In his letter to the Romans, the apostle Paul writes that ‘in hope we are saved’ (Romans 8.24). This echoes his song to live in 1 Corinthians 13, in which he concludes that three things remain: faith, hope, and love. The theological virtue of hope, however, can be slippery to define, and still harder to practice; it can be especially hard to distinguish hope from naive optimism. The theologian Jürgen Moltmann, in his book Theology of Hope (1964), distinguishes the two by saying that, in optimism, the seeds of the future exist in the present. Optimism is an extrapolation: things generally go well for us, so we expect them to continue to go well. This is inadequate as soon as the grounds for optimism are removed. But hope, according to Moltmann, is the expectation of a new thing, something that cannot be generated by human industriousness and which is not contained in the pain of the present.

This week, we launched a new exhibition in the University Church, showcasing some extraordinary work by asylum seekers and refugees in Oxford, in collaboration with four organisations working with these groups locally. At the exhibition launch on Sunday, a number of the artists spoke about their work and their experiences of forced migration. In every case, the hope that had kept them going was a form of resistance. Having experienced some of the worst things that can happen to human beings, it was trust and strength that kept them alive, not mere optimism. To extrapolate from their immediate circumstances in their home counties would have led to despair. To hope was to trust in the existence and possibility of something new.

Hope is an act, not an emotion, just like faith and love. It requires courage to resist the impulse to throw up our hands in despair, and strength to continue to bear witness to the pain that surrounds us. But in this Easter season, our hope is in the new creation brought through the resurrection of Christ, who makes all things new.