By Kristen Ziccarelli
French existentialist Gabriel Marcel called hope “the stuff the soul is made of.” Dante marked the entrance to Hell by its absence: Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate (“Abandon all hope, you who enter here”).
Civilizations are seldom measured in terms of hope. We are more inclined to judge them by their military might, political stability, or economic performance—all of which are valid metrics, in a sense. Yet at a moment when many argue that Europe and the United States are forgetting their civilizational roots and need a revival of faith, love, and law, a deeper and more persistent question arises: what kind of future does our people believe is possible?
As an American who travels frequently to Europe, I have noticed how many of my compatriots visit Europe seeking inspiration in its Christian past. Yet when it comes to the present, I have also noticed how many Americans remark that Europe seems to be faring worse in terms of economy, practice of the faith, respect for life, birth rates, and optimism about the future.
And yet, however true this may be, I have found growing reasons for hope—not because of European institutions, economies, or politics, but because I have come to know its Christians.
More than most Americans, my own life since childhood has been deeply intertwined with Europe. I spent my formative years in Slovenia and Germany, and fell in love with the opera, literature, and rich history of the Old World. When I moved to Edinburgh to begin my master’s degree, I attended Mass at St. Albert, which served as the home of the university’s Catholic Students’ Union.
Under the wise and intellectual leadership of Dominican priests, I met Catholics from across Europe whose witness of charity and appreciation of their glorious heritage inspired me to place faith at the center of my life. Still, however beautiful the Latin liturgy and weekly concert Masses at St. Mary’s Catholic Cathedral were, they were secondary to the transformative effect of my Catholic friends’ witness.
I realized during that time how small the practicing Catholic community had become, even within one of Europe’s leading universities. Of the 49,000 students at the University of Edinburgh, the chaplaincy likely has around 100 weekly student visitors—roughly 0.2%. From a numbers standpoint, it is not a good ratio.
And yet, faith has never been solely about numbers. The future of Catholic Scotland or Christian Europe, if it is to have one, will depend far less on the number of registered members, or even on the preservation of its structures. I believe it depends on the fidelity of its Christians.
It was precisely in Edinburgh that I first encountered the living faith of European friends who love their Christian heritage and choose each day to bear witness to it and defend it. Their witness is an inspiration that goes beyond words: they believe in miracles and, even amid the world’s brokenness, in the triumph of the heart above all else. In the poetry of Charles Péguy, he imagined God saying: “[the] faith I love most is Hope” because “my children see what is happening and believe things will get better.”
From my side of the Atlantic, most current conversations about Europe are fatalistic. Many are convinced that widespread secularization, demographic decline, the influence of Islam, and mass migration have already settled the question of whether Europe has a future, let alone a strong one. I find myself far less doubtful than many of my colleagues in Washington, D.C. The darkness of our present age cannot be denied, yet still, I find myself hopeful.
Hope is a misunderstood theological virtue. It is often confused with optimism, which depends on favorable circumstances. Hope does not. Saint John Paul II repeatedly turned to the young, calling them “the future and the hope of the Church and of the world.” His words describe people I have had the privilege of knowing.
My European Christian friends are not necessarily winning the “culture war,” but they flatly refuse to be deformed by the dominant culture. They have every reason to despair, yet they do not. Their center of gravity is far from anything that could be defined as resentment, though they would be entitled to it, seeing how their institutions have failed them. Instead, they are truly animated by the conviction that the Gospel is true.
Beyond living the truth, many choose to work tirelessly in defense of their faith, in private and in public, creating initiatives to uphold what they know to be true. They are magnanimous souls who form friendships and evangelize without aggression.
In Edinburgh I had friends younger than I (I was twenty-three at the time) who had sponsored several young Catholics entering the Church. A friend in Slovakia met a fellow weightlifter at his gym, and a year later stood beside him as his sponsor into the Catholic Church. I have witnessed my friends in Europe pray often, marry young, observe the Lord’s Day, and build an extraordinary community. One cannot spend much time among them without being reminded of the early Christians of the primitive Church.
The Roman Empire demanded that Caesar be recognized as Kyrios (Lord). Third-century Christians quietly refused, and though many of them were killed, their martyrdom is the reason we have our Church today. Václav Havel, writing nearly two millennia later in “The Power of the Powerless,” argued that we all possess extraordinary strength when we choose to live as if Christianity were true.
That is the spirit of Romans 5:5: “And hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.” I have seen that hope poured out in the lives of ordinary Christians across Europe.
They are not waiting for history to turn favorable before beginning to live faithfully. Civilizations are ultimately renewed in the same way they were first built: one soul, one family, one church, one saint at a time. That is why I hold hope for Christian Europe.
About the Author
Kristen Ziccarelli is a writer living in Washington, D.C.