I really dislike singing the Christina Rossetti hymn “In the Bleak Midwinter” during Advent, both because I find it lacking in theological content, and because the final stanza makes me cry. In fact, several weeks ago, the last time I sang that verse, I had to compose myself in the church bathroom afterwards for a couple minutes!

Rossetti’s final stanza asks what the speaker can “give” to the Christ-child as a gift, and settles on giving their “heart.” I want to give my heart to Jesus, too; I suspect that I weep when I sing that part because I’m afraid that I can’t give my heart to Jesus the way I want to. When I experience doubts like that, the “bleak midwinter” feels very bleak indeed.

Because we hold the truths of Jesus’ compassionate power and the evidence of that power in Scripture so dear, I want to reflect on our collective experiences of anxiety and doubt in our own capacity, especially in a political climate full of misinformation. Many things cause us anxiety. For instance, while Gaza is finally experiencing a ceasefire, the harrowing conflict in that region continues; meanwhile, the Los Angeles wildfires offer evidence of the severity of climate change and climate crisis, and inflation continues to rise across the globe, exacerbating people’s economic angst.

What can give me, and us, hope amidst these systemic and severe symptoms of the anxieties of our age?

What can give me, and us, hope amidst these systemic and severe symptoms of the anxieties of our age? I’ll point out three things that help me when I feel worried and fearful, and (as ever) link them to Scriptural, cultural, and physical references as best I can. First, to go back to the Apostles’ Creed, one of the foundational documents of the Christian Church, I believe in the resurrection of the body. For me, that revitalizing power that raised Jesus from death as a person with multiple disabilities both helps me to manage my pain and empowers me to grow into relationships with others. The physical resurrection of my body means that I am strong and flexible enough to make my way to an orchestra concert or water-polo event with my family; in a slightly different way, that same rejuvenating power, attested in the Synoptic Gospels (Matthew 28:1-10, Mark 16:1-14, Luke 24:1-40, and John 20:1-26), gives me the spiritual wherewithal to pray and preach about accessibility issues, to offer dignity to the street-level people with whom I sometimes worship, and to advocate for and with my friends in equity-deserving communities. 

Furthermore, I am convinced that Jesus is correct in his assertion in Matthew 5:8 that people who are pure of heart shall see God. People who are pure of heart aren’t just people who struggle to lie (as I do—I’m not good at mendacity at all!). Rather, the pure of heart are people who act authentically, and in accordance with their values. For example, one priest I know in Parkdale, Toronto, works actively with the local land trust to create shared communal spaces with people who live in poverty; another faith leader in Sandy Hill in Ottawa regularly cooks for, and eats with, students who experience hunger at the University of Ottawa. Other examples of that engagement abound, from David Suzuki’s and Greta Thunberg’s fierce and tireless advocacy for environmental causes—alongside Pope Francis and other faith leaders who have spoken out for environmental justice—to Bono’s decades-long struggle to aid the people of Africa in their experiences of AIDS, to various artists’ and the global community’s consistent advocacy for peace and justice in Gaza and other places that experience conflict. Examples like these demonstrate that purity of heart is essential as friends of the risen Jesus strive to emulate his cruciform compassion.

So too can Jesus’ friends mitigate angst and fear in the present time by sharing what we have.

Finally, I believe that our caring for our neighbours is the most concrete form of the compassion fostered by the revitalized power of community in the Body of Christ. Partway through A Theology of Liberation, one of his most significant and striking texts, the late great theologian of liberation Gustavo Gutierrez writes about the “sacrament of the neighbour.” In that place, Father Gutierrez means that each person is a physical and spiritual vessel for God’s love. At the same time, Gutierrez also links the material elements of the Communion meal to the equitable sharing of food, money, and other resources. Just as the early Christians do in Acts 2:44-45 when they hold things in common, so too can Jesus’ friends mitigate angst and fear in the present time by sharing what we have. When we donate to charities, volunteer at soup kitchens, and drink coffee or tea with others, Christians and other faithful people express divine love, and—as Jesus’ beloved disciple makes clear in one of his letters—that love drives out fear (1 John 4:18, NRSV).

I don’t claim to have super clear answers, of course, because finding those answers takes all of us! That said, in what I’ve written above about the resurrection of the body, purity of heart, and caring for our neighbours, I’ve striven to share some antidotes to my own experiences of doubt and fear in this anxious age. I really hope you find that helpful.

Photo by Egor Kamelev