A reflection on the resurrection of hope
There are moments—rare and golden—when history bends slightly toward the light. They do not announce themselves with fireworks or flourish. Instead, they arrive with the solemn grace of incense rising in an old chapel: quietly, almost imperceptibly, and yet with a fragrance that lingers long after.
Such a moment, I daresay, has come to us once again, in the election of Pope Leo the Fourteenth. And what a name! Leo: the lion. A creature of regal strength and watchful nobility. But this lion did not roar from the balcony of St. Peter’s. No, his first words were almost a whisper:
“Peace be with you all.”
A greeting that feels less like a declaration and more like a balm. It has been said before—first by the Risen Christ, trembling into the fear-locked room of his disciples. But there was something new in its utterance here, something that made the heart pause. Perhaps it was because we have become a world so short on peace. We mutter it in our prayers and long for it in our cities. Yet how seldom we believe it might actually come.
Pope Leo speaks as one who believes it.
The Heart of the Lion: “Evil Will Not Prevail”
Among the several utterances he offered in those first public moments, one has taken deep root in me, and I suspect in many:
“God loves us. God loves you all. And evil will not prevail.”
It is a deceptively simple sentence. A line that might, in the hands of cynicism, be dismissed as sentimental or theological embroidery. But no. This is no thin platitude, no mere comfort. It is defiance. It is Gospel fire in a frail world. And it is, if we listen rightly, a resurrection of hope.
Evil will not prevail.
These are the words of one who has stared into the abyss—not from the security of stained-glass windows or ivory towers—but from the margins of suffering, where the Church still bleeds with the crucified. This is not optimism. It is something harder, costlier: it is Christian hope. A hope that the leader of 1.4 billion people around the has called his adherents to hone and nurture.
Hope: That Fierce and Gentle Thing
We must, I think, take care not to confuse hope with cheerfulness. Hope is not naïve. It is not the denying of darkness, but the refusal to worship it. It is what allows a soul to see the tomb and still believe in gardens. And this is what Pope Leo has handed us, gently, like an old priest offering a candle to a trembling child.
For what is hope if not the belief that evil is not the final word? We see evil’s theatre every day. We have come to know its actors too well: war, hatred, cruelty dressed as ideology. We’ve seen it on city streets and in homes reduced to rubble. And if we are honest, we’ve seen it in our own hearts—those flickers of pride, of bitterness, of fear. Evil is not merely “out there.” It crouches close.
And yet—it will not prevail.
This is the stubborn confession of the Christian. Not that evil does not exist, nor that it has no teeth—but that it is doomed. That its reign is temporary. That love, though it bleeds, will outlast it.
Pope Leo reminds us that this is not wishful thinking. It is reality. It is the shape of the universe, written in the Cross and confirmed in the Resurrection.
A Church That Walks
He went on, in those brief but poignant words, to outline a vision that felt less like a program and more like a pilgrimage:
“We must be a synodal church. A church that walks. A church that always seeks peace. Always seeks charity. Always tries to be close, especially to those who suffer.”
There is a humility in this—rare in institutions, rarer still in men with power. It is not a church that proclaims from a distance, but one that walks alongside. Not a fortress, but a field hospital. Not a throne, but a table.
And perhaps this is what most unsettles evil: not arguments or condemnations, but proximity. The closeness of love. The quiet stubbornness of compassion. The Church Pope Leo dreams of—this walking church, this weeping, healing, seeking church—is the very thing that evil cannot understand, and therefore cannot defeat.
The Mission of Peace
And then came his charge:
“A new mission for the whole Church: for peace in the world.”
Again, no military drumbeat. No clash of ideologies. Just peace. But peace, if we truly consider it, is the most radical mission imaginable. For it demands everything. It demands we unclench our fists. It demands we forgive. It demands we build bridges where others profit from the walls.
Peace is not passive. It is the most arduous labor of all.
And yet, what could be more urgent? In an age where violence has become ambient noise, where we are tempted to grow numb or resigned, the Church is summoned once again to be the keeper of the dream of peace—not as an abstract principle, but as a lived vocation. A presence. A path.
Where the Lion Lies Down
I confess: I was stirred when I heard him speak. Not for the grandeur of the moment, but for its quiet bravery. There is a gentleness to Pope Leo that feels dangerous in the best way. Dangerous to despair. Dangerous to indifference. His is not the lion who devours, but the lion who lies down beside the lamb, eyes wide open, heart still fierce.
We do not yet know what his papacy will bring. He is, like all of us, a human being. Fallible. Finite. But for now, I believe we have been given a shepherd who speaks with the poetry of prophets and the clarity of saints.
And if I might end with a simple prayer, it is this:
May we walk as he has invited us to walk—together, with the poor, toward peace.
May we love as he has reminded us we are loved—fully, endlessly, without fear.
And may we believe, perhaps more deeply than ever before, that evil—though loud, though real—will not prevail.
Because Christ has risen.
Because love has already won.
Because, by God’s strange and beautiful grace, there is still time to become the Church the world aches for.
Peace be with you all.
And with the new Pope—Leo the Fourteenth—may the Spirit walk close.
