"Hope is not a prediction of the future, but a vision of the present in a state of becoming." This insightful thought from Erich Fromm deepens our understanding of hope, highlighting its power to generate the future. Theologian Jürgen Moltmann connects this dynamic nature of hope to what he calls the "lordship of God"—not as a ruling force over the world and nature, but as a guiding presence leading us toward the Promised Land. It is a historical lordship, revealed through unique, unrepeatable events that are strikingly new and purposeful.

With patient determination and clear-sighted perseverance, as the followers of the Gospel we seek to bear witness to this hope, opening our hearts to God’s providence. We remain convinced—despite countless setbacks—that history is far more than a meaningless stage play directed either by blind fate, indifferent to our struggles, or by random chaos that subjects everything to the dictatorship of insignificance. If that were truly the case, we would be left with nothing but disillusionment, sinking into a resigned despair fuelled by anxiety over the present and the future.

Years ago, the French Philosopher Marc Augé warned of an "ideology of the present" that paralyzes our ability to see history as a living process. Over the past few decades, he observed, the present has become dominant, no longer seen as the result of past evolution or as a starting point for a possible future. Instead, it looms over us as an oppressive, completed reality that erases memory and stifles imagination.

This troubling diagnosis exposes a major symptom of our modern condition: a heart fractured by the dominance of technological pragmatism, tempted to prioritize the immediate moment over the demanding but fruitful work of memory and hope.

But the Word of God offers a remedy for these widespread ailments. Proverbs 29:25 reminds us, "The fear of man lays a snare, but whoever trusts in the Lord is safe." And Romans 15:4 tells us, "For everything that was written in the past was written to teach us, so that through endurance and the encouragement of the Scriptures, we might have hope."

Listening to God’s Word, cultivating a familiarity with the sacred Scriptures, rediscovering the transformative power of liturgy, and embracing a silence filled with gratitude—these are just some of the ways we can nurture a faith that welcomes the restless and the wounded. As disciples of Jesus, it is our responsibility to believe first-hand and to share with others the conviction that the story of salvation, revealed in Scripture, is not over. It is not finished, not archived.

The beautiful words of Isaiah 43 speak to us as well: "Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name; you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze. For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior."

And again, from the Book of Lamentations: "Yet this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord’s great love, we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness."

In a world shaped by fear and mistrust, leading people back to a deep trust in God’s faithfulness is no easy task. Yet, as the Gospel of John (3:16) reminds us, "For God so loved the world that He gave His Only Son," offering us a love so powerful that Paul declares, "Hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us" (Romans 5:5).

This hope is not mere optimism; it is born from a faith that recognizes how, before our fragile existence, there already exists the infinite desire of God-Love. His unstoppable force of resurrection is the never-ending fuel for a journey that refuses to accept evil, suffering, sin, and death as the final word.

This truth is deeply understood by the parents of La Stanza Accanto (The Room Next Door), a community that began nearly twenty years ago at the Abbey of San Miniato in Florence. There, countless grieving parents who have lost a child find solace in the quiet beauty of a thousand-year-old basilica, a place built to bring heaven and earth closer together. Within its walls, the Word of God is prayed, sung, meditated upon, and shared—an experience captured in the powerful verses of poet Antonia Pozzi:

"I have such faith in You. It seems / I could wait for Your voice / in silence, for centuries / of darkness. / You know all secrets, / like the sun: / You could make geraniums bloom / in the depths of quarries, / in legendary prisons. / I have such faith in You. I am calm / like the Arab wrapped / in a white robe, / listening to God / ripening the barley around his house."

Written in 1934, these verses beautifully express a hope rooted in deep listening—one so profound that it can perceive the imperceptible. This is how God moves in our lives: through traces and signs that, though seemingly small, become a guiding light, more reliable than any map or compass.

The ultimate destination is described by Paul in Romans 8 with breath-taking imagery, echoing Fromm’s insight: "We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption to sonship, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved."

A kind of cosmic birth, then—perhaps the very image that inspired Byzantine artists centuries ago to paint Christ in the apse of our abbey, mysteriously pregnant with new life. No longer suffering on the cross, His agony is now an expectant longing, a labour of love heralding the dawn of a new Easter reality.

And so, trusting in the Father and strengthened by the Spirit’s light, we can and must hope.

See, La storia della salvezza continua, fuori dalla dittatura del presente