On the Reality of Hope

I wrote this essay for a competition: "Why is it that what is seems to be often is not what is?" It became my personal processing of a hard, hard year. When it won, I was surprised. It is (at least I think) theologically, politically, and emotionally assertive about the very real problems happening at Gordon College. I thought this might be a good place to put it. 

Recently I found hope for Gordon College in a letter written in December of 1958 by Flannery O’Connor. O’ Connor writes: “All human nature vigorously resists grace because grace changes us and the change is painful”; and so this year our community has felt the pain of changing grace, of becoming more like Christ. From the perspective of a student trying her best to understand conflict and incite compromise, after two semesters full of letters, tweets, and overheard conversations, dialogue seems to be backlogged (or not, no one can even really agree on that). 

From any perspective—faculty to alumni to student—and no matter where you place the blame or responsibility, Gordon has undeniably felt strife this past year. The tension is at times tangible, and progress often seems unattainable. Just the suggestion of hope is frustrating—it feels bankrupt and shallow. Yet hope is the most important reality to be uncovered in this tumultuous time.

In his famed poem “Four Quartets,” in the passage for which this publication is named, T. S. Eliot writes: “At the still point of the turning world[;] Neither flesh nor fleshless; Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is.” At this still point, “where past and future are gathered,” is “the inner freedom from practical desire, the release from action and suffering . . . yet surrounded by a grace of sense.” 

Christ is the still point of our turning world that Eliot elucidates so gracefully. And so, Gordon as a community, and we as members of this community, must call back to Him and remember our hope. As the world turns and leaves us shaken and confused, as the presence of the past smashes into the reality of the future, Christ remains stable—the release from constant action and suffering, the grace of sense that surrounds us. As we find that Christian community often leads to disagreements and frustrations, we must not forget as we wrestle towards peace and truth that we can only find solid footing in Christ. Institutional growing pains are acts of grace in the life of our college; they are compelling us to a better sense of Truth and of each other. 

Often, during growing pains like these, I forget that Scripture has come before me. In 2 Corinthians, Paul commends the church to “not lose heart, though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day” because “the one who raised the Lord Jesus from the dead will also raise us.” The Gospel, the hope of resurrection and completion through Jesus, renews us from the inside out, although at times it looks like we are wasting away and renewal does not feel like what we would expect it to. The greatest act of grace was an act of suffering, Jesus’s death on the cross. Victory over the grave could only come after his entrance into the grave. 

In Romans, Paul writes, “suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.” I have always struggled to comprehend the transformation of suffering to hope. But, with the help of Flannery O’Connor, T. S. Eliot, and Gordon College, I have begun to realize that hope really “does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit.” Through His Spirit, through the very legitimate appearances of suffering and turmoil, we can find hope in a Lord who suffered to bring us painful, changing grace. To merely be critical or apathetic is lazy; to uncover hope is difficultly faithful.

This year has been a trying one, but I know that the reality of hope courses beneath the suffering. Suffering is a reality of the Christian life, but it is not the final reality. When we let suffering negate this final reality—the reality of hope—we insult the cross. We must dwell in our suffering with grace, not simply negate it for a shallow ‘hope’ but embrace it for the deep difficult reality of a hope that it is founded in the crucifixion. We must stop resisting grace because it is painful. Through tension there is unity and through argument there is compromise. At Christ, our still point, there the dance is.

Two-Ninths Life Crisis

For those of you that spent a long enough time with me last summer to ask me what my college major was, you got the brunt of my uncertainty.
Those of you that go to college with me and see me on a regular basis probably have no idea about the amount of angst that I went through to make the decision to continue at GCU.
And those of you that only sort of know me... Well you're probably surprised to hear that I wasn't a nursing major for a solid three months.

Sometime around finals last spring, I had a moment of intense fear.
Of course, being the person I am, I hid the fear. Any doubts that I had, I attributed to not truly being called to what I thought I was.
I'd been so sure of what God was calling me to do and all of the sudden, I didn't want to walk that direction anymore.
I was so afraid of finding out that I wasn't good enough or smart enough that I told everyone I'd changed my mind about what I wanted to do. I changed my major, changed my life goals, and I chose carefully the words that I decided to share with everyone.
Fear was not one of those words.
Doubt didn't make the list either.
True to my nature, I picked happy, fluffy, pretty explanations.
I even visited the career counselor and had them affirm that I needed to change my major.

When I got home, in between talks with parents and friends, I realized that even though Exercise Science would be fun, it still really wasn't what I wanted to do with my life.
I started struggling again, fearing for the things that were to come, but still managing to give a skillfully crafted answer about how I wasn't worried because everything was going to work out in the end.
Did I believe that everything would work out?
Hypothetically, yes.
Did I act like I believed everything would work out?
You betcha.
Did I think like I believed everything would work out?
Not on your life.

My decision became split between two completely different directions - staying in the Springs, going to UCCS, and studying nutrition; or changing my major back to nursing at GCU.
I've never been a big planner. I heard about GCU in February of my senior year, started seriously considering going there in March, and committed to it about a month before I graduated from high school.
So when asked what my plan was over and over by well-meaning friends and family, I gave whatever answer sounded the best at the moment. I didn't want to stop and take a moment and pray about what I was dealing with. I didn't ask for other's prayers, because I didn't want them to know how hard I was actually struggling with my decision. And when I actually sat down to have a conversation with God, I was shocked when He revealed to me the fear I'd been successfully hiding from myself.
And when I realized that every decision I made from April to July was made out of fear, I also realized that once again, I let my battle with God get to the point I wasn't even trusting Him anymore, but making a decision because he'd knocked down every argument I had, both the rational ones and the many irrational ones I had come up with.

I was accepted into the nursing program right before Thanksgiving, and started the first semester in January.
Nursing school is one of those things that no one can prepare you for. So I had no idea what I'd just gotten myself into when I walked into Pharmacology that Monday. I believe that I can say, with an exceptional amount of certainty, that the first week was the most stressful, exhausting week I've ever had, to the point I was falling asleep on the five-minute shuttle ride home from work. Everything was absolute chaos, the class as a whole was nervous about missing an assignment, asking teachers to clarify their expectations for our homework about five times each (I'm still convinced the answers changed every time).
But I can also say with even more certainty, I'm truly loving every second that I spend in nursing school, even though an "F" is anything below a 76% and even though we had tests weekly for two months. Even though you get to a point where you're only capable of holding an intelligent conversation with other nursing majors. Even though the second semester is more intense than the first, I've already ordered my books and I'm counting down the days until class starts again.

And so God (being His merciful and kind self) has taken the moment of fear I experienced over a year ago and lead me down this same path I had started on, but given me a whole new perspective. I'm now fully aware that my plans are not set in stone. In the grand scheme of things, it really doesn't matter what exactly I study or what I plan to do with my life; as long as I'm following God, I'll be headed the right direction.

On DIY Crafts and the Imago Dei

Last semester I took a class called Perspectives on Communications. Our conversation settled for a while on the topic of co-creation—a favorite of Dr. Cobbey and Madeleine L'Engle— about what it means to create things as creations of God. We make along side the Maker, a beautiful example of God working redemption through our hands and our minds. All things are made through Him, and sometimes He uses us to make them. 

While I planned to practice co-creating in Washington DC, constructing a healthy political environment in one fail swoop as a summer intern, I ended up in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina at Camp Merri-Mac teaching DIY crafts. 

This type of co-creation was much more literal than expected, it felt much more trite and I struggled to find the theological purpose of friendship bracelets and knick-knacks. A dear friend, wiser and craftier than I, a woman who sees the beauty of every small vignette she encounters, extolled the value of making small things. She encouraged me to see past the seemingly average activities I could be doing to find the truth of DIY crafts, to teach theology through macramé and modge-podge without uttering a Bible verse. 

I have recently been obsessed with the Imago Dei, turning every situation into an example of our image bearing, and she challenged me to do the same at camp but in action instead of in the scholarly commotion in which I encompass myself. Instead of just thinking and talking about being the Image of God, to participate actively in my kinship with Christ through making. 

As I prepared, this was the posture I took upon myself: I would teach skills and generosity, not make random crap. Somehow I would reveal co-creation to the 6 year old and the 16 year old alike. I would show them how valuable they were in the image of God and how beautiful God was—all with scissors and glue sticks. Yes, I would do this. 

Feebly, I attempted.  The last point of my safety talk, after "you better listen to me" and "don't eat the glue sticks," was less safety related and felt clichéd as I recited:"There are no mistakes here, everything you make is beautiful and if it isn’t it will be soon. We make things because God makes things and we are made in his image, so lets be a little more like Jesus and make some crafts.”This line, “let’s be a little more like Jesus and make some crafts” became something of a catch phrase that echoed in my head eight-safety talks later. It had stumbled out of my mouth the first time and I almost laughed at myself when it did, how silly I sounded. Yet, I reflected I realized it was an act of grace. God was teaching me about his image as I attempted to teach about his image. Because when we make crafts we are a little more like Jesus, who stood over the empty waters and made something out of nothing; so we stand over empty tables and we make things too. 

I had joked before leaving with that same beauty-finding friend, about preaching theology about co-creation over the girls as they made friendship bracelets. I felt foolish attempting to do so in my own power, during my safety talk and with the small life lessons I had to impart tied into cross-stitching knots. It seemed instead that I was being preached to, by their small hands and wild imaginations taking projects and making them art, useful and generous, recycled and restorative. 

To show a girl how something discarded can turn into something beautiful in her hands or to watch her face as she makes something promptly to give it away as a gift; to establish her by validating the products of her imagination or to empower her by showing her she can indeed conquer small frustrations— this is deep theology. 

For the ridged and uncreative perfectionist I am it has been not only deep but hard theology. To tell a room of fifteen girls that there are no mistakes is a difficult rule to maintain. It is much easier to look at something you think is gauche and attempt to push it to a cleaner aesthetic than to encourage the beauty of a six-year-old’s ingenuity. It is much easier to give up on the girl who just isn’t understanding the cross part of cross stitching than it is the keep repeating, “No, you are not bad at this, you just are not good yet. You will be good soon, so soon” as you untangle her knots. This became even harder as I worked along side them. I miscounted my long term cross stitching project and it turned out catawampus, to which I complained aloud, and to which a camper promptly replied “there are no mistakes in DIY crafts, Hannah!” Talk about deep and hard theology. 

To create a space where girls are not afraid to try anything because they know that there is no failing, a space where the things she thinks and makes are beautiful, is to create a space where God is present. God has been present, along side the North Carolina humidity, in the top room of an old barn with a tin roof where I make crafts four hours a day. 

There have been few times when I have seen the image of God more fully than in a first grader proudly explaining why she put which magazine cut-out pictures on her collage journal. There is power in creating things, power in expressing ourselves through simple making, by allowing the image of God in us to manifest itself through our hands. There have been few times when I have felt the empowering force of redemption more fully than when seeing a thirteen year old go from frustratedly making knots to enthusiastically tying anchoring the final cross-stitch on her monogram. Learning to create again has shown me how empowering redemption can be when we find it tangibly. The restoration of the Gospel is so easily found if you take the time to look. 

Augustine and Aquinas never revealed the truth of image bearing as well as four periods a day of DIY Crafts. I’ve never understood co-creation better than after a month of chopped magazine scrap sweeping, friendship bracelet string cutting, and small-eyed needle threading. I have seen the face of God so clearly in the motivated smiles, nimble hands, and wild minds of campers. Here’s to another month and a half of seeing so much more.  

-H

Sacramental

I didn't take Communion until I was 13. 

The Southern Baptist church I grew up in takes its sacraments seriously, although it does not call them that. Following an “evangelical salvation experience," believer’s baptism is the pinnacle act of a Southern Baptist childhood. You get saved, get baptized, and then you can take the Lord’s Supper. This was always understood, if you hadn’t been brave enough to step up in front of the church and say, “I’m saved only in the cross of Christ” and get dunked, then you didn’t get to sit at the Communion table.

My “evangelical salvation experience” left much to be desired—as it does for many church kids who grow up learning to accept Jesus into their hearts the same way they learn how to love their parents—but it still came a little later than my friends. The shame of being behind even applies to salvation in Sunday school classes. So, I forwent being baptized because a public declaration of salvation was a public declaration of being late to the party. This was something I had to work through, and doing so was a pivotal point of my spiritual growth. 

My church does Communion quarterly, my dad always told me this is because it is supposed to be special, not an every Sunday routine. The nice old, men ushers would walk slowly to the front, and we would all wait for the seemly lengthy amount of time it took to properly distribute the stacked silver plates. Then they went about systematically passing these silver stacks around until everyone has one pale little cracker and a centimeter of grape juice in a tiny thick plastic cup. We would sit quietly as the organ played and everyone passed. Then the men would make their way back up, and the pastor would read one of the standard passages about the night Jesus was betrayed. 

Before November of 2009, I would let the plate pass by me the fourth Sunday of every third month, embarrassed and concerned what everyone thought, but not as concerned as I was about taking Communion falsely, before I was fully committed.

Instead, I sat back and watched as everyone simultaneously threw their heads back to drink the grape juice blood out of the tiny thick plastic cup that would then be quickly stacked and slid into their church chair nook. There was so much unity in that movement. Many profess the unity of a single alter cup, the walk up and drink method; I profess the unity of the simultaneous throwing back of heads; the unity of chomping small round crackers together; the unity of the Sunday afternoon church family lunches at the fast-food restaurant across the street. Somehow in taking His Body, we become His Body. Somehow by being His Body, we find the joy of salvation more fully together.

I was 13 when I finally decided to look past the people I thought were looking at me and get baptized. The next Sunday I took communion for the first time. These two sacraments are so woven in my mind that they are hard to separate. My first communion wasn’t preceded by a class; I didn’t buy a new dress, no one knew it was momentous but me. When I finally partook I felt the unity of the body, not just the people surrounding me, but the greater body who called back to the beauty of a simple meal and a wooden cross and I cried to myself quietly. I felt the grafting in to the body of Christ then more tangibly than during my evangelical conversion or my Baptist dunking. The reality of God’s sacrifice resonated in me more deeply than ever after “take and drink” and before the benediction. 

Baptism was my public confession to God; Communion is God’s public confession to me. 

Then and still now I let the small cracker that had to have been purchased from some religious superstore roll around my tongue as I considered what it meant that Jesus was broken, broken and bruised and beat, for my sins. That truth snaps and sits dry in your throat, lingers in your mouth longer than you wished it would. It begs for something more. But then, then, I taste how sweet the small sip of juice is after a morning of forgotten breakfast. The blood from the cup of the covenant is sweet, it was hard and bitter and it flowed because of sin and for sin, but it is as sweet as poorly mixed grape juice concentrate on a Sunday morning. The little bit of juice is enough to wash down the brokenness of a dry cracker just as the blood washed down the pain of his broken body. It is the atonement being professed in the simplest way: sin has broken the bread and Christ has conquered with the cup. 

The Lord’s Supper is a physical reminder sitting in my stomach reminding me of the simple truth that holds me afloat. When I am flooded by confusion and doubt, when I lack the understanding I desire and feel disconnected from the truth, communion sits in my stomach and reminds me that salvation, the salvation of a confusing big God who mysteriously atoned for the sins of the world on a cross, is as easy as a cracker and a sip of juice.

When I got to college people started telling me I didn't understand the sacraments because I had never called them that before, because I didn't know the word Eucharist and didn't want to take the wine at Anglican Church they said I didn't know the mystery of the body and the blood. It was embarrassing the first time I crossed my arms at the Episcopal alter on a Sunday visit. When I got back to the pew and my friends asked me why I hadn’t received, I just shrugged my shoulders and pretended I wasn’t ashamed of my ingrained Southern Baptist discomfort with alcohol. That Eucharist wouldn’t have been the sacramental promise that God and I had worked out; it would have just been my first drink of watered-down wine. 

I have thought deeply and felt fully what it means to take the body and blood—this doesn’t change because I don’t agree with the doctrines of substantiation and don’t particularly prefer using pita bread and wine. It makes me nervous to consider that people think my quarterly cracker and grape juice aren’t sacred. They are deeply sacred to me and they call back to my baptism and my salvation. They remind me how unable I am to save myself. Communion is deeply personal and deeply communal, it is a mystery—a mystery I know full well.

The Lord’s Supper is a call. To remember—remember the truth of a savior who atoned for sin. Who loved and professed Himself through community and a meal, through the simplicity of bread and cup and the mystery of the metaphor they represent. To remember the love of a convent that was created, fulfilled, and made new by a God so big, gracious, and just we cannot wrap our heads around Him. This covenant that was impossible for me to complete, it provides God to me even though I can’t do my part. The blood of Jesus came and fulfilled that covenant for me. It tore the veil that separated me and let the light of salvation pour down on me, and so I get to sit and drink it in like grape juice. 

These are my sacraments; they are God being real to me because of my being real to God. 

a letter to my future daughter/a letter to myself/things I need to get off my chest

I've had a lot of things on my mind lately.
Things I want to make sure my daughter,
if I ever have one,
understands.
Things I need to hear,
and that I'm still working to understand.
Things that have been bearing down on my chest 
and rolling around on my tongue.
About the warped world view 
that I've always legalistically held myself to
that I'm beginning to walk out of:
a view on modesty that tells me my body 
is just something to cover up with clothes,
and purity that tells me completeness 
comes from the ring on my finger,
and relationships that tells me
it's alright for anyone but Jesus
to claim personal ownership over my heart.
About the little idolatries I find 
laced in my personal culture.
And I know that this blog post isn't going to cover
all of the nuances and points that need to be discussed
but it's just a few things I think should be said,
all with a heaping dose of grace.
So here's a letter, I guess, 
to the future daughter who I may not have
or to any daughter, I guess,
or really just to myself.

---

Dear daughters and sisters and lovers of Jesus,

Let's talk about modesty.
Sure we can talk about clothes, 
if you want.
And hemlines and brastraps,
if you want.
But, actually,
I'm incredibly sick of the idea 
that modesty is about what you're wearing.
A cultural concept that turns women (but never men) 
into mere visual objects
who are responsible for the sin and folly of their brothers,
capable of being judged at a glance.
Refuse to accept this modesty culture.
Instead of letting what you wear define your identity
Every morning look in the mirror and ask yourself:
Is your heart as modest as your dress?
Are you looking to be noticed or to notice?
Are you dressing for yourself or someone else?
Does someone look at you and say:
"Man she has so much respect and love for herself and everyone around her and her Creator?"
What about beyond your clothes?
Is your attitude that of a servant who cares deeply and loves unconditionally and wants to be like Jesus?
Is your spirit tuned to God's ear?
Do you take the very nature of a servant 
like you are called to in Philippians?
That body is this incredible awesome valuable gift.
It can swim and jump and dance and kick.
It holds a beautiful magnificent reflective heart and mind and soul.
It was perfectly formed in your mothers womb 
and God said it was very good.
Go read 1 Corinthians 6:19-20
and think about it real hard.
God is dwelling in that body,
in those clothes.
Are you treating it with the respect it deserves?
Are you dressing it in a way that recognizes 
that you have some pretty freaking precious cargo?

Modesty culture's BFF is purity culture.
And yeah, 
purity is pretty rad,
in it's right context.
But we have this terrible way of making it all about 
sex, sex, sex.
About saving your self 
and the virtuous true love, waiting away.
Not only does this purity culture often breed deep hurt and fear,
without room for mistakes without heavy shame,
or even healthy boundaries and relationship growth,
but it perpetuates the idea 
that marriage is somehow the goal of it all,
or that sex is the goal of it all.
But I mean they go together, right?
So we put on rings that we buy for our thirteen year-old selves
at the Christian bookstore
(or maybe that was just me)
and write long sweet middle school letters to the husband
we have no idea actually exists or not
(just me again?).
And so your ring finger determine your wholeness
and "Dear Future Husband" keeps your heart on hold.
But that seems pretty messed up, 
if you think about it,
because,
No one determines your wholeness but Jesus.
And your life should never be put on hold.
You are capable of loving Jesus 
fully and completely and deeply 
all by yourself.
Actually you can only love Jesus 
fully and completely and deeply 
when it starts by yourself.
Then you get to add beautiful things like community,
and friends,
and maybe Mr. Right Husband man 
who wrote letters to you too;
who you can live a cool adventurous life with 
and who can push you to love Jesus more together.
But those things will let you down.
Jesus will not.
Those things might not come.
Jesus already is.
Purity culture creates this idea 
that your life is in the waiting
for some magic other half 
who's going to come and make everything start.
For a wedding day 
that somehow changes everything.
Well, guess what, it's already started,
and you're going to miss out 
on the fullness of life right now.
Don't get me wrong
You are called to be pure,
but not just to keep your legs closed
and not hold hands with anyone
But to be pure in your actions and your thoughts
and to think about holy, glorifying beautiful things 
and do them.
To read Philippians 4:8 and actually live it
Don't ever let anyone lead you to believe 
that purity is just about sex.
Don't ever let anyone lead you to believe 
that purity is anything less 
than being like Jesus.

Finally, let's talk about relationships.
Because somehow,
the idea that a father is the proprietor of his daughter
has persisted through dowries and radicalism
and is still a normal thing that people are just cool with.
There are applications and conversations where
ownership is the overtone,
and the trustworthy human soul of a daughter
is stifled by the men claiming "over her."
So daughters, 
Work to be strong headed and wise.
Respect your parents, both of them,
but do not let them take 
the freedom and identity you find in Christ.
Trust that you love Jesus enough to know who doesn't; 
that you make wise decisions that benefit you and your future.
If anyone thinks that he can come and ask your father for you,
look him in the eyes 
and ask him how many camels he's going to bring
and then tell him 
that he should probably stay away from you for a long time.
When you're old enough to be thinking 
about things like dating and marriage,
you are responsible for yourself,
and your decisions,
and your affiliations,
and your relationship with Jesus, 
and your relationship with others.
No one else is but you.
Because you are not an object to be had.
You are not a prize to be won,
a treasure to be conquered,
or a transaction to be made.
You are a beautiful,
brilliant human being
made in the Image of a beautiful,
brilliant Creator 
Anyone who truly loves you will treat you like it.
Refuse to be treated as anything less than that;
refuse to treat anyone else as anything less than that.
You are God's.
Period.
No one else's.
No husband, parent, or communist dictator.
So sure, accept blessings but never let anyone try to issue you permission.
You will make mistakes
and get hurt.
Learn from them;
love in them.
Let your relationships draw you to God.

Please, don't idolize modesty.
Please, don't idolize purity. 
Please, don't idolize relationships.
You deserve more 
than to believe the lies culture is trying to feed you. 
God has deeper plans for all of those things 
than to oppress you and make your heart ache. 
Find the beauty of Jesus 
by seeking to have a heart that's modest and humble and willing to serve. 
Find the beauty of Jesus
by working with fear and trembling to to make yourself full of things that are right and true and pure.
Find the beauty of Jesus 
by refusing to let anyone cheat you of your freedom in Him.
Use modesty and purity and relationships
as tools to pull you deeper into God.
Anything less isn't worth it.

-H

i am//

I am still in the making.
I am ugly rouge clay whipping around a wheel,
large hands slowly shaping me 
into a respectable form that will have some use:
to quench a thirst 
or hold some daffodils.
But right now I am only just a lump of clay, 
spinning fast on a wobbly platform,
splashing water and making a mess,
still mostly disoriented.
I am being pushed hard into shape by my Maker,
getting bent in ways I am not sure I want to get bent, 
stretching in ways I did not know I could stretch,
but being molded for my good.
Slowly, a form is starting to emerge;
glimpses of purpose come into view.
I am not yet who I will be,
I am changing, I am becoming.
I am getting there.