It’s true. I’m a born again optimist.
Jim Carey was once quoted as saying, “And why not take a chance on faith, as well. Not religion, but faith. Not hope, but faith. I don’t believe in hope. Hope is a beggar. Hope walks through the fire and faith leaps over it.” While I agree with the essence of Carey’s words, I take some semantic umbrage with his personification of hope as a beggar.
First, some background. You see my faith, specifically in the overall potential of mankind, has always been – well – let’s just say less than enthusiastic. I often imagined that a day would come when we humans would have a destructive hand in some event or movement that would serve to hasten the demise of our entire species: war, environmental contamination, widespread viral contagion, etc. You know, something super sci-fi nifty and definitively annihilating. The long philosophical debate over humanity’s innate goodness or badness would finally be moot, and we would pass the torch of planetary stewardship on to a far kinder and more capable genus. Perhaps I would cast my dying vote for the dolphins. Unless of course we had done something to take them down with us.
That was my outlook before fatherhood. I was an HIV-positive, post-apocalyptic junkie who wanted to survive just long enough to witness the actual End of Days. On television I watched Six Feet Under, later The Walking Dead, and longed for more episodes of the documentary series, Life after People. I bristled and then scoffed at the mere mention of Jesus, and kept a copy of God is Not Great on my nightstand for bedtime reading. Basically I looked at the world around me as a huge cosmic experiment gone horribly wrong. And maintaining an emotional and spiritual detachment was easy for me back then, because my investment in the success or failure of the study was not very highly personal. Other than a few bleakly themed plays that I had written; a television pilot that I was peddling about the country’s first legally sanctioned euthanasia clinic; and a small but well-worn collection of Green Bay Packers’ ball caps, I would not personally be leaving behind anything of great importance.
And then came Hudson. You see, I had long thought that my ability to be a dad – much less a biological father, was nothing more than an impossible dream; an unheard prayer long-ignored in the ether of a quickly decaying world. Well, as it turned out, our crumbling cosmos had something tucked up its tricky sleeve. Big time. It delivered to me an out and out miracle. A child. My child.
A single dosage of this medication helps the person to respond to the stimulation irrespective of his age. buy generic levitra If the patient generic cialis mastercard takes tobacco or alcohol, then in that case you should take it at least half an hour before intercourse. Sadly, none of these claims are supported by science and environment. cialis online order It viagra online canada browse around this now is said to be the important factor.The very moment that my son was born, my entire paradigm was upended. An unfamiliar new infection infiltrated every emo cell in my HIV-positive, outlook-negative body. It was hope. And it was exhilarating. Holding that squalling, purple, innocent, flesh-bound, little human spirit – a life that I had helped create – I was overrun by a large-scale attack of unrestrained optimism. Don’t misunderstand. The powerful and pollyannaish new intruder did not altogether eradicate the long-residing darkness in its new host. No. Rather it moved in right along with it. Hope’s new home in my psyche was what you might call bad-attitude adjacent. Yes, hope happily settled into a cute little fixer-upper on the conspicuously vacant, sunny side of the street. And this cheerfully meddlesome new resident immediately began to challenge its austere and nasty neighbor at every turn. And it seems now more than ever, life in our hood is far from communal and rife with conflict.
So then, back to the words of Jim Carey. I agree. But only in part. Of hope and faith, it is faith that holds the higher ground. I concede. That specific observation is undeniable. And I expect someday that I will be standing wholly in league with the sincerely faithful – especially – for our children’s sake – in relation to my outlook on humanity’s precarious future. I would, however, not mistakenly characterize hope as a beggar. Not even one who can walk through fire. No. Hope is sometimes the very thing that makes faith possible. It is often the precursor, or the emissary of faith. I would therefore most certainly not cast hope as a beggar. It deserves a personification far more impactful. For example, I would be happier with Carey’s philosophy if it was slightly reimagined as follows, “And when you are ready, why not take a chance on faith. Not religion, but faith. And until your faith arrives, do not discount hope. Hope is a warrior. Hope marches through the fire until you find the faith to rise above it.” So, it is especially comforting for me in times like these, to hunker down with the power of hope. Until I am ready for faith to lift me up.
Indeed, for me the gifts of fatherhood have been priceless and many. But above them all, I most cherish the resilient and ever-strengthening gift of hope. It is because my child looks to me – that I must look anew every day at the world in which we both now live. When I decided to become a father I had no choice but to reinvest in the outcome of it all. Suddenly everything began to matter in a way that it never had before: the water from our faucets, a functioning postal system, the homeless on our streets, the freedoms of our extended human families, and the general wellbeing of all the many inhabitants in our world. Our world. From now until forever, I have to try and believe that humans will prevail in spite of themselves. I must. Because someday I will have no choice but to leave my son in their care. Unless of course when he hits puberty he miraculously sprouts fins and grows a blowhole. In which case, I may still suggest he go with the dolphins.
* Originally published by Gays With Kids, and subsequently published by the Good Men Project.
