As we mark the Jubilee Year and reflect on the theme Pilgrims of Hope, I find myself returning to a line from the Carmelite Rule that first struck me while discerning my vocation with the Order. It is taken from Isaiah 30:15, quoted in Chapter 21 of the Rule: ‘In silence and in hope will be your strength.’ At the time, I didn’t fully understand what that meant. In truth, I found both ‘hope’ and ‘silence’ to be abstract and somewhat distant concepts.
Hope, in particular, seemed difficult to relate to. Unlike faith or love, which I could more easily grasp through action or relationship, hope felt vague—almost elusive. And silence? In a noisy world filled with constant motion, opinions, and activity, what does silence mean today? Not simply the absence of noise, I’ve come to learn, but a posture of listening. A space where God’s voice can emerge—sometimes as a whisper, sometimes in stillness alone.
Over the years, I have learned two important things about hope. First, like the other theological virtues—faith and love—hope is not something we muster up through sheer willpower. It is, fundamentally, a gift from God. We can ask for it, we can prepare for it, but it is given. We do not journey in hope on our own; we walk this path with God’s help.
Second, I have come to see that hope is not merely an idea or a feeling. Hope is a person: Jesus Christ. And hope is found in people—in concrete moments of encounter, in stories and lives that carry traces of God’s presence, even in pain or brokenness. Hope involves people because God chooses to dwell among us.
I’ve been privileged to witness such moments of hope in my own life. I recall vividly my first evening serving in a parish in the United States. I was called to a hospice where a woman was dying alone. When I asked about her family, I was told they weren’t interested in being there. There I was, just arrived from a country thousands of miles away, and I felt—deeply—that I was meant to be there. That my presence, somehow, was a sign of hope. Not because I had the right words, but simply because someone was there with her.
Another moment came in the confessional. A penitent once sat down and said, ‘I don’t know where to start.’ To which I replied, ‘This is the best place to start.’ That simple exchange was a moment when hope dawned. To begin again, even from confusion or regret, is a hopeful act. It is the Spirit at work, quietly prompting, inviting.
And over many years of teaching young people—university students full of questions and potential—I have seen hope take root in them. Their passion, their openness, their hunger for meaning: all of this speaks to me of hope, not just for the Church, but for the world. Hope is there in those small beginnings, in the willingness to learn, to grow, and to serve.
The Carmelite tradition has deep insights to offer us as pilgrims of hope. Saint Titus Brandsma spoke of the apostolate of Carmelite mysticism—an apostolate that is not static, but always on the move. He reminds us that each of us must do our part in awakening those around us to the truth that God loves them. This is at the heart of Christian hope—not that life will always be easy, but that we are not alone. God is with us. God is love.
Elijah, the great prophet of our tradition, also had to learn this. In his search for God, he looked to the dramatic: the earthquake, the fire, the storm. But God was not in any of these. God came instead in the sound of sheer silence—a still, small voice. This remains a key lesson of our Carmelite spirituality: we often look for God in the wrong places. But God is already present. Even before we seek him, he is seeking us.
And so I return to the line that first stirred my heart: ‘In silence and in hope will be your strength.’ It makes more sense to me now. Silence is not emptiness, but openness. Hope is not abstraction, but encounter—with Christ and with others. As pilgrims of hope, we walk not alone, but in communion—with each other and with the One who leads us.
It is in those moments—in the classroom, with the penitent, with the dying woman—that hope begins to dawn. These are not extraordinary events, but ordinary ones seen with the eyes of faith. And maybe that is what pilgrimage truly means: not always moving forward in grand strides, but continuing with trust, one step at a time, often in silence, always in hope.
Simon Nolan, O.Carm.
