I do not think anyone who really knows me would ever mistake me for a glass-half-full type of girl.
But every so often I reserve that little bit of hope for something good; a fairy tale ending even though I have told myself a million times not to trust in such foolishness. In spite of what my logical mind tells me, I really do want to click together the heels of some imaginary ruby slippers and be transported to a happier place, knowing all the while I may very well remain in the clutches of wickedness.
I am not a stranger to the duality of God. The idea that Jesus had to die so that I may live forever is not lost on me. Losing one's life to save it. Giving in order to receive. It sometimes leaves me gasping for air as I try to figure out how to live without ever completely falling apart. How I am to have hope knowing that around the next bend absolute tragedy is not only waiting for me, but allowed to happen, becomes an unanswered question I carry around with me. A well-meaning person will then tell me that it all works together for my good. And that I am supposed to be grateful for the valuable lessons this hardship is going out of its way to teach me. With a forced smile, I will pretend to agree, all the while knowing that life is unfair. Everyone knows this.
Sometimes having hope at all seems to be a wasted effort.
It always begins the same way--these situations I find myself in that require me to have hope. I wonder if I am headed in the right direction or am pursuing a worthwhile goal. I make attempts to progress toward this new something and even though I should know better, I try to ignore the potential pitfalls. Maybe THIS time, I tell myself.
Maybe this time the next person whom I call friend will not abandon me. Maybe this next group of people are the ones we will grow old with. Maybe we will learn to trust each other within a faith community, working alongside each other to accomplish something worthwhile. Maybe an apology will be forthcoming and hearts that were once cold and hard will soften enough to make room for reconciliation. Maybe my own heart will not be completely shattered this time.
But I never know what will happen. I am not the one writing the script for an ever-changing cast of characters. I have to choose whether to engage in the life before me or to withdraw from it.
There was a time several years ago when I wondered why I should continue to go to church when I could worship God just fine on my own while walking through the woods or sitting in quiet reflection alone. I could, in fact, often worship better this way. I risked losing a sense of peace every time I walked into a house of worship and was met at the door with an endless list of needs existing in the hearts of all those in the seats. Expectations to participate would overwhelm me as I tried to navigate my way to the altar where I longed to be the kind of person who would sit at the feet of Jesus and learn of him without having all of the busyness cloud my vision.
I did not think I could go through it again: becoming a member of some new family of believers and trying to figure out what role I would play this time; deciding which parts of my story I was willing to tell. Maybe this time . . . .
A sermon about why one needs to go to church is inevitable and as I braced myself for the not-forsaking-the-fellowship part, I received a different message. Instead of something that sounded like a required directive, what I heard felt more like an invitation to a party; a celebration of life. I wasn't being handed a list of do's and don'ts, but was walking through an open door into a more spacious place in which I could find refuge and put down my guard for a few minutes. I could get back in touch with my early spiritual development and find healing. I would look at the stained glass depiction of the life of Jesus with new eyes. And light a candle for those in need, including myself.
Once a need is established, there is an opportunity for hope. If I say I have no need, I lie. But to admit to having a need is to risk not ever having that need met. I had been told that by focusing on the needs of others, my own needs would be satisfied. I wish it worked that way. I would, however, have to do the hard work that is required in seeking healing--not so I could then lead an isolated life, but so I would have something more to offer this community in which I had found myself. Little by little I would be offered new doors to walk through and more hands to hold. Restoration is a beautiful thing.
This time it will be different, I tell myself. This time. But people are still people; unrepentant and unyielding. Promises get broken along with fellowship that once seemed so long-lasting. Some of those previously open doors start to close while others are slammed shut. I see the smugness on the faces of those in my direct line of vision while sitting in a choir loft, another place I never thought I would be. I look to the pews where people I thought I knew used to sit. I consider how to go on from here.
Life happens. We move on for different reasons, but we all have to keep moving. There is no real stillness, at least not in the way I long for it. I am told that comes later, in the eternity that awaits us after this life of failed hope has ended. We will then join hands around an unimaginably large table and prepare to partake of the feast that will be offered to us. Once it begins, there will be no lack of sustenance and all will be fed. And no one will have to rush off to anything else or ever say good-bye. We will all be together. We will no longer need to hope for love, for Love will have found us.
But every so often I reserve that little bit of hope for something good; a fairy tale ending even though I have told myself a million times not to trust in such foolishness. In spite of what my logical mind tells me, I really do want to click together the heels of some imaginary ruby slippers and be transported to a happier place, knowing all the while I may very well remain in the clutches of wickedness.
I am not a stranger to the duality of God. The idea that Jesus had to die so that I may live forever is not lost on me. Losing one's life to save it. Giving in order to receive. It sometimes leaves me gasping for air as I try to figure out how to live without ever completely falling apart. How I am to have hope knowing that around the next bend absolute tragedy is not only waiting for me, but allowed to happen, becomes an unanswered question I carry around with me. A well-meaning person will then tell me that it all works together for my good. And that I am supposed to be grateful for the valuable lessons this hardship is going out of its way to teach me. With a forced smile, I will pretend to agree, all the while knowing that life is unfair. Everyone knows this.
Sometimes having hope at all seems to be a wasted effort.
It always begins the same way--these situations I find myself in that require me to have hope. I wonder if I am headed in the right direction or am pursuing a worthwhile goal. I make attempts to progress toward this new something and even though I should know better, I try to ignore the potential pitfalls. Maybe THIS time, I tell myself.
Maybe this time the next person whom I call friend will not abandon me. Maybe this next group of people are the ones we will grow old with. Maybe we will learn to trust each other within a faith community, working alongside each other to accomplish something worthwhile. Maybe an apology will be forthcoming and hearts that were once cold and hard will soften enough to make room for reconciliation. Maybe my own heart will not be completely shattered this time.
But I never know what will happen. I am not the one writing the script for an ever-changing cast of characters. I have to choose whether to engage in the life before me or to withdraw from it.
There was a time several years ago when I wondered why I should continue to go to church when I could worship God just fine on my own while walking through the woods or sitting in quiet reflection alone. I could, in fact, often worship better this way. I risked losing a sense of peace every time I walked into a house of worship and was met at the door with an endless list of needs existing in the hearts of all those in the seats. Expectations to participate would overwhelm me as I tried to navigate my way to the altar where I longed to be the kind of person who would sit at the feet of Jesus and learn of him without having all of the busyness cloud my vision.
I did not think I could go through it again: becoming a member of some new family of believers and trying to figure out what role I would play this time; deciding which parts of my story I was willing to tell. Maybe this time . . . .
A sermon about why one needs to go to church is inevitable and as I braced myself for the not-forsaking-the-fellowship part, I received a different message. Instead of something that sounded like a required directive, what I heard felt more like an invitation to a party; a celebration of life. I wasn't being handed a list of do's and don'ts, but was walking through an open door into a more spacious place in which I could find refuge and put down my guard for a few minutes. I could get back in touch with my early spiritual development and find healing. I would look at the stained glass depiction of the life of Jesus with new eyes. And light a candle for those in need, including myself.
Once a need is established, there is an opportunity for hope. If I say I have no need, I lie. But to admit to having a need is to risk not ever having that need met. I had been told that by focusing on the needs of others, my own needs would be satisfied. I wish it worked that way. I would, however, have to do the hard work that is required in seeking healing--not so I could then lead an isolated life, but so I would have something more to offer this community in which I had found myself. Little by little I would be offered new doors to walk through and more hands to hold. Restoration is a beautiful thing.
This time it will be different, I tell myself. This time. But people are still people; unrepentant and unyielding. Promises get broken along with fellowship that once seemed so long-lasting. Some of those previously open doors start to close while others are slammed shut. I see the smugness on the faces of those in my direct line of vision while sitting in a choir loft, another place I never thought I would be. I look to the pews where people I thought I knew used to sit. I consider how to go on from here.
Life happens. We move on for different reasons, but we all have to keep moving. There is no real stillness, at least not in the way I long for it. I am told that comes later, in the eternity that awaits us after this life of failed hope has ended. We will then join hands around an unimaginably large table and prepare to partake of the feast that will be offered to us. Once it begins, there will be no lack of sustenance and all will be fed. And no one will have to rush off to anything else or ever say good-bye. We will all be together. We will no longer need to hope for love, for Love will have found us.
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