeper selves, even when confronted with the pain of the world.

But it’s hard to maintain joy in difficult times. But genuine joy, the kind Ignatius speaks about when he defines consolation, is what lasts beneath the rise and fall of daily happiness. True spiritual joy allows room for sorrow and lament, as well as joy and celebration.

Both Anna and Simeon sing God’s praises. Their encounter with the baby Jesus filled them with joy and hope. It is an acknowledgement of God’s ongoing work even when we some fail at contributing to it. For Anna, her anchor was fasting and prayer. She reminds us of the importance of having anchors—anchors that help us access our “Who Centre”—and of maintaining perspective that God’s Kingdom is larger than the human kingdoms we construct.

Hope in Action

These reflections on hope might seem inadequate in the face of real suffering – the parent separated from their child at a border, the public servant suddenly stripped of their livelihood, the family facing economic hardship. We must be careful not to offer spiritual platitudes that minimise genuine pain and struggle. True Christian hope does not turn away from suffering but moves toward it with compassion and resolve. Our hope in God’s kingdom should make us more attentive to those who suffer, not less. It should sharpen our vision to see injustice more clearly and strengthen our commitment to stand with those who are vulnerable. The hope we hold is not a passive waiting but an active participation in God’s transformative work in the world.

Even as we face uncertainty and fear, Simeon and Anna remind us that hope is not naive optimism but a steadfast trust in God’s unfolding work. Their lifelong waiting was not marked by despair but by faithfulness, just as the song “How Can I Keep From Singing?” proclaims a joy that endures beyond life’s storms. We nurture this hope when we create spaces of welcome for those who feel unwelcome, when we choose dialogue over division, when we root ourselves in prayer and community. Hope is kindled in the small yet powerful acts of love—checking in on a struggling neighbour, advocating for the vulnerable, teaching our children kindness. Like Simeon and Anna, we keep our vigil, watching for glimpses of God’s kingdom even in the most unexpected places. And when we find them, how can we keep from singing?

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