Category: Hope
The algorithm sells despair. Christmas tells the truth.
I recently did something that I usually avoid. I stayed up too late and wandered into the digital sewer we politely call “the conversation.” X, feeds, clips, comments, rage-bait. I knew it would not end well, but I kept scrolling anyway. By the time I finally shut it off, it was clear that the despair and resentment social media produces are not a bug — they are the feature.
The world you see online is a world stripped of context and proportion. Everything is framed as an emergency, everything demands outrage, nothing asks for wisdom. Human suffering is turned into ammunition, children are turned into slogans, and hatred is dressed up as moral clarity. If you sit with it long enough, you begin to feel foolish for believing in decency at all.
God is not dead. He is not asleep. And the story is not finished, no matter how much the algorithm wants you to believe otherwise.
It made me think of a poem I had not thought about for some time.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s “Christmas Bells” is often quoted for its opening lines about peace on earth and goodwill toward men. That is usually where people stop.
But Longfellow wrote the poem in the middle of the Civil War. His country was fractured, his own son a casualty of the fighting, and his wife killed in a tragic accident. The poem is an honest look into the mind of a man laid low.
In the early stanzas, Longfellow describes hearing church bells repeat the old promise of peace. Then reality intrudes, cannons thunder, violence drowns out the song. He writes that it felt “as if an earthquake rent the hearthstones of a continent.” That is what civil war feels like from the inside.
That line has stayed with me for a very long time.
We are not there yet, but the pressure is mounting. Anti-Semitism has returned openly, not whispered, but justified. The Jewish people — history’s most reliable early warning system — are being threatened again, and too many voices respond with silence, excuses, or applause. We swore we would never allow this again. Now it is happening all over the West.
At the same time, the world is edging toward wider conflict. Alliances are hardening, borders matter again. But this time, there is no obvious force capable of stabilizing the chaos. America is busy devouring itself. Europe is exhausted. The rest of the world is watching to see what happens next.
This is the part of the poem most people skip.
Longfellow does not rush to hope. He admits his despair. “There is no peace on earth,” he writes, “for hate is strong, and mocks the song.” Honesty is not weakness. Pretending everything is fine when it is not is how civilizations collapse quietly.
But the poem does not end there.
The final stanza matters because it follows despair instead of denying it. Longfellow writes:
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men.”
That is not cheap optimism promising a quick end to suffering. It is a conviction insisting that evil does not get the last word.
That distinction matters a lot right now.
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Hope is not pretending the algorithm is wrong. It is recognizing that what trends is rarely what endures. The quiet courage that holds families together, the decency that stops violence when no camera is present, the faith that steadies people when institutions fail — those things do not go viral, but they do prevail. History does not turn on outrage. It turns on character.
Every civilization that survives a moment like this does so because enough people refuse to surrender their moral bearings. They do not deny the danger or excuse the evil. They do not outsource conscience to crowds or machines. They decide, quietly and stubbornly, to let their lives reflect the fact that truth still matters.
Longfellow had not yet seen the end of the war when he wrote that poem. He wrote it because despair was real and hope was necessary anyway. The bells did not silence the cannons overnight. But they reminded him — and us — that order is not an illusion and truth is not negotiable.
God is not dead. He is not asleep. And the story is not finished, no matter how much the algorithm wants you to believe otherwise.
The hidden hope of Christmas the world needs right now
Amid a dark and weary world, on an evening no one expected, the innocent cries of a baby broke through Bethlehem’s silent night. Hope had arrived and was ringing out for all to hear.
The first Christmas reminds us that God often begins His greatest work not with flash or attention, but with a flicker — a gentle whisper. Light enters quietly, almost hidden, yet strong enough to push back any darkness.
Jesus’ arrival in Bethlehem was God’s declaration that no one is beyond His reach.
That’s the pattern woven throughout scripture. Long before Jesus’ birth, the prophets spoke of a coming Messiah during a time when life felt unstable and discouraging. Their world was marked by division, oppression, and spiritual exhaustion. Many wondered if God still remembered them. Yet the prophets held on to a small, steady flame: a promise that hope was on the way.
Today, many feel that same dimming of hope. Some carry grief that resurfaces sharply during the Christmas season. Others feel worn down by the constant noise, conflict, and division around us. Even in a season filled with lights and celebration, joy can feel hidden.
But God’s story reminds us of this essential truth: Hope is rarely loud or obvious. It doesn’t always arrive in a dramatic or spectacular package. More often, it’s found in quiet faithfulness and small acts of love, moments so ordinary we might miss their significance.
The world expected a powerful king; God sent a child. The world expected a grand entrance; God chose a manger. The world expected an immediate victory; God chose a slow and steady redemption.
If God brought His light into the world through unnoticed moments, why would we expect Him to work differently today?
This is where the mission of Boost Others comes in. We exist to help make that hidden hope visible again. Because hope doesn’t just appear out of nowhere, it grows when people lift one another up. When we encourage someone, when we extend generosity, or when we offer our presence without conditions, we’re doing far more than meeting a practical need. We are participating in the very heart of the Christmas story: shining light into someone’s darkness.
These actions rarely make headlines, but they reflect the character of the Messiah who came not to be served, but to serve; not to condemn, but to lift; not to overwhelm, but to invite.
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Jesus’ arrival in Bethlehem was God’s declaration that no one is beyond His reach. When we extend hope to someone else, we are echoing that same message.
When Christ was born, the angels didn’t announce it to the masses but to a few shepherds who happened to be awake. That reminds us that God’s work often unfolds in hidden spaces. The world may overlook smallness, but God uses it.
Hope isn’t always obvious, and it isn’t always immediate. But it is always present, often waiting in the places we least expect. And sometimes, God calls us to be the instruments of comfort and renewal of another person’s life.
This season, more than anything, our world needs people willing to live this way: people who carry the joy of Christ into conversations, relationships, and everyday interactions, people who look for the quiet places where others feel overlooked or discouraged and choose to bring light.
What if the most meaningful gift we could give this Christmas isn’t wrapped at all? What if it’s the way we speak, the way we listen, the way we show up? What if the greatest impact isn’t found in big gestures but in consistent, faithful ones that remind someone that God sees them — and so do we.
Small lights matter. No act is too small. One candle doesn’t eliminate the darkness, but it pushes it back. And when more candles are lit, when more people step forward to encourage, uplift, and bless, the darkness doesn’t stand a chance.
So as Christmas draws near, I invite you to be attentive to the hidden places where hope is needed. Slow down enough to notice who might need a lift. Don’t wait for others to shine, take the first step and inspire others to shine alongside you. God delights to work through ordinary people doing ordinary things with extraordinary love.
When hope feels hidden, it isn’t gone — it’s simply waiting to be revealed. And you may be the one God uses to bring that light into someone’s life, turning a dim flicker into a steady burning flame.
