Since late 2020, I’ve tried a few times to write something about the nature of hope – particularly as it applies to climate and related social realities.
I kept stopping short partly because people kept saying it better than I could (see “Further Reading” below) – a good thing. As a relative newcomer to learning about climate change, who hasn’t been directly impacted, it was important for me to learn about hope from people who have long been on the frontlines of the crisis and of the struggle for a more just, healthy world.
But I also put it off because the outlook kept changing. The winds, the conditions for hope, seemed to keep shifting in the world.
Which helped me realize I needed to rethink hope.
After going through a few boom-bust cycles with climate optimism these last few years – an awful climate summer, Biden making climate a campaign emphasis and getting elected (barely), insurrection, policy actions and big statements on climate from the new administration, an even more awful climate summer and IPCC “code red” report, Build Back Better possibilities then disappointment, COP26’s possibilities then disappointment, businesses upping their game then having their ineffectual greenwashing exposed, etc. etc. – I realized the mental and emotional whiplash wasn’t sustainable. I realized that I was still basing a lot on optimism – on sight, on outlook – rather than on hope.
Hope, I’ve learned from wise people, ought not be a precondition to acting, based on sight or emotion or even evidence, but rather on a practice of acting in hopeful ways. Hope is acting with courage in the face of an unknown future.
The future is indeed unknown. And facing it right now takes courage.
These are scary times. Right now, Russia’s attack on Ukraine is ending lives and destroying futures (underwritten by oil and gas). The threat of nuclear war is real. Economic fallout will harm many. Beyond the immediate loss of lives, war further damages our world’s biosphere (aka life support system) when we can't afford much more of that.
On that note, the next UN climate report will be released today, this one on Impacts, Adaptation and Vulnerability. It is important. Yet no one expects it will fundamentally change what science has already shown: climate change is already badly harming people and places around the world, and those in power (including most of us reading this) have urgency and agency to make choices that a) prevent further damage, b) adapt to inevitable damage, and c) reduce suffering. It will still boil down to climate science 101:
It’s warming. It’s us. We’re sure. It’s bad. There’s hope.
See that last one. It’s not only because we know what we need to do and have the tools to do it (which we do). But also because there is still time to act, and how we will act is unknown. I don’t know what the future holds. But I do know surviving together will take lots of ordinary people practicing courage in the face of an unknown future.
With all this in mind, I wrote a blog post for Do Justice a few weeks back (for a Christian audience). Below is a slightly longer version.
It’s not an original take on hope. People have said this a lot of ways. I just had to learn it for myself. I’m still learning, in fact. But maybe it will be helpful to you in some way.
We are living through an era of ecological devastation and climate breakdown, with its immense injustices against people and places for the short-term benefit of a few. Many of us have already been directly impacted, some of us haven’t yet, but all of us will be in some way.
It’s a lot to process.
There are a number of valid ways to respond. Dissociation and disengagement are common, understandable self-protective responses. So are guilt and anger; guilt at our own contributions to the climate crisis and anger at the industries and their accomplices in power who have caused it. Yet another response is to look for hope.
These are just a few responses. And I know them all too well. As I’ve learned more about our ecological troubles, I’ve cycled through each of these…sometimes on the same day. Each response shows our human need to grieve well. And many of us still don’t know how to grieve or lament a crisis on this scale. That is its own worthwhile discussion, but for today I want to focus on the last response: looking for hope.
Theologically, hope is a gift, freely offered by God and based on the promise of the ultimate reconciliation of all things. But I’ve also been conditioned for most of my life (maybe you have too?), to think of hope as: 1) an outlook based on the likelihood of favorable outcomes, or 2) a feeling that things are going to turn out alright. These kinds of hope work backwards from assurance of a happy ending.
In the face of present climate distress and anticipated suffering, it is understandable to want to latch onto some basis for hope, either by seeking out positive news or waiting for a feeling of hope. But I’ve come to wonder if an overreliance on this kind of hope—for a happy ending—can be unhelpful, even paralyzing, when it comes to facing the magnitude of the climate crisis.
Now, please hear me clearly: there are plenty of signs of climate good news and promising solutions to be found. But I’ve seen how basing my outlook and response on the latest news is unsustainable, since, in terms of the climate, there is no guarantee things will get “better.” It can even become a way of avoiding the responsibility to act in the present. If I require evidence for hope about the current unjust conditions before doing anything to respond, I often end up doing nothing and feel even less empowered.
There can be a cultural fixation on a happy-ending-first kind of hope. I’ve heard both climate scientists and antiracist educators note how frequently they get asked “what gives you hope?” This question is often asked (usually by people with privilege, like me) for assurance that everything is going to be okay. The reflexive jump to hope can preserve comfort and certainty with the assurance that no serious action on one’s own part is required for things to improve.
This kind of hope is “such a white concept,” says the writer Mary Annaïse Heglar. “You’re supposed to have the courage first, then you have the action, then you have the hope. But white people put hope at the front.”
For Heglar, hope is part of a process of response, rather than its starting point. As I’ve learned more about climate justice, I’ve been challenged by advocates from minoritized communities, like Heglar, who reframe hope as an outcome rather than an input, who recommend starting with actions that display hope, rather than based on likely success or sunny feelings.
Many wise people have echoed this approach to hope. A small sampling:
“Hope is a discipline.” –Mariame Kaba
“Hope is a verb with its sleeves rolled up.” –David Orr
“It’s your job to make [hope] not an abstraction.” –Jennifer Bailey
“Once we start to act, hope is everywhere.” –Greta Thunberg
“To hope is to give yourself to the future - and that commitment to the future is what makes the present inhabitable.” –Rebecca Solnit
You may be reminded of others. (See, for example, this article by Dr. Katharine Hayhoe.) But I take their shared insight as: hope is made through acting, not an upfront guarantee. We express hope, like we do love, through action.
What does this approach offer us at this moment of intensifying climate impacts, still-rising emissions, government inaction, and growing anxiety about our futures on this miraculously habitable planet?
As someone relatively new to this long struggle, here’s what I’m learning: if we are just waiting to feel hopeful, or for hope to seem warranted, it is easy to get stuck in one of the d's: denial, dissociation, disengagement, disempowerment, or doomism—all of them barriers to meaningful action (and therefore at times stoked by the industries and politicians who profit from the production and burning of fossil fuels).
But if we act now, instead of waiting to feel hopeful or know the end of the story, hope may follow. This can in fact be a way God provides hope. And it answers our calls to do justice now and be faithful in the face of an uncertain future now, regardless of outcome or likelihood of “success.”
Come what may, our actions on climate still matter. Because our siblings across the continent and around the world are already suffering the effects of damaged life support systems. Because very fraction of a degree of global heating prevented matters for people, communities, cultures, and species around the globe who are most imperiled by destabilized climates and ecosystems. Yes, even if it costs us. Even if the U.S. Congress fails (yet again) to pass serious climate legislation. Even if the next global climate conference falls short, as the others have so far. Even if industry-funded disinformation and delay tactics linger in wider culture. Even if the wealthy countries of the world fail to prevent 1.5°C of global heating (or 1.6°C, etc.). Even if the next iteration of the IPCC report, due for release later this month, predicts scarier impacts and even greater vulnerability than we expected. And so on.
I’ve found it liberating to disregard the “how hopeful am I?” question and just stake steps to act justly—apart from favorable circumstances or finding any hope within myself or assurance it will accomplish much. Hope can be an outcome of meaningful action—especially collective action with others. For example: talking openly about the challenges and solutions, attending demonstrations, advocating for policy changes that protect the most vulnerable among us while transitioning our energy system to cleaner and more affordable power, electrifying our homes and businesses, changing consumption habits, planting trees and protecting living places, imagining a better world for everyone and doing our bits to make it reality, with God’s help. Each of us have our own imperfect ways to contribute, our own “next right steps” to take.
As wise people have noted, when we act—when we attend to grief, step forward in courage, and cultivate joy in community—we often receive hope along the way. This hope can feed into further action in a generative cycle.
So rather than focusing on hope as a prerequisite to action, we might be better off focusing on healthy grief, courage, and joy—all of which fuel the long-term, sustainable practices that responding justly to this crisis will require of us. If God gives us hope along the way, praises be. But hope is less a starting point, more an outgrowth of doing justice. I’m trying to practice this:
Start with action, mostly in community. Let the hope follow.
That reframing of hope helps me. But what do you think? What role does hope play for you? What role do you think it ought to play in the doing of justice?
How does this conception of hope land for you? Does it motivate or demotivate you? I’m interested to know.
On a related note: I’ve been putting together a “what can I do to respond to climate change?” post. It’ll be ready in two parts before long. But this won’t be anything groundbreaking – the aim is to repackage what’s already out there in a useful form. If you are looking for a place to start in the meantime, see this.
Thanks for reading. Thanks for acting.
Further Reading
Katharine Hayhoe, “In the Face of Climate Change, We Must Act So That We Can Feel Hopeful—Not the Other Way Around” (TIME)
Katharine Hayhoe, Saving Us: A Climate Scientist’s Case for Hope and Healing in a Divided World (2021)
Karyn Bigelow and Avery Davis Lamb, “Hope is a Climate Survival Strategy” (Sojourners)
Rebecca Solnit, Hope in the Dark: Untold Histories, Wild Possibilities (2016)
Joanna Macy and Chris Johnstone, Active Hope: How to Face the Mess We’re in Without Going Crazy (2012)
Jonathan Lear, Radical Hope: Ethics in the Face of Cultural Devastation (2006)