One of my first opportunities to talk about my faith within a secular environment came while I was at work. I was on break, maybe at lunch in the break room, and the only other person at work who was my age was also there. We'll call her Melissa.
So Melissa and I were chatting. I was thinking then of going to law school, and she was thinking of going back to graduate school to study something like social work. We were talking about the future and where we were heading. Turns out that she almost went to law school, and I was a social work major for a very short time during undergrad. I asked her why she didn't want to go to law school. Then she asked me why I decided not to do social work.
And I remember really clearly that I told Melissa the story of how God had brought some emotional healing into my life. The reason I didn't go into social work is because I think that true life-change and healing comes within true community relationships with people who really know you--at least, that's been my experience. While I think there's a reason for the clinical setting in many cases, I've had the blessing of a rich spiritually-based community where the people around me are challenging me and helping me to grow. And no matter how much a professional listens to you, she doesn't really offer unconditional love. And I told her how my friends had offered that and how much it changed my life. I told her how I believed that God met me through that community in some really difficult times.
It was a really simple conversation. We didn't end by talking about church or God or Jesus, even. But that conversation opened the door to talking about faith and spiritual things - for both her and me. And as time went on, we did talk about a lot of deeply spiritual topics, and she initiated many of them.
Conversations about the spiritual are natural. We're spiritual beings, and if that part of your life is important to you, it's very natural that it will come out during some conversations. The first step toward spiritual conversations for me, though, has consistently been to share something from my own life. I never start with a list of all the beliefs I hold. I don't start by making judgmental comments about how horrible the world is or how someone's actions are "sinful" or even "wrong." I don't even really talk about the fact that I'm a Christian.
Instead, the natural bridge for me has been talking about something God has done in my life or talking about why I've made some of the choices I've made. And because that sharing comes as a natural part of a relationship, I've been able to continue walking beside people as a friend and sometime spiritual mentor over a long time.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Thursday, December 2, 2010
The power of story
About 2 years ago now, I sensed that I needed to get away from the craziness of life for a week and go to this little place of prayer called The Hermitage in Three Rivers, Michigan. It's a place where they practice the discipline of silence and you have time and space to just meet with God.
I'd been somewhat avoiding having such extended time with my own thoughts. My brother had been diagnosed with cancer that year, and I'd spent a lot of the year just trying to survive. I can't even explain now what the realization of his mortality did to me emotionally. He's the only person who experienced life with me in that way - we grew up in the states, and then left with our family to move overseas when I was 13 and he was 11. The thought of not having someone in the world who understands that life experience was horrifying to me. But I think I only cried about it once, and then I proceeded to take care of everyone - him, my sister-in-law, myself. My parents were still gone, you see, living overseas. So taking care of everything fell on me.
I'd spent a lot of years before that surviving too. The moving back and forth overseas and losing all important relationships made it hard for me to be able to open up and risk needing other people around. Inevitably, they would leave or I would leave. It doesn't help that I have a passion for and an interest in the world, so virtually all of my friends are forever jet-setting around, spending a year in this country or that one. I had finally come to a place of healthy interdependence within a community, and then once again I was headed toward survival. And for me, that means shutting everything off - all emotions, all relationships - and just walking through life. I was well on my way toward doing that again. And what I've noticed about life is that if you hold on to a pattern like that long enough, it becomes very difficult to undo.
So away I went, to the Hermitage. I took a stack of books from the library - spiritual books, devotionals. I took my guitar, my journal, my Bible. And I went and I stayed in a tiny cabin in the woods. And I had space and time to listen. When I got to the cabin, I found some books sitting in the desk. One of them was CS Lewis's "Till we have faces." When I got tired of reading "serious" books, I picked that one up. And I was engrossed. Here was a story about a person whose whole world had fallen apart. I read and I read, and then I got to the part where she is led to the room to read her charges against the god in the story.
And I stopped. And I cried. And I finally made the choice to be real about my own "charges" against God - about my questions about whether he is good and whether he will provide for us. My refusal to admit those questions, even to myself, had created a barrier between myself and God, and probably myself and other people. Once I said those words out loud, I was able to hear the truth from Scripture about who God actually is.
And that's the power of story. I don't know if there's anything else that would have unlocked my barriers to relationship with God, because I'm not sure that I even knew they were there. Reading the story and feeling the character's pain and walking with her through her own experience allowed me to draw parallels with my own life and allowed God to bring me to a place of willingness to be real with where I was at.
So part of the reason I believe so strongly that story is a way to engage with people's barriers to faith and trust is because that's what worked in my own life. That's what spoke to my own barriers and allowed me to move forward and take a risk to speak and to trust. I don't think it would have been half as powerful for someone to just look at me and say "Anna, you're obviously not trusting God right now." And how many people were there who I would have trusted to speak into my life anyway? I was basically emotionally removed from everyone and everything.
Story is nonthreatening. Story is compelling. Story gives people a chance to absorb truth in a way that it never will be absorbed when it's communicated through declarative statements.
For example, which was more compelling to you? The last paragraph of this post? Or the story I just told about myself?
I'd been somewhat avoiding having such extended time with my own thoughts. My brother had been diagnosed with cancer that year, and I'd spent a lot of the year just trying to survive. I can't even explain now what the realization of his mortality did to me emotionally. He's the only person who experienced life with me in that way - we grew up in the states, and then left with our family to move overseas when I was 13 and he was 11. The thought of not having someone in the world who understands that life experience was horrifying to me. But I think I only cried about it once, and then I proceeded to take care of everyone - him, my sister-in-law, myself. My parents were still gone, you see, living overseas. So taking care of everything fell on me.
I'd spent a lot of years before that surviving too. The moving back and forth overseas and losing all important relationships made it hard for me to be able to open up and risk needing other people around. Inevitably, they would leave or I would leave. It doesn't help that I have a passion for and an interest in the world, so virtually all of my friends are forever jet-setting around, spending a year in this country or that one. I had finally come to a place of healthy interdependence within a community, and then once again I was headed toward survival. And for me, that means shutting everything off - all emotions, all relationships - and just walking through life. I was well on my way toward doing that again. And what I've noticed about life is that if you hold on to a pattern like that long enough, it becomes very difficult to undo.
So away I went, to the Hermitage. I took a stack of books from the library - spiritual books, devotionals. I took my guitar, my journal, my Bible. And I went and I stayed in a tiny cabin in the woods. And I had space and time to listen. When I got to the cabin, I found some books sitting in the desk. One of them was CS Lewis's "Till we have faces." When I got tired of reading "serious" books, I picked that one up. And I was engrossed. Here was a story about a person whose whole world had fallen apart. I read and I read, and then I got to the part where she is led to the room to read her charges against the god in the story.
And I stopped. And I cried. And I finally made the choice to be real about my own "charges" against God - about my questions about whether he is good and whether he will provide for us. My refusal to admit those questions, even to myself, had created a barrier between myself and God, and probably myself and other people. Once I said those words out loud, I was able to hear the truth from Scripture about who God actually is.
And that's the power of story. I don't know if there's anything else that would have unlocked my barriers to relationship with God, because I'm not sure that I even knew they were there. Reading the story and feeling the character's pain and walking with her through her own experience allowed me to draw parallels with my own life and allowed God to bring me to a place of willingness to be real with where I was at.
So part of the reason I believe so strongly that story is a way to engage with people's barriers to faith and trust is because that's what worked in my own life. That's what spoke to my own barriers and allowed me to move forward and take a risk to speak and to trust. I don't think it would have been half as powerful for someone to just look at me and say "Anna, you're obviously not trusting God right now." And how many people were there who I would have trusted to speak into my life anyway? I was basically emotionally removed from everyone and everything.
Story is nonthreatening. Story is compelling. Story gives people a chance to absorb truth in a way that it never will be absorbed when it's communicated through declarative statements.
For example, which was more compelling to you? The last paragraph of this post? Or the story I just told about myself?
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
The culture of crime
I sat in court this morning and watched a judge berate a father for spanking his 8-year-old kid with a belt. The judge said, "I would never, ever consider hitting my child with a belt." The father said back to the judge, "I'm trying to make my child into a good man, so he's not pulling up to a drive-through restaurant with a gun in his hand, asking for all the cash."
One of the most difficult things for me to deal with as a criminal defense attorney is the lack of cultural understanding within the system. There are lots of reasons that our system is unjust, but this is one that is really hard for me.
The law is written by the representatives of the majority. These are people who have to weigh was is good, what is bad, and how to govern society as a whole. This is necessary and important work. But the world that I'm from is a minority world. The urban culture is a whole different culture, where survival is dependent on presenting an invincible image, where my safety depends on whether you're more afraid of me than I am of you. The urban culture does not mesh well with the majority culture. On so many levels, what is required of an urban person for survival is against the law.
Setting aside questions of morality (like whose culture is morally correct), this creates a situation where my clients can never win. They will not survive their home life or their neighborhood walks without acting in one way. But acting in that way sets them at odds with the law. As a result, they face the attendant financial and social penalties that further separate them from the majority culture.
Going back to the father in my story, I wouldn't be surprised if the father is right, that the only way he can prevent his son from going criminal is to physically discipline his child. In his culture, this is the only way to communicate discipline. Is it ideal? No. Is it causing the child damage? Maybe--I don't know because I wasn't there. But the father's reaction may be the lesser of many evils that are possible. I don't advocate for situational ethics. But I do wish that there was some way that the father's perspective could be legitimized. He has very real fears and concerns that society is not helping him to solve in a socially acceptable way. So he's left with a domestic violence charge on his record, hundreds of dollars of court costs that he's unable to pay, and a criminal record for violence.
Is this really justice? I understand the need for rules and laws that govern societal behavior. I understand the desire to protect children from abuse. In fact, I'm a huge advocate for that in many arenas of my life. But I do want to cry out against the perception that just because this is what the majority has deemed correct, the people who choose to do otherwise for their own good reasons are somehow different than "us". He's just the same as everyone else. Many times criminal behavior does not indicate that someone is a reprehensible or morally stunted person.
One of the most difficult things for me to deal with as a criminal defense attorney is the lack of cultural understanding within the system. There are lots of reasons that our system is unjust, but this is one that is really hard for me.
The law is written by the representatives of the majority. These are people who have to weigh was is good, what is bad, and how to govern society as a whole. This is necessary and important work. But the world that I'm from is a minority world. The urban culture is a whole different culture, where survival is dependent on presenting an invincible image, where my safety depends on whether you're more afraid of me than I am of you. The urban culture does not mesh well with the majority culture. On so many levels, what is required of an urban person for survival is against the law.
Setting aside questions of morality (like whose culture is morally correct), this creates a situation where my clients can never win. They will not survive their home life or their neighborhood walks without acting in one way. But acting in that way sets them at odds with the law. As a result, they face the attendant financial and social penalties that further separate them from the majority culture.
Going back to the father in my story, I wouldn't be surprised if the father is right, that the only way he can prevent his son from going criminal is to physically discipline his child. In his culture, this is the only way to communicate discipline. Is it ideal? No. Is it causing the child damage? Maybe--I don't know because I wasn't there. But the father's reaction may be the lesser of many evils that are possible. I don't advocate for situational ethics. But I do wish that there was some way that the father's perspective could be legitimized. He has very real fears and concerns that society is not helping him to solve in a socially acceptable way. So he's left with a domestic violence charge on his record, hundreds of dollars of court costs that he's unable to pay, and a criminal record for violence.
Is this really justice? I understand the need for rules and laws that govern societal behavior. I understand the desire to protect children from abuse. In fact, I'm a huge advocate for that in many arenas of my life. But I do want to cry out against the perception that just because this is what the majority has deemed correct, the people who choose to do otherwise for their own good reasons are somehow different than "us". He's just the same as everyone else. Many times criminal behavior does not indicate that someone is a reprehensible or morally stunted person.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Memory as Hope
So on Sunday I was laying down, impatiently waiting for my back to heal, and I popped in the 3rd Lord of the Rings movie. I'd recently seen the 2nd one when our symphony did a live performance of the music with the movie. I was preparing to share with our church planting team about hope that evening, so I was watching the movie with thoughts of hope in mind.
I got to the part of the movie where Sam and Frodo are headed through the wilderness, finally abandoned by Gollum, and they are worn and ragged. The journey has been long and difficult beyond belief. They keep putting one foot in front of the other, but they struggle to do even that. At one point, Frodo sort of collapses. Sam stands there and looks at him, concerned, as always. And then he starts to talk to Frodo, "Do you remember the Shire, Frodo?" And he paints a picture of all the things that they left behind, all the things that they remember, all the things that they think are worth fighting for.
How powerful.
I thought of that in the context of the eternal story that we are living in the midst of. We often think of hope as something to reach for that has no basis in reality, that has never happened before, that we can only just picture the possibility of. But I think that we also have memory of something that's good and right and perfect that we still long for. And the fact that it existed before actually can instill hope in us that we can find that again.
One of the most powerful aspects of the story of God is that there is hope for healing and restoration and re-creation. We have a picture of what that was like - oh so briefly - in the first chapter of Genesis. Where all relationships were right and good, where people and God walked together, and where work was not the toil it is today.
When I'm physically suffering, attempting to counsel suicidal clients to get help, watching those around me physically or emotionally hurting, it's so easy to see just those things. It's easy to see the problems and to be overwhelmed by them. But the memory of the garden gives me hope that, through the power of Jesus and the work of the Spirit, re-creation is possible. And not only is it possible, it will happen. Someday.
I got to the part of the movie where Sam and Frodo are headed through the wilderness, finally abandoned by Gollum, and they are worn and ragged. The journey has been long and difficult beyond belief. They keep putting one foot in front of the other, but they struggle to do even that. At one point, Frodo sort of collapses. Sam stands there and looks at him, concerned, as always. And then he starts to talk to Frodo, "Do you remember the Shire, Frodo?" And he paints a picture of all the things that they left behind, all the things that they remember, all the things that they think are worth fighting for.
How powerful.
I thought of that in the context of the eternal story that we are living in the midst of. We often think of hope as something to reach for that has no basis in reality, that has never happened before, that we can only just picture the possibility of. But I think that we also have memory of something that's good and right and perfect that we still long for. And the fact that it existed before actually can instill hope in us that we can find that again.
One of the most powerful aspects of the story of God is that there is hope for healing and restoration and re-creation. We have a picture of what that was like - oh so briefly - in the first chapter of Genesis. Where all relationships were right and good, where people and God walked together, and where work was not the toil it is today.
When I'm physically suffering, attempting to counsel suicidal clients to get help, watching those around me physically or emotionally hurting, it's so easy to see just those things. It's easy to see the problems and to be overwhelmed by them. But the memory of the garden gives me hope that, through the power of Jesus and the work of the Spirit, re-creation is possible. And not only is it possible, it will happen. Someday.
Monday, November 29, 2010
The substance of hope
Last night we had the first advent conversation for the church plant I'm part of. We talked about the first advent topic, which is the hope of things to come. Although I would typically think of the beginning of the advent season as hope and expectation for the coming of the Messiah, the passages that we were looking at were all about hope for the 2nd coming of the Messiah.
So the question that I posed to the group is what is the nature of the hope that we have to offer ourselves and to the world?
In my daily life, brushing shoulders with all kinds of people in all kinds of places, there's a marked absence of hope. There's a feeling that the world is not as it should be, and the imperfections of the world around us seem to take center stage in conversation. Whether it's the economy (Michigan's is still really, really awful), the reality of an possibility of war, or the complete breakdown of our social relationships, people are living without hope.
In Isaiah 2, there's a really hopeful passage of Scripture where Isaiah talks about the end of time, when weapons will be given up for tools of peace. Isaiah was speaking into a culture of instability and fear that is similar to where we are today, though the invasion of military forces was imminent for Judah. But the hope that he mentioned was all in the future - the very distant future. After reading, my question remained - what is the substance of hope that God offers today? Is it just the hope of a future world where everything will be put right?
Because I'm not sure that hope actually really resonates with the people in my world. The response I feel is the response of "so what? How does that even remotely relate to my life right now and all of my current problems? How does that put bread on the table or get me out of an abusive situation?"
As we talked about this as a community, I think we uncovered that there's a duality of hope that is offered. Yes, there is hope for the future making-right-of-all things. But there is also a way in which the body of Christ, the church, is to be an agent of hope and change in the world right now. How do I know that the future restoration of all things is coming? Because I am being restored - not just by personal healing, but by being a part of a transforming and transformative community.
If I can say that I am being restored, recreated in God's image, being made a better person who makes better choices by the power of the Spirit in my life, then it's easier to hope for the ultimate restoration of all things. If I'm part of a community that is transforming the culture around it, not in a damaging or disrespectful way, but in a way that reaches out and meets actual needs, perhaps it is easier to believe in the possibility of recreation.
So the question that I posed to the group is what is the nature of the hope that we have to offer ourselves and to the world?
In my daily life, brushing shoulders with all kinds of people in all kinds of places, there's a marked absence of hope. There's a feeling that the world is not as it should be, and the imperfections of the world around us seem to take center stage in conversation. Whether it's the economy (Michigan's is still really, really awful), the reality of an possibility of war, or the complete breakdown of our social relationships, people are living without hope.
In Isaiah 2, there's a really hopeful passage of Scripture where Isaiah talks about the end of time, when weapons will be given up for tools of peace. Isaiah was speaking into a culture of instability and fear that is similar to where we are today, though the invasion of military forces was imminent for Judah. But the hope that he mentioned was all in the future - the very distant future. After reading, my question remained - what is the substance of hope that God offers today? Is it just the hope of a future world where everything will be put right?
Because I'm not sure that hope actually really resonates with the people in my world. The response I feel is the response of "so what? How does that even remotely relate to my life right now and all of my current problems? How does that put bread on the table or get me out of an abusive situation?"
As we talked about this as a community, I think we uncovered that there's a duality of hope that is offered. Yes, there is hope for the future making-right-of-all things. But there is also a way in which the body of Christ, the church, is to be an agent of hope and change in the world right now. How do I know that the future restoration of all things is coming? Because I am being restored - not just by personal healing, but by being a part of a transforming and transformative community.
If I can say that I am being restored, recreated in God's image, being made a better person who makes better choices by the power of the Spirit in my life, then it's easier to hope for the ultimate restoration of all things. If I'm part of a community that is transforming the culture around it, not in a damaging or disrespectful way, but in a way that reaches out and meets actual needs, perhaps it is easier to believe in the possibility of recreation.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Vulnerability is a good thing
So I injured my back this weekend and all of my lower back muscles have seized up. I can barely move, so I'm laying here, flat on my back, trying not to move. Besides preventing all activity (except reading and writing, I guess), this problem gives me the opportunity to think.
What I'm thinking about this morning is the importance of vulnerability in building relationships with other people. One of the biggest problems that I see with the way I was taught to share faith in my childhood was that I was sharing from a position of power. Maybe a better way to say this is that I was sharing with the belief that I had something to offer the world. I was untouchable - all my problems had been solved, my life was perfect, and in order for people to have the same experience, they just had to believe the same way that I did. I'm sure this wasn't the intention of the people who taught me, but it seems like the approaches I was taught lend themselves to that sort of attitude. It's like you're expected to share from a platform or a soapbox.
But that's not really the real world. Real people have problems. The minute I portray that my life is perfect, I take myself and my faith out of the realm of the possible. Not allowing myself to be vulnerable or need something from other people automatically limits the depth to which I can reach their hearts.
So something I've learned is to allow my needs and vulnerabilities to be an opportunity to invite people deeper into my life. This isn't natural for me, given my life experience. I am much more comfortable being self-sufficient. But self-sufficiency is actually unattainable. Having needs to be met by other people is part of the human condition and it's a really powerful way to build community with people. And it's in that kind of community that I think conversations about faith are most impacting.
What I'm thinking about this morning is the importance of vulnerability in building relationships with other people. One of the biggest problems that I see with the way I was taught to share faith in my childhood was that I was sharing from a position of power. Maybe a better way to say this is that I was sharing with the belief that I had something to offer the world. I was untouchable - all my problems had been solved, my life was perfect, and in order for people to have the same experience, they just had to believe the same way that I did. I'm sure this wasn't the intention of the people who taught me, but it seems like the approaches I was taught lend themselves to that sort of attitude. It's like you're expected to share from a platform or a soapbox.
But that's not really the real world. Real people have problems. The minute I portray that my life is perfect, I take myself and my faith out of the realm of the possible. Not allowing myself to be vulnerable or need something from other people automatically limits the depth to which I can reach their hearts.
So something I've learned is to allow my needs and vulnerabilities to be an opportunity to invite people deeper into my life. This isn't natural for me, given my life experience. I am much more comfortable being self-sufficient. But self-sufficiency is actually unattainable. Having needs to be met by other people is part of the human condition and it's a really powerful way to build community with people. And it's in that kind of community that I think conversations about faith are most impacting.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
On the other side
I've only ever been prostelytzed to one time. It wasn't religious, actually. It was a hard-pitch sales job related to a book/philosophy that a family'd bought into. I went to lunch with a friend and her mom. They came armed with this book and a folder full of information. It was weird.
We were going along, having nice conversation, when all of a sudden, the agenda came up. In the context of this nice lunch, all of a sudden they were explaining to me why this approach to life was so wonderful and all the different things it could help solve.
They were careful not to pressure me. They said it would be fine if I didn't want the book or the materials. But they'd clearly bought into it and were now trying to pass it on.
I couldn't help but think right then about all the people Christians share with about the gospel. I'm sure many times, we make people feel just that same way - a little awkward, maybe offended. What was really weird was that I hadn't asked for this information. I didn't see that I needed it. My own approach to life was working just fine for me, thank you very much.
It felt so much different than it would have had I had a problem I couldn't solve and had asked for help. It felt so much different than it would have if she'd just been telling me her story one day, or about something that had happened to her, and how this helped her.
I would like to say that I've never made anyone feel like that before. But I'm sure that's not true. I think it happens when I have an agenda, or when my message doesn't really relate to the context I'm in.
I think there are a lot of different ways to talk about faith. I have conversations about faith with my friends who don't have faith or have faith in different things. I even challenge the pants off the people around me to live lives totally surrendered to God. But the only time I've seen it bearing the kind of fruit I'm looking for (better communication between us, a deeper openness to God and his ways) is when it's within the context of relationship and actually relevant to what's going on and what's being talked about.
We were going along, having nice conversation, when all of a sudden, the agenda came up. In the context of this nice lunch, all of a sudden they were explaining to me why this approach to life was so wonderful and all the different things it could help solve.
They were careful not to pressure me. They said it would be fine if I didn't want the book or the materials. But they'd clearly bought into it and were now trying to pass it on.
I couldn't help but think right then about all the people Christians share with about the gospel. I'm sure many times, we make people feel just that same way - a little awkward, maybe offended. What was really weird was that I hadn't asked for this information. I didn't see that I needed it. My own approach to life was working just fine for me, thank you very much.
It felt so much different than it would have had I had a problem I couldn't solve and had asked for help. It felt so much different than it would have if she'd just been telling me her story one day, or about something that had happened to her, and how this helped her.
I would like to say that I've never made anyone feel like that before. But I'm sure that's not true. I think it happens when I have an agenda, or when my message doesn't really relate to the context I'm in.
I think there are a lot of different ways to talk about faith. I have conversations about faith with my friends who don't have faith or have faith in different things. I even challenge the pants off the people around me to live lives totally surrendered to God. But the only time I've seen it bearing the kind of fruit I'm looking for (better communication between us, a deeper openness to God and his ways) is when it's within the context of relationship and actually relevant to what's going on and what's being talked about.
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