‘It Never Ends’: Disability Advocacy and the Practice of Resilient Hope

Abstract

Political advocacy is an important religious practice. But social activism can be discouraging. This paper integrates moral theology, virtue ethics, positive psychology and spiritual formation to highlight the importance of resilient hope for social justice advocates. Part 1 describes an important justice issue—public services for disabled people. Part 2 defines transformational advocacy and outlines an advocacy theology. Part 3 analyzes despair and hope. Part 4 summarizes spiritual practices for building resilient hope.

1. Introduction

Several years ago, I served on the speaker’s bureau for a voter referendum. The initiative asked property owners in my Illinois county to approve a small tax to fund desperately needed services for adults with intellectual and developmental disabilities (IDDs), like my son David, who require significant support. I came home from one public presentation discouraged by the pushback our measure was receiving. For reassurance, I turned to Barack Obama (2008): “Hope is not naïve optimism. It’s not ignoring the enormity of the task ahead or the roadblocks that stand in our path … Hope is that thing inside us that insists, despite all evidence to the contrary, that something better awaits us if we have the courage … to fight for it.” Reading this text over several days steadied me to continue my activism.

Christian churches are often content with charity-based approaches to social problems (direct care ministries like homeless shelters) and ignore justice-based approaches (public activism to address the systemic causes of ills like homelessness). One moral task of political institutions is to ensure justice for all by providing the material goods necessary for a decent life. If government fails at this, the Church must practice political advocacy by standing with people denied justice. But social activism can be discouraging, since it never ends and progress is slow.

Effective advocacy comes not just from technique, but from the spirit.1 Scholars like Michelle Moody-Adams (2022, part 3) and Rebecca Solnit (2016) examine hope as a means of sustaining social justice activism.2 The purpose of this paper is to amplify those analyses by connecting advocacy, the virtue of hope and spiritual practice. It argues two points: (1) activism requires hope, and (2) hope requires cultivation through spiritual practice. Part 1 describes an important justice issue—public services for individuals with IDDs. Part 2 defines transformational advocacy and outlines an advocacy theology. Part 3 integrates moral theology, virtue ethics and positive psychology perspectives on hope. Part 4 examines spiritual practices for building resilient hope. The focus is limited to disability advocacy, but its lessons generalize to other advocacy efforts. The analysis is limited to the USA, but its insights may be relevant internationally. The discussion is limited to the Christian faith, but its argument may pertain to other spiritual traditions. The primary audience is academic scholars engaged in multidisciplinary study of spirituality and justice—how religious practice supports progressive social movements and political activism. The secondary audience is anyone involved in disability (or other) advocacy.

2. Describing Deficient Disability Services

In the USA, public services for adults with IDDs are underfunded and understaffed (American Network of Community Options and Resources 2024; Friedman 2019; Institute on Community Integration 2023). Similar problems trouble community living in other developed countries.3

IDDs are mental impairments that substantially restrict major life activities. IDDs begin in childhood, last lifelong and cover conditions such as autism and Down syndrome. Limited executive function (mental skills that regulate thoughts, emotions and actions) and adaptive behavior (cognitive skills for managing everyday living) are defining features of IDDs. Individuals with deficits require assistance with activities of daily life. Levels of IDDs are measured by functional limitations and intensity of support needs. My son David is not literate or verbal, cannot understand significant choices and requires help with self-care tasks. He lives in a group home and attends a day activity center, both operated by a private government-funded agency. David is, of course, much more than his disability. He has numerous virtues (laughter and empathy), talents (he rides his recumbent tricycle hundreds of miles each year, stocks shelves at a food pantry and plays Special Olympics sports) and relationships (with family, peers, professional staff and community members).

Historically, many adults like David were housed in large facilities that regimented their lives and segregated them from their communities. In the 1960s, advocates began championing ‘normalization,’ insisting that the experience of people with IDDs should approximate an ordinary life of personal independence and social inclusion.4 The Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) gives disabled people the right to choice in housing and daytime activities as well as to participate in community life. The Supreme Court Olmstead decision directs states to provide suitably funded community-based residential and vocational services. But despite their integrated location, many community programs function as institutions.

The ideal is that adults with IDDs enjoy a typical life. The reality, however, is that many—including David—have “narrowed lives” which are custodial (focused on basic care, not social integration or personal development); socially isolated (interaction is with people in the service system, not the general public); system-centered (time is spent in segregated group homes and activity centers, not community facilities) and non-individualized (daily activities are repetitive and congregate rather than customized to personal preferences).5 Research in the USA (American Network of Community Options and Resources 2024; Friedman 2019; Institute on Community Integration 2023) indicates that many adults with IDDs lack individual choice and social participation.

Two broad approaches explain these disadvantages. The medical model highlights individual malfunctions internal to the person—the social model emphasizes exclusionary social arrangements external to the person. While both play a role, the day-to-day lives of adults with IDDs are restricted primarily by social factors. And while barriers to normalization occur at all social levels (family, professional staff, service agency and community groups), political obstacles predominate.

Deficient funding disadvantages adults with IDDs. Underinvestment by federal and state governments has persisted for decades. Financial reimbursements do not cover actual expenses of integrated and individualized programs. The 2022 American Jobs Plan, which earmarked USD 400 billion to expand community services, was vetoed by Congress (White House 2021). Inadequate system capacity disadvantages adults with IDDs. Families seeking services face access challenges since states have long wait lists. Many individuals are awarded funding only to find that there are no group home or day center openings. Obtaining services, especially for people in rural areas and with complex needs, is often impossible (Residential Information Systems Project 2021). Unstable staffing disadvantages adults with IDDs. The national shortage of direct support professionals is due to agencies not being reimbursed enough to offer competitive wages. The result is deteriorating programs: ninety-two percent of agencies struggle to manage existing services and achieve quality standards; sixty-three percent have discontinued programs; eighty-three percent are refusing new referrals (American Network of Community Options and Resources 2022; National Core Indicators 2020).

In the USA and internationally, adults with IDDs are disadvantaged by political factors—funding, capacity and staffing deficiencies—that limit their opportunities. This injustice requires transformational advocacy. I discuss that concept next.

3. Defining and Defending Transformational Advocacy

Transformational advocacy consists of organized actions meant to influence social attitudes, implement laws and create public policies so that ideals of a just society become reality (Offutt et al. 2016, chp. 2). Civic engagement has been central to disability system reform.

3.1. Definition of Advocacy

Public advocacy occurs when individuals or groups aim to influence decisions in political systems by supporting particular policies. Advocacy is speaking to those with power to address the upstream causes of social problems on behalf of those who cannot defend themselves. It names institutional injustices and challenges leaders to remedy them (Offutt et al. 2016, p. 150). Amateur advocates are volunteers; professional advocates are paid staff within advocacy organizations, including lobbyists.

3.2. Anecdotes of Advocacy

My activism is anchored in the social model, which blames disability disadvantage on exclusionary social arrangements. Illinois ignored federal ADA and Olmstead-related integration mandates, so lawsuits were brought by people who wanted to live in the community but remained confined in segregated facilities. The 2011 Ligas settlement, of which David is a member, enforces disabled people’s right to integrated and individualized living. The settlement requires adequate resources, but Illinois has deprived agencies of sufficient funds (Illinois Department of Human Services n.d.). Agencies cannot pay competitive wages, and so have difficulty hiring and keeping qualified staff, which compromises community participation and individualized support. Agencies have closed facilities, discharged service users and turned away people seeking services (McManus 2023).

One response to these shortcomings is litigation. Disability rights groups filed a legal motion arguing that poor care resulting from low reimbursement violates the Ligas settlement. The court ordered Illinois to update its payment methodology, but the legislature refuses to fully fund its own refurbished plan. A second response is advocacy. Public pressure on lawmakers has kept the system from sliding backward. In 2024, vigorous advocacy forced Illinois to cancel proposed cuts to residential programs and resulted in a small (but inadequate) staff pay raise (They Deserve More 2024).

In this context, my advocacy is multifaceted. I helped establish a Mental Health Board which funds disability services in my community. I serve on an advisory council overseeing state compliance with the Ligas settlement, and I provide affidavits to the court supervising Ligas. As an officer on the Board of Directors of David’s agency, I speak at public meetings and to general audiences. I write letters to newspapers, do media interviews, attend public rallies and participate in policy roundtables. I meet with elected representatives and give testimony to legislators. My academic writing produces knowledge supporting justice for people with IDDs.6 While David cannot speak or comprehend the systemic issues behind my advocacy, he sometimes accompanies me.

My efforts seem small—I know other advocates do much more to make a difference. My activism is motivated by parental interest in David’s well-being, humanitarian concern for a vulnerable population and professional support of a service agency. It is also inspired by the Biblical call to “speak out for those who cannot speak” (Prov 31:8). I next draft a Christian theology of public advocacy.

3.3. Theology of Advocacy

Schaeffer and Tamminga (2022) contrast various theological approaches to disability inclusion. How perspectives examine the practicalities of inclusion, suggesting ways that faith communities can integrate disabled people into Church and society. Why perspectives reflect on the motivations for inclusion, exploring Biblical texts and Christian tradition to create a religious rationale. In this section I outline why Christians should conduct advocacy. In the following sections, I explore how activists can cultivate resilient hope.

God’s dream for human persons is shalom—well-being in every area of life. God’s concern for the social–political order is found throughout Scripture. Israel’s laws mandate special care for vulnerable members of the community (e.g., Lev 19:10–15). The prophets’ criticism calls Israel to a politics of justice and an economics of equity (e.g., Isa 1:11–17). Mary the mother of Jesus insists that in God’s social overturning, the high are cast down and the low lifted up (Luke 1:46–53). Jesus outlines his mission to meet human needs (Luke 4:18–19) and threatens judgment according to works of mercy to the vulnerable (Matt 25:31–46). The apostle Paul affirms that “Jesus is Lord” (e.g., 1 Cor 12:3) and Caesar is not. He views the “principalities and powers” (e.g., Eph 6:12) as destructive social and institutional forces subdued by God.

Emphasizing these Biblical themes, disability theologians defend inclusion. Nancy Eisland (1994, p. 100) argues that the scars of the resurrected Jesus critique exclusion by affirming the wholeness of disabled body–minds. This validation enables disabled people to challenge internalized psychological oppression and calls Church and society to renounce ableist practices. Sharon Betcher (2007, p. 38) condemns theologies that “collude with the powers of normalization” by portraying disabled people as defective. A Church saturated with God’s love for “the least of these” (Matt 25:40) challenges the assumed superiority of ‘normal’ people and works toward a disability-inclusive society. Amos Yong (2007, pp. 11–12, 182) argues that the many tongues of Pentecost (Acts 2:4–11) celebrate diversity. This “pneumatological imagination” requires the Church to work for religious and social systems where “people with disabilities … are accepted, included and valued members of the human family.” Thomas Reynolds (2008, pp. 18–19, 200, 246–47) notes that in God’s Kingdom, “empowering acts of divine hospitality” reverse the “cult of normalcy” (that privileges ‘normal’ persons who can participate in society and excludes ‘abnormal’ individuals who cannot). “Jesus invites the poor, the unclean, the outcasts and the immoral to the divine banquet … As Christ welcomes, so he calls his followers to welcome others.” Practices of hospitality involve accommodation to disabled people that enables full inclusion and advocacy for and with them. Shane Clifton (2018, pp. 42, 115, 229) agrees: “Jesus was passionately angry at injustice, compassionate to anyone who suffered and impassioned in his insistence that God’s Kingdom was oriented especially to the flourishing of the poor, the captive and the disabled.” Jesus’ life is not over—he lives in the world today in the Church, which carries on the work he would do if he were still here physically. This means that “Christian faith … is (or should be) a protest movement that exists for the marginalized, providing people … living with disability the self-respect and purpose that is too often denied them by the wider society.”

God wants just societies that leave no one behind. When social institutions do harm, people of faith must speak up individually and collectively. Reynolds (2008, p. 247) asserts that “in advocacy, hospitality stands with the stranger on the margins … and works … to promote his or her well-being.” Eisland (1994, p. 111) adds that “the struggle for justice … means creating and supporting paid positions for advocacy within denominational structures” and calls individuals to volunteer activism. While many disabled people can speak for themselves, some require ally advocates to defend their interests. Every difficult undertaking, including advocacy, requires hope that its goal will be achieved. I next examine the nature and value of hope.

4. Analyzing Despair and Hope

While I am usually enthusiastic about advocacy, sometimes I become exhausted. I fight repeatedly for the same things: more funding, additional staff and improved services for David and his peers. Both despair and hope are prospective emotions—where despair sees a negative future, hope sees a positive one.

Hope exists, Marcel (1967, p. 280) says, “as an active struggle against despair.” The medieval sin of sloth—indifference to moral obligations that demand effort—combined acedia (apathy and lethargy) and tristitia (melancholy and weariness). Advocates can experience learned helplessness (becoming worn down by defeat and unable to act), depression (reacting to loss with feelings of sadness and inadequacy as well as reduced motivation to pursue goals) and anxiety (catastrophizing and ruminating on future misfortunes). Marcel (1967, p. 278) points out that if advocates think the future is closed and accept a situation as final, they become demoralized, capitulate and collapse into “inert waiting” that lessens the chances of desired events happening.

4.1. Hope and the Theological Virtues

Christian disability activists draw on religious hope, one of three theological virtues. Faith, hope and love, Clifton (2018, p. 225) states, “have political significance [because they] contribute to political advocacy and social change.” Activism requires faith. In the face of social injustice, advocates may doubt God’s goodness. Faith is believing “that we live in a friendly universe, one in which the effort to address … social hardship matters” (Clifton 2018, pp. 43–45). Even uncertain faith “provides motivation to resist the … despair that threatens to cause us to give up when pain and trouble become overwhelming.” Faith creates hope. Social evils can breed hopelessness—things are so bad they cannot be fixed. But hope grounded “in the character and promises of God” helps advocates confront challenging situations as it “reaches for a future that defies the constraints of the present” (Clifton 2018, pp. 45–46). Hope enables love. Love is active concern that promotes another’s welfare. God’s love “is mediated through secondary causes”—we are God’s hands in the world through personal caring and public advocacy (Clifton 2018, p. 46). “Faith, hope and love are inextricably entwined,” Clifton (2018, pp. 226–27) observes; “faith is needed most when life gets messy, which is why faith and hope go hand in hand.” I next analyze hope—both religious and ordinary.

4.2. Religious Hope

Ordinary hope has an uncertainty requirement: hoping that an event happens entails that it might or might not. Christian hope, however, has a certainty requirement: God will, not might, fulfill God’s purpose of justice and shalom. The Hebrew words translated ‘hope’ express confident trust in God while waiting for an expected good (Yang 2009). The creation story restored confidence in God during the Babylonian exile when everything seemed lost. It declares that the God who brought order out of chaos at the beginning of time will rescue Israel from captivity (Lane 1996, p. 179). The prophet Isaiah (51:1–6) encourages the exiles by pointing to Abraham and Sarah who believed, against enormous odds, that God would lead them to a land they did not know, give them a child in old age and be faithful if they sacrificed their son. This is a model for hope; Brueggmann (1996, p. 57) says, “that God can create newness out of defeat, barrenness and even death.” The Hebrew word translated means ‘hope’ and expresses future expectation, trust and patient waiting (Bultmann and Rengstorf 1984). The apostle Paul (Rom 4:17–21) cites Abraham’s belief in God’s promise. Hebrews 11 celebrates the hope of Israel’s patriarchs who looked beyond their immediate situations, trusting God to accomplish a good future.

Biblical hope encompasses both other-worldly consummation (happiness beyond history) and this-worldly deliverance (blessings within history). God promises to deliver the Hebrew slaves from the Egyptians (Exod 3:7–8), and Zechariah envisions Israel’s deliverance from its enemies (Luke 1:74) (Wolterstorff 2013, pp. 229–35). Confident trust in God’s promises of justice and shalom motivates advocacy. As Moltmann (1967, pp. 21–22) says, “those who hope in [God’s future] can no long put up with reality as it is … This hope makes the Christian Church a constant disturbance in human society … [and] the source of continual new impulses towards the realization of righteousness, freedom and humanity here in the light of the promised future that is to come.” Biblical hope is a disposition for advocates to act in positive ways to mend society so every person flourishes. It enables them to “not grow weary in doing what is right” (Gal 6:9). And it is a disposition for advocates to think and feel in positive ways. It creates serenity and peace: “happy are those … whose hope is in the Lord” (Ps 146:5). Where despair breeds sadness and apathy, hope creates joy and energy.

While the Bible often speaks about hope, it does not analyze what hope is. This is where theology enters constructive dialogue with philosophy and psychology.

4.3. Ordinary Hope

Ordinary hope combines desire (wanting an outcome to happen) and belief (thinking it may happen—it is neither impossible nor inevitable). Pleeging et al. (2022) move beyond this basic definition, analyzing hope as a process composed of sources (internal and external), experiences (individual and social) and effects (internal and external). Advocate hope includes each element.

The internal sources of hope refers to “feelings, traits and circumstances that … originate from an individual’s personal experience that can cause someone to be hopeful or increase the strength of their hope” (Pleeging et al. 2022, p. 20). Being dissatisfied with how things are, disability advocates have an inherent tendency to act to improve those circumstances. Because hope concerns possible but uncertain goals, advocates’ assumptions about their own abilities—confidence, self-worth and personal control—are important. So are personality traits like courage, serenity, malleability belief (that reality can be changed) and locus of control (that they can influence outcomes). Advocates can intentionally choose hope by focusing on the possibility of positive outcomes, by acting despite uncertainty and by cultivating psychological resilience.

The external sources of hope “encompass all types of events, circumstances and influences that exist outside of an individual”—friendships, advocacy networks, political environments and a higher power (Pleeging et al. 2022, p. 21). Social circles are settings where hope can grow; other people influence what advocates think possible, how they define themselves, how they see the future and how they hope. Weingarten (2010, pp. 11, 21) notes that hope is not just a feeling achieved by an individual, but something performed with others. Hope flourishes in relationship—it is co-created by people together. Advocates benefit from vicarious hope—like drafting during a bicycle race, they let themselves be influenced by hope other people express. Experiences of successful advocacy build hope and energy (while experiences of failure can cause hopelessness and apathy). Institutional and political contexts—whether society is open to grassroots democratic change or not—also influence hope. A faith system, both religious and non-religious, can create trust in a good future.

The individual experience of hope happens within advocates. Hope is not one experience but a psychological resource with multiple layers. Hopeful activists incorporate their desires and beliefs regarding social change into their way of life through thinking (imagining what the desired outcome would be like), feeling (positively expecting the best) and acting (working to bring about the desired outcome) (Martin 2014). Cognitively, hope combines goals (a vision for what is possible), strategies (plans for making progress and tackling obstacles) and actions (determination to make goals happen) (Snyder 1994). Aristotle (1999, pp. 23–25) locates virtue in the mean—realistic hope avoids both hopeless despair (deficiency) and naïve optimism (excess). Advocates need wisdom to know when hope is warranted (when to keep to continue their activism) and when it is not (when to turn their efforts in another direction). Emotionally, hope is positive feelings that accompany thoughts of a desired future. Particularized hope focuses on specific advocacy goals and is short-term—generalized hope is a more global feeling that a positive future is possible (Pleeging et al. 2022, p. 28). Hopeful advocates have grit (persevering for long-term goals), self-efficacy (believing they can influence outcomes) and distress tolerance (enduring disappointing setbacks) (Gallagher and Lopez 2017). Behaviorally, hope is sustained acting to achieve goals. Hopeful advocates interpret defeats as temporary obstacles rather than permanent failures. They find a balance—being motivated to pursue their goals while remaining realistic enough to overcome disappointment from setbacks (Pleeging et al. 2022, p. 14). The elements of hope form “a cyclical process; how we evaluate our circumstances might affect how we feel, which in turn can spark motivation, which again changes how we perceive our situation. Rather than an emotional state, which is relatively static …, hope as a process means that [it] changes over time” (Pleeging et al. 2022, p. 17). Weingarten (2010, p. 10) adds that reasonable hope accommodates doubt and despair. It is not a pure either–or category; instead, hope and despair coexist in messy tension.

The social experience of hope happens between advocates and other people. When individual hopes are shared by a group, they become a ‘social’ hope. Advocates share hope for positive change with others in their activist networks. Advocates place trust in social institutions and public officials to align with the changes they seek. Social hope is more stable and long-term than individual hope; when people infect each other with optimism and resolve, personal doubts are less likely to turn into hopelessness (Pleeging et al. 2022, pp. 23–24).

The internal effects of hope occur psychologically inside individuals (Pleeging et al. 2022, p. 25). Hope is associated with achievement in multiple performance domains, better psychological health, good social relationships and physical well-being (Peterson and Seligman 2004, p. 576). Hope increases advocates’ belief in their own and other people’s capacities to create change. Hope promotes a sense of purpose in life, a feeling of being part of something larger than themselves. Hope is a motivational force that keeps advocates committed, even in times of uncertainty. Marcel (1967, pp. 278–82) points out that when we think the future is open and do not accept a situation as final, we stand our ground and do not surrender. Hope is “active waiting” where we work to bring about what we desire.

The external effects of hope happen in social contexts surrounding individuals (Pleeging et al. 2022, p. 26). Hope can bring people together, helping advocates forge productive relationships with each other as well as community groups and public officials they seek to influence. Hope can function as a socially shared resource that infects other advocates and promotes a culture of hope. By creating a shared identity and trust in collective ability, hope mobilizes groups of advocates, inspiring them to persist despite obstacles.

Despair and burnout among disability advocates are a problem. Activists can feel overwhelmed by the struggle to right injustices, especially when it seems to go nowhere. Hope is a solution that can help them remain energized. This is why hope must be cultivated, which I discuss next.

5. Exploring Spiritual Practices That Cultivate Hope

Hope, Smith (2008, pp. 7, 18) points out, is “not just something we find ourselves with, like eyes of a certain color, but something we are … to some degree responsible for.” It is “something we do …, an active orientation, a stance we take up.” Pleeging et al. (2022, p. 21) agree: “hope … can be a deliberate choice … Hoping [is] a virtuous act if people choose to ‘equip’ themselves with it as a resource to keep them pursuing what is right, even in the presence of uncertainties and disappointment.” Advocates equip themselves with hope through human effort and receive it through divine grace.

5.1. Hope as a Cultivated Virtue

Character traits are built by repeated actions. “Virtue [and vice] … result from habits,” Aristotle (1999, p. 18) says, and “we acquire [them] just as we acquire skills” such as playing the harp. Hope is a habituated way of thinking, feeling and acting. The apostle Paul understands salvation as transformation of the self, achieved through cultivating virtue. Paul struggled against personal vices (e.g., 1 Cor 9:27). He urges his readers to actively put away the old egocentric self and clothe themselves with a new Godlike self (e.g., Eph 4:22–24). Paul advises Timothy to train himself in godliness (1 Tim 4:8), to aggressively pursue faith, hope and love (2 Tim 2:22). Members of his churches fasted, studied, gave, prayed and worshiped together in order to enhance their moral and spiritual lives (Willard 1988, chp. 7).

Hadot (1995, p. 126) describes spiritual formation as work performed by a person on themselves in order to turn themselves into a particular type of person. A spiritual exercise is a “determinate act, intended to influence oneself, carried out with the express goal of achieving a determinate moral effect … Spiritual exercises [are] exercises because they are practical, require effort and training …; they [are] spiritual because they involve the entire spirit, one’s whole way of being.” Performed deliberately and regularly, individual and communal practices engrave dispositions of hope into advocates’ characters.

5.2. Individual Practices That Cultivate Internal Sources of Hope

Advocates cultivate internal sources of hope through individual disciplines. While not a panacea, the science of neuroplasticity suggests that repeated activities strengthen circuits in the brain and improve psychological well-being (Newberg 2014).

Disciplines are specific activities people do repeatedly. (1) Prayer. Contemplative prayer centers silently in God’s presence; petitionary prayer asks God to do something. The Prayer of St. Francis or the Serenity Prayer teach advocates courage and determination. Elledge and Moore’s Liturgies for Hope (Elledge and Moore 2022) has prayers for navigating fear, sadness, despair and burnout. (2) Meditation. Introspective meditation focuses on psychological states—it trains advocates to recognize pessimistic thoughts as they arise. Insight meditation focuses on guiding principles—it helps advocates internalize core values (like integrity and compassion) so they influence decisions. (3) Reading. Formational reading is slow and contemplative. Solnit’s (2016) Hope in the Dark is a meditation on activism and hope reminding advocates that social change is unpredictable and incremental. Informational reading is rational and analytic. Books about disability rights pioneers like Judy Heumann or films about advocates like Richard Pimentel (Music Within) offer guidance and encouragement for activists today. (4) Sabbath. Setting aside a period of time each week to avoid work and engage in pleasurable activities is a rhythm of restoration that counters advocates’ exhaustion and stress. (5) Relaxation exercises. Deep breathing, progressive muscle relaxation, yoga, tai chi or walking a labyrinth reduce advocates’ stress and improve well-being (Hansen 2018, pp. 132–36). Caring for physical health (through exercise, nutritious food and adequate sleep) boosts energy and enhances mood. (6) Simple joys and continual learning. When advocates fill their minds with good thoughts through ordinary experiences (like tending a garden or listening to music) bad thoughts are displaced. Learning new things (like taking cooking classes or beginning to play a musical instrument) increases feelings of control and accomplishment (Doppelt 2023, p. 193).

Content is the substance focused on in spiritual disciplines. (1) Memory. As noted, religious hope—expecting God’s future faithfulness—is based on remembering God’s past faithfulness. The foundation of ordinary hope also lies in the past. Retelling the history of social transformations, many small and non-linear, Solnit (2016, p. xxvi) says, “gives [advocates] confidence that yes, we can change the world because we have many times before.” (2) Anger and forgiveness. Advocates can become bitter that things are not the way they should be and angry at institutions that resist change. Resentment is a constructive response to socially constructed disability disadvantages when, as Clifton (2018, p. 216) says, advocates harness it to become “determined, strong, creative” activists for change. But anger can also be destructive, causing anxiety and depression and spawning adversarial advocacy against perceived enemies. Forgiveness does not downplay the harm caused or excuse those who act unjustly. It does let go of resentful thoughts, negative feelings and hostile behavior (Enright and North 1998).7 Advocates can read King’s (2010, pp. 31–52) sermons about forgiveness in the midst of struggle—like ‘Loving Your Enemies’—and can journal their anger and forgiveness. (2) Grief. Advocates can feel sadness that social change is slow and uneven—this grief can be expressed through prayer and journaling or reading laments like those in Bessey’s (2020) A Rhythm of Prayer: A Collection of Meditations for Renewal. (3) Gratitude and laughter. Our minds have a negativity bias—bad experiences move to the front of awareness while good ones fade into the background. Gratitude shifts attention—alongside difficult challenges, there are things for advocates to be thankful for (Hansen 2018, p. 42). Gratitude journaling increases positive emotion and improves optimism. Religious gratitude includes mealtime prayers and prayer strolls that notice pleasant sights, sounds and smells of a neighborhood (McMinn 2017, p. 85). Laughter lightens sadness, relaxes muscles and releases endorphins that promote feelings of happiness. Watching comedy videos, reading comic strips and telling funny stories redirect advocates’ moods in a positive direction (Vilaythong et al. 2003).

5.3. Corporate Practices That Cultivate External Sources of Hope

Advocates cultivate external sources of hope through corporate practices with a faith community or advocacy network. Cultivating hope is a relational process—advocates need hope partners, a community of hopers who provide encouragement and empathy.

Interpersonal support that invigorates hope takes several forms. (1) Conversation. No one can give hope to another person, but together people create conversational space for hope to arise (Weingarten 2010, p. 11). Through meaningful dialogue, advocates share experiences, express emotions and exchange ideas. Talking with others gives insights into themselves and deeper understandings of situations they face. (2) Communal celebration. Advocacy groups can hold regular award celebrations that honor both outcomes (including small outcomes that constitute progress toward big outcomes) and efforts (since, whatever the outcome, advocates took positive action). “Delight and joy,” Willard (1988, p. 179) says, “is the great antidote to despair and is a wellspring” of hope. (3) Communal lament. Advocates can gather to name disappointments and express grief. Lament may be spoken verbally—through personal words of sorrow or written laments. Groups can listen to or sing African American spirituals (like ‘Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen’) and act out lament non-verbally (by smashing a plate or tearing a piece of fabric). (4) Religious gatherings. Faith communities come together weekly to celebrate and lament. Through story and song, congregations remember the past acts of God as the foundation of future hope. Gathering is an important practice for Christian advocates—it renews their minds (Rom 12:1–2), equips them for the work of ministry (Eph 4:12), grows their faith (1 Pet 2:2) and encourages perseverance in trials (Heb 3:12–14).

5.4. The Efficacy of Hope-Building Practices

Centen (2021, p. 173) reminds us to “treat hope like a verb rather than a noun. Your hope isn’t something you merely have—it’s something you do.” Psychological research indicates that hope can be boosted by deliberate interventions. Exposing children to stories of hope improves hopeful ways of thinking. The Penn Resiliency Project (instruction in cognitive–behavioral strategies like decatastrophizing, setting goals and planning to achieve them) reduces emotional distress (Peterson and Seligman 2004, p. 580).8

A large body of empirical evidence indicates that religious and spiritual practices are positively related to psychological well-being, Jackson and Bergeman (2011, p. 149) state. “Individuals who are more committed to their religious faith and spiritual convictions are happier, healthier and have more coping resources at their disposal than those for whom religion and spirituality are less important.” Spiritual practices build resiliency—positive expectations about the future, less negative affect and more positive emotions like gratitude and peace—that buffer advocates against stress, promote adaptive functioning and enhance perceived control over life situations. Consistent practice matters, Van Cappellen et al. (2016, pp. 487, 498) report. “Through their involvement in religious and spiritual practices, believers may experience positive emotions on a weekly or even daily basis. This frequency may be crucial because [the effect] accumulates and compounds over time to build … personal and social resources.” While there is much to learn about the positive effect of spiritual practices, current evidence gives advocates confidence that the activities catalogued above can promote resilience and hope.

6. Conclusions

“It never ends,” my wife Jenna complains, “it just never ends!” For the third time in several months, I was summoned to advocacy—first, protesting a government plan to take millions of dollars away from already underfunded group homes; second, demanding a wage increase for poorly paid staff; third, dissenting from Illinois’ legal move to end the Ligas settlement despite being out of compliance. I felt like Sisyphus, the Greek figure doomed forever to push a boulder up a hill, only for it to roll back down.

This paper has argued two points. First, advocacy requires hope. Political activism is mediated by hope (Pedrotti 2017). Sandage et al. (2014, p. 69, slightly modified) report that without a “complex form of hope … it would not be possible to maintain the courage, resilience and dignity of selfhood necessary to work toward social justice in the face of … resistance … Mature hope is important for social justice activism because such work … can generate psychological risks for depression …, negative self-image, cynicism and fatalism.” Low-hope activists are liable to burn out, while those with high levels are more resilient. Second, hope requires cultivation through spiritual practice. Hope is “a practice,” Weingarten (2010, p. 8) insists, a “program of action” that expresses who we want to be and how we want to act. Christian activists should strengthen the fearful heart (Isa 35:3–4), seize hope (Heb 6:18), hold fast to it (Heb 10:23) and set their minds on it (1 Pet 1:13) so discouragement, hopelessness and resignation do not take hold. Through spiritual practices they can replenish their spirits.

Hope that God will bring about justice in history motivates advocacy. Activism, in turn, constitutes hope that God will bring about justice in history. Wolterstorff (2013, p. 241) puts it well: “Christian hope for the righting of injustice takes the form of working for the righting of injustice in the confidence that, in ways mysterious to us, Christ will make use, for the coming of the rule of justice in his Kingdom, of what we have done.” Advocacy is an act of hope. “Activism,” Solnit (2016, p. 24, emphasis added) adds, “can generate hope because it already constitutes an alternative” to injustice. Clifton (2018, p. 228) agrees: “in their persistent struggle for justice, advocates model the power of hope; that even though the obstacles seem to be overwhelming, the fight for a better future is worth persevering for.” Nothing is more critical to advocacy than vitality of hope—and nothing is more critical to sustaining hope than spiritual practice.