He was an unlikely president, a playwright and political dissident: Václav Havel, president of Czechoslovakia in the early 1990s, just after the fall of Communism.
His country was trying to rebuild itself, rediscover itself, stepping out from under the darkness of the Communist party. The time in which he served as president was contentious; it was a conflicted country comprised of two peoples, Czechs and Slovaks. They were conflicts the country couldn’t manage, and it fell apart, breaking in two in 1993—what is now Slovakia and the Czech Republic.
Václav Havel, though, was a reflective man, the nearest thing we’ve seen to a philosopher king in modern times; his political writings as well his plays transcend his context; simply put, they’re beautiful; they speak of the human condition.
Writing during a summer vacation not 18 months before the country of which he was president was broken in two, Havel wrote about politics and morality and civility; writing with a poignancy and depth and beauty which we lack in our country today. If you need some political sanity, some civil medicine, look to Václav Havel; he’ll help you.
One passage I want to share, that’s resonated with me over time, is about endurance, about getting up every morning to fight and do what’s right. It’s about perseverance, even when it seems pointless, even when it seems no one’s listening. He wrote:
Neither I nor anyone else will ever win this war once and for all. At the very most, we can win a battle or two—and not even that is certain. Yet I still think it makes sense to wage this war persistently. It has been waged for centuries, and it will continue to be waged—we hope—for centuries to come. This must be done on principle, because it is the right thing to do. Or, if you like, because God wants it that way. It is an eternal, never ending struggle waged not just by good people…against evil people, by honorable people against dishonorable people, by people who think about the world and eternity against people who think only of themselves and the moment. It takes place inside of everyone…So anyone who claims that I am a dreamer who expects to transform hell into heaven is wrong. I have few illusions. But I feel a responsibility to work towards the things I consider good and right…There is only one thing I will not concede: that it might be meaningless to strive in a good cause.[1]
These are words which have helped me, and which may help you; I hope they do, in this strange silly world and in this sometimes strange silly Church, worn out by it all as you might be, like me. How do we get the energy to keep fighting, the energy to keep hoping, the energy to resist fatalism, the energy not just to remain a Catholic or a Christian, but the energy to remain a decent person, a good person, a person for others?
They’re words for me which are an echo of the promises of the prophets, prophets like Isaiah, “Be strong, fear not!” he wrote. “Here is your God, he comes with vindication…he comes to save you.”[2] These words, found in the thirty-fifth chapter of Isaiah, follow the darker words of the thirty-fourth: words of anger, judgement and blood, the violence of the world and the reckoning of God. It’s as if Isaiah’s trying to get his people to hold on, to hope a little longer; it’s as if he’s talking about endurance, about getting up every morning to fight and do what’s right.
It’s really all I want to tell you today, all I want to do, and that’s point to hope. Because it’s how we Christians should respond to the world, how we should respond to evil, how we should respond to a broken country or a broken Church, a broken family or a broken friendship, our broken selves. With hope, for our God is coming, and with “vindication,” coming to save us, all of us, even you.
But, of course, what makes this hope, which is enduring, and not mere optimism, which is cheap and fleeting (and this is the Christian secret), is the presence of Jesus Christ, present in your heart and in your mind, present then in your actions and in your words. Which brings us to the Gospel of Mark, to the story of the deaf man brought to Jesus, whom Jesus touched and for whom he prayed a very simple prayer, and that’s, “Be opened,” giving the man the gift of his own ears.[3]
What makes hope real, as I said, is Jesus Christ, present in your soul. He’s the one who’ll help you stay sane and stay strong in this silly strange world and this sometimes silly strange Church. He’s the one, as Dr. King said, who “can make a way out of no way.”[4] All you need to do is open your ears to Jesus, to the word of God, to open your soul to him. Right now, nothing else matters; right now, that’s the reason for the despair of many: because we’re trying to walk through the valley of the shadow of death alone. Which is not what we’re meant to do, children of God that we are.
If you’ve not opened your ears, don’t ask why your heart’s hardened. Don’t ask why it’s cold. You know why. Just ask for Jesus, for his touch and his grace, ask him into your worn-out heart, and then begin to feel hope again. Because the reasons for hope are everywhere. You just need to look to the nearest child, the nearest family, and the beauty which is theirs, and which only God gave them. And which he wants to give to you too. Amen.
[1] Václav Havel, Summer Meditations, 16-17
[2] Isaiah 35:4
[3] Mark 7:34
[4] Martin Luther King, Jr., A Knock at Midnight, 154
© 2021 Rev. Joshua J. Whitfield
