Reflection by Stephanie Roux, District Property Secretary
When Hope Feels Fragile
My heart has been slowly breaking for some years now.
I grew up in Apartheid South Africa. When Apartheid began to crumble in 1990 and when it finally collapsed in 1994, I was filled with hope. It felt as though history had bent and was moving towards justice. I carried a deep conviction that the world was getting better.
Whenever horror surfaced in the news, I had a quiet practice: I would list the good that had changed. Walls that had fallen, rights that had been won, voices that had been heard. My mantra was simple: the world is getting better. Repeating it renewed my hope.
But in recent years, that mantra has faltered.
The stories have felt relentless: greed without shame, violence without pause, arrogance without consequence, selfishness without restraint. The ongoing war in Ukraine, the devastation and massacre in Gaza and the disturbing revelations surrounding Jeffrey Epstein have offered glimpses into the scale of the world’s brokenness.
Now, when I begin to whisper my old mantra, it trails off. Before I can finish the sentence, another horror breaks across the screen. Hope feels thinner. More fragile. Harder to hold.
For me, Lent began this year when U2 released the EP Days of Ash. As I listened, something within me softened. In those six songs I hear an echo of my own lament but also something more. I hear the voice of God carrying pain far greater than I could bear, yet offering the comfort that I am not alone in holding it.
What is Lent for?
Perhaps it is for telling the truth about what the world has lost and about what we have failed to get right. It is a prayer of lament. It is a space for repentance. It is preparation for a journey that will not be easy.
The words of Jaqueline Jones’ hymn ask:
Have you heard God’s voice?
Has your heart been stirred?
Are you still prepared to follow?
The questions are searching. They refuse despair, but they also refuse denial.
Will you walk the path that will cost you much
And embrace the pain and sorrow?
I realise Lent is not an invitation to escape the news or numb the grief. It is an invitation to see differently. To watch the news with the eyes of faith and dare to believe it could be different. To use my voice when others are silent. To stand firm when crowds grow violent. To be God’s heart in city streets. To listen to the voiceless. To share faith gently, graciously.
The call is not naïve optimism. It is costly discipleship.
There is encouragement here too: we are not alone. We are entrusted with one another. Our differences are not threats but gifts. We are stronger because of them. The journey ahead will be rough and narrow, but it is not solitary.
Perhaps my old mantra needs reshaping. Not the world is getting better as a sweeping certainty, but God is still at work even in ash, even in sorrow.
Lent does not deny the brokenness. It meets it with repentance, courage and hope that refuses to die.
And so, the question lingers for me:
Will I remain and serve? Will I choose to follow, even now with stronger faith?
God of sorrow and hope,
when the world feels heavy, steady our hearts.
Forgive us, strengthen us,
and give us courage to love and serve.
Even in the ashes,
help us trust that You are at work.
Amen.