Tag Archives: hope

silence and selfhood

By the end of the first week of classes, I am in tears. Half of my conversations make it obvious that I am a woman in a man’s world, or at least a man’s program. The other half of my conversations make it clear that I am no longer fully a student; my peers expect me to be something more—the opinion of women everywhere, the voice of a movement, at once leader and sacrificial lamb. In my last class of the week, the professor is discussing issues of women’s initiative and agency. It is exactly what I have been attempting to bring out of the mostly-silent women of my cohort, the parts of myself I have been expending on the students’ behalf. I am exhausted.

I share this with the professor after class; she understands completely, even better than I do. “It’s very bad to be exhausted at the beginning,” she states. I nod and unsuccessfully try to keep even more tears from falling. “I wonder,” she begins, slowly, with care, “if the strength that is in you could be for you.” Earlier, I would have claimed that others needed my strength on their behalf more than I needed it for myself, but it’s too obvious that that is no longer true, if it ever was. When she suggests that I practice silence, something in me feels the unfamiliar pull of hope. From my first weeks in this building I had been deemed The Woman Who Speaks (or, more often spoken, The Girl Who Talks). Silence feels like a good practice, one in which I could learn other ways to be engaged with the material, where I could find space within myself for peace, where I could demand others to allow me the silence they maintain, all while inviting those unheard voices to fill the space I leave open.

Silence is capacious. In silence, there is room for me. In silence, room is made for others. I hope that silence would also allow space for God to encounter me. I know myself to be too tired to chase after God. Still, I could make room for the Divine to come in, I could be watchful for moments to welcome such a Being.

I adopt the practice of silence in every class, and often outside of it as well. Even in moments when I want to speak, I allow my silence to fill the room. I notice my breathing. In extended silences, lying in bed at night, or observing the descent of rain while the heat of my morning tea passes into my palms, I put tiny breath prayers with my pneuma, my breath, my spirit. Most often, my prayer is the characters of the Ineffable Name: inhale yod, exhale he, inhale vav, exhale he. In moments of frustration, I use another Hebrew word associated with breath, and more commonly linked with meaninglessness, the soon-vanishing vapor of expelled ether, hebel. Both Hebrew words are scripted over my rib cage, and I watch them rise and fall through the shower steam as I contemplate God within this broken body.  I focus on sensation, I practice mindfulness. I feel cool air welcomed into my body, warmed, allowed to leave as space is made for another benevolent breath. When I eat, I try to really taste. As I fold laundry, I touch the texture of each garment. I knit and notice the delicate softness of the wool as I tangle it into a big and beautiful knot.

Each Sunday evening I drag myself to my version of church: the yoga studio. It is a safe space, an hour and a half in which no one expects me to speak brilliantly, no one looks to me for wisdom nor guidance. Unlike traditional churches, no one asks me to volunteer, host, lead, or give of myself—as though self is something with which I can part, a sweater to shrug off. One week my thoughts drift away during shavasana, as they are wont to do, as my mind begins to realize how beautiful this corpse pose is, how stunning that I, who can barely relax my muscles around those with whom I am intimately involved, choose to let go of all tension and awareness while surrounded by strangers. I am vulnerable, entirely exposed, and my eyes are shut. Despite my years of martial arts training, if anyone wanted to kill me right now, they could. I am thinking this, without anxiety, when I feel the warm palms and thin fingers of my instructor encapsulate my ankles. My inhale catches in my throat and ocean drops roll down my temple and God is with us, between us, in us. The same vulnerability that could lead to my death also opened me up to such warm, unexpected, and tender kindness. I am undone.

In school, silence continues. Nearly halfway through the term, people start wondering about it. One student approaches me while I am working at the front desk and says, “I’ve been missing your voice in Theology,” where we had been discussing feminist theologies. I choose my words carefully to convey appreciation that I was noticed, but underneath I feel the tug of the rope around my neck, students leading me to slaughter. The next Theology class, the conversation turns towards feminism once again. A couple students talk about how to find space for women to speak, the professor rightly points out that creating space can’t just be something that happens out in other places, it needs to start in this classroom, between each of us. “How can we be with one another, make space and find space?” We’re about to go on break, the conversation will end here—as it always does, as if asking the question is enough. I tentatively start raising my hand, put it back down, start putting it up again, lower. The professor sees me and starts unpinning her own microphone in urgency to make room for me to speak; she, too, has been both aware and supportive of my silence.

When I take the microphone it feels heavy and suddenly unfamiliar. “I haven’t spoken yet in this class,” I say, and realize the semester is half over. My pulse races, my breath quickens. This is unlike me; I’m familiar with the amplification of my voice in this room. “I hope that those of you who are often silent feel my silence as an invitation,” I look around to some of those women’s faces; their eyes are in their laps. I persevere, “I hope you feel that space is being made for you. And those of you who often talk, who speak every thought you have,” I’m very selectively making eye contact with certain students, “I hope you hear my silence as an invitation to join me in making space.” I shakily turn off the mic, we go on break. The next week is a jumble of processing, outspoken men thanking me for confronting them, quiet women avoiding me and their boyfriends explaining that they feel like I’m forcing them to speak, others just thanking me for explaining—my silence had been tangible and unknown.

I’m processing, too, but it’s tiring and trying and needs to stop. It’s early and will probably rain any minute, but I lace up, throw on a hoodie, run along the canal. The trees shine against the layered grays of the sky, branches sway in front of the stable lines of the bridge. The occasional biker whirs by, the whisper of leaves cuddling against one another, occasionally huddling tightly enough to offer glimpses of the water. It’s quiet. I run until my breath overwhelms my aural space and the sensation in my lungs overtakes all. The leaves are getting brighter and invite me farther down the path.

Suddenly the trees open up and there is a clearing leading to the water. I turn, leave the trail, allow my pace to slow as I approach the waves. I stretch the tightness out of my hamstrings and watch the inky blue shallows carry leaves as though they’re golden treasures, unexpectedly inherited and loosely held. I don’t know where they’ll be carried, but they’re here right now, and they’re beautiful. The water falls towards its unknown destination; it does not care how many gold pieces join it. A half dozen ducks glide by, or appear to. I know they’re not really gliding; under the calm surface, they’re paddling like mad, just like the rest of us. I decide I’d rather be the water than the ducks, held by the firm steadiness of the rock riverbed, with effortless and natural direction. I wonder if a duck can choose to stop paddling, allow the water to carry it, and survive.

The images stay with me for days. When I try to explain to my husband the warm darkness of the water, the brilliance of the leaves, the rocks that hold the stream and give it direction without ever moving—I can’t find sufficient words. I choke up. He understands, I think, or at least he surrounds me with his arms, and that’s enough.

Perceptions of me are changing. Previously, my struggle, tears, sadnesses had been viewed with a kind of courageous vulnerability. One woman told me, that first semester, that she wanted to sit at my table to see when I cry, because that would signal to her that she should be feeling more than she is. When even my emotions, my falling-apart-ness, were viewed as leadership, I was always on display. When I pointed out that such pedestals are tall and shaky and easy to fall off, people thought that even the falling was beautiful and taught them about themselves, so I was never allowed to fully crash off the pedestal. When I cried that it’s lonely on a pedestal, people said they were there for me, but it was clear that they were there to keep me on the pedestal. Now, students are finally starting to see that my struggle is real and the cost is deep. They still come to me with problems and questions, but more quietly. Most no longer approach me as a rockstar sage, but come to me as a person. They ask how I’m doing, too.

Back in the large classroom for Theology, and the professor is teaching on sin. She summarizes a feminist understanding in which sin for women is not pride, but is essentially a lack, underdevelopment, or negation of self, a dependence on others for self-definition, a deficiency of a center. Not owning one’s self and agency can be an affront to God. And such a shortfall often manifests in service and silence. I recognize this sin in many of my classmates. Is this my silence, too? No: my silence is on the far side of self-hood, a practice in centering and developing my self in order to find my place within community. I recognize that this is not a sinful way of being, it is a spiritual and God-directed practice.

Still, it’s clear that soon I will need to continue to move forward, to allow the waterway to carry me beyond this clearing. Practices and prayers may fit for a time, but they should lead us to a new place, a new way of being. Prayers are a practice of becoming. We each must be ever-moving towards the self we were created to be, the forgotten person we already are.

This paper was written in Fall 2012 for Pat Loughery’s class “Prayer, Practice & Presence.” Students were asked to discuss their spiritual growth and process through the term. It has taken me a year to publish this because I still cry whenever I try to edit it.

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Baz Luhrman’s The Great Gatsby (2013)

The opening of a story sets the lens through which the rest of the story will be understood. When we read “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” Dickens is grooming us to look for parallels to compare and contrast with one another. When Austen announces that  ” It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife,” the reader is prepared that this is a work about social status–money and marriage.

So when Baz Luhrman’s The Great Gatsby changed the opening lines, changed the wisdom Nick Carraway recounts from his father, they aren’t merely changing a line. They’re changing our lens to a new focus–a softer one.

The movie begins with Nick stating that his father told him to “look for the best in everyone.” As a result, the story becomes a narrative about compassion, empathy, kindness. The audience is asking themselves: What features make Gatsby great, despite his shortcomings? Can we see them despite his criminal behavior and emotional immaturity, as Nick so obviously does? Can we forgive Tom and Daisy for their carelessness and see the best in them?

The novel gives us a much stronger lens, both poignant and relevant, especially in the wake of the Occupy movement:

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.

“Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”

And with holding that advice intact, the narrative becomes something entirely beyond empathy. It becomes a criticism of the American Dream, a portrayal of rugged individualism turned sour, a critique of the wealth that enables and encourages carelessness. We see Gatsby as a victim of a system that lied to him about wealth and equality–he could never make the jump from being new money to being old money, can never bridge the gap between West Egg and East Egg. We stop pitying George for his poverty and see it as the direct result of Tom’s manipulation. We see the way that Daisy, an eternal soul, becomes a display of wealth just as much as the cut and quality of a suit.

We see that hope and perseverance just aren’t enough in a system as broken as ours.

kind

What happens when the narrative lens is “seeing the best in everyone.”

...but they shouldn't, because Gatsby's narrative exposes everything that's broken with the system.

…but they shouldn’t, because Gatsby’s narrative exposes everything that’s broken with the system.

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Translating the Theories of Atonement and Attachment

The following is a paper written in collaboration with Ben Shafar for a theology course at The Seattle School of Theology & Psychology. The work being referenced, “And Did My Saviour Bleed,” can be read in five parts, beginning here.

Although conversation is commonly a major form of connection within relationships, the relationship itself exists outside of the confines of language in the relational space between individuals. In attempting to explain what it is that happens in that space, various disciplines use various vocabulary. Psychology has a vocabulary and research system for discussing styles of relationship rooted in attachment theory. Theology has a vocabulary for discussing relationship between God and humanity rooted in atonement theory. An individual’s style of relating will be consistent with other humans as it is with God. We seek to demonstrate that such correlations exist in lived experience of relationship.[1] To facilitate demonstrating the correlation, we will be referring to the short story “And Did My Saviour Bleed” in order to discuss how we see these theories playing out within individual characters. Essentially, this paper is a preliminary work of translation.[2] This investigation marks a first attempt to bridge understandings from two separate disciplines and to propose the need for quantitative research to investigate attachment styles as they are lived out in churches that hold various theologies. Within “And Did My Saviour Bleed,” characters’ attachment and atonement styles correlate in such a way that reflects an overall way of being. The way a character relates to other family members is similar to the way a character understands the atonement and relates to God.

There are many influences to consider in a discussion of styles of attachment. Current research draws on evolutionary theory as well as contemporary findings in neurobiology. A brief history of the theory of attachment begins with John Bowlby’s definition of “the attachment figure’s ‘availability’ as a matter not just of accessibility but of emotional responsiveness as  well.”[3] Essentially, Bowlby and his research partner Mary Ainsworth observed a strong correlation between levels of attunement in the mother-child dyad and the child’s ability later in life to relate well with others. More specifically, the ways in which a child is soothed by the primary caregiver in the child’s early life serve as a simple set of rules by which the child is likely to continue to live as an adult.

The work of attachment begins even before birth.[4] A child’s neurochemistry is affected by the state of the mother’s brain from the earliest stages of development. The neuropathways that are formed before birth situate a child for certain ways of being in the world. Even as a child enters this world, there are forces at work inside the brain that will assist or hinder in development. The type of interaction and care the child receives has been observed to trend towards one of three general resultant areas: avoidant/dismissive, preoccupied/ambivalent, and/or disorganized.

Attachment styles, or styles of relating, have been observed to exist on a continuum. Distinctions are offered as paradigmatic frames of reference, each blending into the next in the chaos of actual lived experience, yet offering insights into our distinct ways of being in the world. No one relates to others using just one of these observed styles, but for simplicity in discussion, four different classifications of attachment styles are offered. Secure attachment is observed in the behavior of infants that “appear to have equal access to their impulses to explore when they feel safe and to seek solace in connection when they do not.”[3] In adulthood this plays out as a kind of flexibility and resilience in and surrounding one’s relationships with others. The remaining insecure classifications are avoidant/dismissive, preoccupied, and unresolved/disorganized. Each of these styles of relating is characterized by certain types of attachment-seeking behavior—whether positive or negative—and can be identified within a broad range of more healthy or less healthy ways of being in the world. One impetus behind the conversation of this paper is the observed correlations between these styles of relating and the various ways we (the authors) have seen ourselves and others live out these models in the church and in their theologies.

It is our experience-driven observation and reflection that this same work of attachment is at play in the nature of how one conceptualizes and relates to God. One’s God-concept is inevitably influenced by the paradigmatic impact of the primary care one receives, although conversion or outside influences also hold impact. We do not propose to state that theologies themselves are more or less correct, accurate, or even healthy, but rather hope to illustrate that the way an individual believes his or her relationship to God is similar to the way he or she lives in relationship with others.

Atonement is at the heart of the Christian message and of humanity’s relationship with the Divine. Different understandings of the process by which the sins of humanity are forgiven or not forgiven are central issues of theological inquiry. Atonement is the way in which sins or wrongs are reconciled between two parties. In Christian theology, human “reconciliation with God [occurs] through the sacrificial death of Christ.”[5] The need for reconciliation is implicit throughout the Old Testament texts which assert that nothing impure or sinful can approach God. Through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ, God has provided a way for humanity to be reconciled to Her without need for further sacrifice. The question that atonement theorists seek to answer is, how is such reconciliation accomplished?

Theories of atonement seem to fall into distinctly nuanced categories, but the way such theories are lived out by Christians covers a wide continuum. In the relatedness of these approaches to viewing reconciliation, the intersection is messy. New ways of rethinking beliefs of how God, resurrection, and community are understood come from within the mess. As this is an introductory conversation, the aim is simply to show the associations between various styles of attachment and their likeliest atonement-theory counterparts in an attempt to open up the importance for future conversation and research. Each of these systems is loosely held, allowing not only for systemic integrity, but also for the persons who inhabit the various systems of thought and styles of relating.

Secure attachment comes about in a relational environment where exploration is possible. If a child experiences the mother[6] as available and dependable, the periods and varieties of exploration can become more vast and varied. In interactions with a primary caregiver the child experiences a rhythm of rupture and repair[7] that leaves the child’s feelings somewhere on the spectrum between cared for and abandoned. The child interprets this data and bases her or his own future actions around the likelihood of eliciting a positive response from the caregiver. The nature of this rhythm will set the cadence for the rest of the child’s life. A child whose mother is adequately in tune recognizes the infant’s needs and meets them in a timely fashion. This very basic interaction communicates that the infant is important, and that asking for what she needs will not result in a negative consequence. The less attuned caregiver sends a different message to her or his infant. Securely attached adults exhibit a well-defined sense of self and a strong sense of worthiness for belonging and love.[8] Her ability to function in the world is less dictated by how others view her than by her own thoughts and desires for the communities in which she functions.

The central character in “And Did My Saviour Bleed” is Caron, a concerned and outspoken young woman. Caron is an individual who comes close to an earned secure attachment. That is, although her primary caregivers were not safe people with whom she could become securely attached, such security was developed outside the immediate family. The story does not address the way in which Caron earned secure attachment. She is involved in the church; it may be that she has a community there who has helped develop her. It is just as easily something much more difficult to explain: a conversion experience, an in-breaking of God in the life of a young woman who is paying attention.[9] The reader sees Caron’s secure attachment because she repeatedly proves that she has a sense of worthiness, belonging, and being loved, and is willing to risk and explore in ways that securely attached individuals are. She demonstrates a profound willingness to engage in the rupture and repair necessary in seeking a new way to relate her parents. This willingness is grounded somewhere in her own experience. She has learned somewhere in her life that exploring is safe, and even healthy. The reader sees Caron’s risk in relationship out of a secure center within herself in the second scene as she calls her sister to a more legitimate apology, “You’re sorry for what?” She has a strong sense of boundaries and thus does not greatly fear rejection.

Also notable is Caron’s demonstration that she holds a sense of worthiness in high value not only for herself, but extends it to others as well. In the first scene, the narrator notes that Caron strongly believes that if Kayla “just felt loved, she wouldn’t have to do all this every night,” and believes it to the point where she is willing to risk personally in order to instill such a sense in her sister. In her final plea to her parents, Caron extends a similar invitation to belonging: “I don’t want us to be against each other keeping track of who owes what to whom.” She opens the possibility for them to accept belonging, if they can just accept that they need not do anything to become worthy of it, if they can accept that they already are worthy.

Just as Caron feels a sense of worthiness of love and belonging in order to function with bold vulnerability in her family structure, she operates similarly within her church community. It is not only that her voice “blend[s] into the unified voice of the community”, but that “she allows” the unification to occur. During the sermon as well, Caron “allows herself to believe she’s worthy of such love, allows herself to be vulnerable.” This is the language of a woman with earned secure attachment: the security is not inherently natural, but surrender is chosen. She is not unwillingly melted into the congregation, but she is secure in her own self and chooses to belong; on some level she feels not only that a sense of worthy but also a sense of agency. Later, the reader again sees that Caron feels safe with this community: she both cries openly and “unashamedly wipes tears.” There is a sense, in the celebration of the crowd, that Caron is not the only one with her emotional guard lowered. What both binds this community together and shapes their acceptance of one another is the theology around which they gather.

In the second Easter morning scene, the reader receives a summary of Caron’s theology of the atonement. What is taught by her pastor is, in short, a nonviolent atonement theory. In this theology, according to James Alison, Jesus is understood at once as “the authentic high priest, who was restoring the eternal covenant that had been established long before”, and the sacrifice, “substituting himself for the victim of our typical sacrifices.”[10] As Caron’s pastor phrases it, Jesus “at once fulfills the Jewish atonement rites while exposing the sacrificial violence of humanity.” Such a theology allows room for sin to occur because “the definition of sin becomes: that which can be forgiven.”[10] More on that theology is explained within the text of the story, so the focus here is on how Caron lives such a theology.

Caron applies her theology to her life and relationships. The hope is not only for tolerating this life while anticipating an afterlife but for a different way of living this life now; as her pastor states, “it is not a continuation of the same life that was … what we talk about is a new way to live this life now.” Because her theology emphasizes this life, she believes in the possibility of living a new way and of having a new style of relating. The reader sees this bridging between theology and attachment style in the final Easter dinner scene where she addresses her parents, “I want to have a better relationship with you. You know, going forward,” and later “let’s do something different, let’s find some better way to do this.” Caron’s hope is for improved relationship in this life now, and she is willing to risk for it. “Because love wins, we don’t need to be defensive, we don’t need to be self-protective, we don’t need to be afraid,” as her pastor teaches. She becomes, like Christ, the victim who approaches her abuser without accusation and with capacious forgiveness to offer new life. Just as it is only securely attached people who are able to emotionally risk and make mistakes, it is only individuals who believe themselves to be truly forgiven that are able and free to make mistakes, even to sin boldly, and Caron’s loving confrontation and vulnerability are certainly sins within her family system.

However, Caron is not ideal in a secure attachment style. Although she is healthier than the other characters in the story, she has a tendency towards the insecure style of relating characterized as preoccupied/ambivalent. Insecure styles of attachment tend towards avoidant/dismissive or preoccupied/ambivalent and are the result of significant and/or unresolved trauma.  Preoccupied individuals such as Caron come out of homes where their own efforts to regulate themselves are often thwarted by the additional need to regulate or soothe their caregiver(s) as well. This style of relating has been aptly described as “no room for a mind of one’s own.”[3] Characterized by a tendency to withdraw into one’s own mind for solace, or to act out erratically in the face of poorly demarcated boundaries, the at-times calm exterior observed in this style of relating is a false guise for constant internal struggle. Another description of this struggle is ‘always worrying about how to please others, but never knowing how;’ an apparently calm duck paddling like mad below the water’s surface. In this constant inner chaos, the only help to be found is in the fantasy that others are unnecessary. Then it is practical and helpful to relate to others with ambivalence, or to appear preoccupied with one’s own thoughts. It is important, however, to recognize that there is no rest or escape in this strategy. Anxiety is not absent, it is being dealt with in the ‘best’ fashion that the individual has been able to learn.

Caron’s anxiety is most clearly observed in the first scene of the story, “Good Friday, 2003.” She is herself anxious about her sister’s nighttime activities, but senses her big sister’s unmet need for love and belonging as well. Rather than having the opportunity to soothe herself, she attempts (however unsuccessfully) to soothe Kayla: “If she just felt loved, she wouldn’t have to do all this every night.” Although the risk involved in soothing another requires some level of security within one’s self, taking care of others emotions is a distraction from the ability to self-soothe. One might suppose that Caron’s anxiety is also a cause of her inability to impact Kayla, given Anais Nin’s definition of anxiety in relation to love that “anxiety is love’s greatest killer. It creates the failures. It makes others feel as you might, when a drowning man holds on to you. You want to save him, but you know he will strangle you with his panic.”[11] Perhaps Kayla’s glare can be interpreted as a sign of feeling Caron’s anxiety. The story does not resolve whether Caron has sufficiently reduced her society to offer her parents an invitation to relationship from solid ground.

In the following scene, Caron is again the parent of the family as she calls Kayla to better behavior, offering boundaries that are more defined and manageable than those offered by the girls’ parents. The narrator notes that “So much has never been demanded of her [Kayla].” Caron is also the parent in that she is the one who recognizes the nature of Kayla’s behavior and attempts to bring it to her parents attention. Similarly, she is active to the point of distraction in attempting to draw her father’s gaze into her own life. She repeatedly corrects the distinctions between influential instructors in her life, again without success: Jim takes no notice of his daughter’s desperate plea for recognition. In a sense, she is attempting to parent Jim and Ann into being better parents.

Also characteristic of preoccupied individuals is withdrawal into the realm of the mind. During the evening of the first scene, as Kayla leaves for the night and Caron experiences high anxiety, retreating into her mind is exactly what Caron does to self-soothe: “retreats back up to the stairs to her bookshelf.” Caron also resorts to cutting. Her flight away from her feelings results in her infliction of pain in order to experience calm. She is all too aware of the quiet chaos of her family life. Although she is on her way to escaping the drama, she is not free of it.

As stated above, it is difficult to make solid claims about young Caron’s theology. The author imagines that being in the home of a family who (assuming the theology professed in 2010 also applies to 2003) professes that humans are sinners, indebted to God, and responsible for Jesus’s death, would provoke and maintain some anxiety in Caron. Just as her parents are unpleasable and distant, so too is God, requiring perfection—which may not even be good enough. Whereas her parents can dismiss the anxiety that such a theology could provoke (discussed below), Caron becomes preoccupied with the relationship and need for behavior-based affirmation. Caron recalls this anxiety in the final scene—“I tried so hard to be the perfect”—before re-affirming in herself that perfection is not demanded of her, especially not by God.

What helps define Caron as more secure in her style of relating is that she does not live in the fantasy that other people are unnecessary. Indeed, her relationships with her family members—no matter how chaotic and frustrating—remain so central to her that she continues to return to the family table in adulthood, continues to emotionally risk, continues to hope that something better is just about to arrive. Caron is a living invitation to community, akin to that expressed by Kathryn Tanner when she writes of “a community of mutual fulfillment in which each effort to perfect oneself enriches others’ efforts at self perfection. One perfects oneself by making one’s own the efforts of others to perfect themselves, their efforts too being furthered in the same way by one’s own.”[12] Something of this miracle is at work in Caron’s investment with her family. She longs for the interrelatedness they could experience if they were all willing to work on their relationships.

In addition to preoccupied attachment, another insecure style of relating is avoidant/dismissive attachment. This style of relating is characterized by a tendency to think of others as unnecessary to the meeting of one’s own needs. This is generally observed to develop out of a primary care relationship wherein the mother is experienced as less than optimally available. When a child learns, through her own experience of the world, that regulating her own cycles of joy and distress is necessary without much assistance from a caregiver, it becomes patterned for her as a style of relating.

Within “And Does My Saviour Bleed,” avoidant and dismissive styles of relating are noticeable in Kayla, Ann, and Jim. Kayla is absent from the Easter dinner, and likely from the family in general if the reader can infer as much from Ann’s words “Dad hasn’t heard from her.” Caron’s easy acceptance of the excuse implies that such excuse-making is familiar. In short, Kayla has chosen to be absent from family life, to avoid events and conversations. The root of unresolved trauma that leads to such a style is not made explicit in the story, but Ann’s obvious distraction into the crafting world is a clear example of a less than available mother, and Kayla’s youth experiences (as summarized by Caron) of alcoholism, drug-addiction, promiscuity, and anorexia point to a deeply troubled young woman. Because of her absence in the later narrative, not much can be surmised about the correlation of an atonement theology to such a style of relating. Fitting with an avoidant attachment style and presented knowledge of the character, the author imagines that Kayla is in the atheist/agnostic spectrum and uninvolved with any type of community of believers.

Ann offers a clearer picture of an avoidant/dismissive attachment style and its theological correlation. Perpetually at her craft table, she is obviously disengaged from conversations and emotions, beginning with her silence in response to Kayla’s apology in “Holy Saturday, 2003.” She cannot be provoked into emotional engagement even by her husband’s angry outburst—“You entirely missed the point, Ann!” She simply shrugs off the anger and distances herself from it with a dismissive comment, effectively avoiding any further confrontation. Even being confronted more lovingly by her daughter during Easter dinner, she fails to say anything that is helpful and relevant. The rare times she does speak, it is either an attempt to soothe away the problem, although with great insensitivity—“We couldn’t read your mind, honey”—or to distract away from the emotional confrontation by asking “What was the name of that [burger] joint?” Ann’s inability to connect emotionally, either to fulfill others’ needs or to be vulnerable in seeking to get her own needs met, is characteristic of an avoidant/dismissive attachment style.

Such dismissiveness correlates strongly to her theological stance. As her pastor preaches the goal of the atonement, reconciliation is not at all about this life: it is about avoiding eternal pain and suffering in Hell and being rewarded for professed Christianity with life in God’s presence after death. Because hope is placed entirely in the afterlife, there is no call to action for this one. All that is required is weekly sermon attendance, even virtual attendance; in Ann’s mind an hour a week of church is what is required to be a Christian and thus receive “eternal life” after death. She interprets such attendance even more loosely than her husband, never ceasing to work on her project as she “occasionally glances at the screen to fulfill the obligation of attendance.” Here it is obvious that her style of relating is true not only with people, but also with God: she refuses to be emotionally drawn in. It is just as easy to imagine Ann fulfilling the obligation of attendance with only occasional glances at her child. Crafting functions as a way to distance herself from other humans as well as from a message that she believes is of God. Such distance from everyone, and specifically from God, leads Ann to live a life that is functionally agnostic. Although she professes a belief in Christianity, her life looks no different than that of a professed agnostic; the belief that God exists does not influence her lived experience outside of the hour a week she glances at a sermon.

Jim serves as an example of on the continuum of a preoccupied style of relating. Many of his behaviors can be interpreted as either dismissive or preoccupied, which serves as a reminder that these ways of being in the world exist on a fluid continuum. In the “Holy Saturday, 2003” scene of the story, Jim makes it clear that everything must go on as usual. He is not interested in actual relationship with his daughters but only in maintaining the calm that he so cherishes. His wife, Ann, is allowed no impact into his affairs and is only expected to maintain the status quo. The interactions afforded the reader are vacant of emotion except when things are getting uncomfortable for him. His need to keep the peace, at the cost of any true interaction, can be thought of as coming from his own sense of abandonment. His “parents would go antique shopping for weekends and leave [him] five dollars.” His preoccupation with the need for stability dictates his capability of relating to others. It also correlates with his receptivity to and interaction with God.

A great need for debts to be balanced is evidenced in Jim’s threat to Caron: “Unless you want to take on her punishments? That worked when you were kids. You told on her and I’d give you her punishment. Remember that?” Jim is outwardly calm and controlled, but inside he is often frantic. He has a hard time identifying this feeling, as it is all too normal for him, yet it guides his need for the external world to make orderly sense in an immediate timeline. The words of the Easter sermon affect him; the price paid for his redemption is what catches him. It speaks to the frenzy of longing inside him saying: ‘your bill is taken care of.’ The tears he sheds don’t flow from an in-breaking of the joyous spirit of God, but from the sadness that the words touch in him of which he never speaks nor allows to be visible. Jim ‘believes.’ He prayed the prayer and lives a good life. But he is missing the full blessing of Christ’s message for him in community. He is held inside himself by his own need for order. The theology that speaks to him fills a need, but it also perpetuates his stuck-ness by not challenging his assumptions and experiences concerning redemption.

Where Ann is happy to pay her dues of church attendance, Jim is consumed by living by the rules. “Through his cuts, we get healed. It’s what God had in mind all along: to crush him with pain to pay the debt of our sins, all the things we do wrong, our adulteries, our alcoholism, our lies, our lust–,” Jim takes these words to heart by making sure he doesn’t give Jesus any more reason to suffer. His preoccupation with the importance of following the strict structures of scripture eclipses his ability to comprehend the nature of what Jesus fully and already accomplished. Instead, Jim lives in a tightly controlled awareness of the pain that it costs (both Jesus and himself) to make things right. Needing to take care of all his own emotional needs as a child situated Jim in precisely the right location for this sort of theology of retributive sacrifice.

These styles of relating are helpful as diagnostic-like tools for identifying strategies through which one’s attachment might be moved towards more secure. Many believe that this is the central work of psychotherapy. We believe: it is also the work of the church. One’s style of relating affects how one interacts with others. It also influences and is affected by one’s view of the nature of God and the processes by which we claim to know or interact with God. All of these influences intersect in one’s style of relating, in how an individual lives. What a church teaches is both influenced by and influences the people in attendance. These reciprocal influences craft both the institution and the people over time. More research and study is needed in order to assist in learning more about how theology informs the lived experience of God and relationships with others as well as how the church can add to conversations around helpful styles of relating. Simultaneously, in examining how styles of relating influence and are influenced by the theologies to which we cling, the hope is to add new textures to the layers of meaning that are co-created in the dialogue between these disciplines.

Future study may lead to healthier ways of telling the gospel story. It may afford us new and better ways of thinking through and about the gifts God gives. In exploring this terrain free from worry about the status of our salvation, there is great freedom. It is this freedom to sin boldly and to love well that we wish to make more abundant in our families and in our churches, in our nation and in our world. Everywhere that dogma and relationship intersects can be mined in the light of this relational hermeneutic.

* All quotes that are not footnoted are from the short story “And Did My Saviour Bleed,” which can be read in parts: can be found in parts: one, two, three, four, five.

[1]As this paper was a short-term project, we have not analytically researched support for this belief other than the observation throughout our lives that an individual’s way of being tends to exhibit consistency across relationships. The general correlations we draw will not be representative of the wide variety of human experience, but rather relationships as we have experienced them and as portrayed in the story “And Does My Saviour Bleed.” Much research is needed in order to demonstrate a consistent truth to such correlations. Additionally, we do not seek to demonstrate causation in either direction: theologies impacting a person’s human style of relating nor a person’s attachment impacting his or her professed theologies, though there are causal threads worth investigating in the inter-related nature of this dyad.

[2] We understand this translation to be an essential component of inter-disciplinary communication, where each discipline has manufactured and issued language to convey a truth about an experience or reality that exists outside of language.

[3] David J Wallin, in Attachment in Psychotherapy, (New York, NY: Guilford Press, 2007).

[4] Thomas Lewis, Fara Amini, and Richard Lannon, in A General Theory of Love, (New York, NY: Vintage Press, 2000).

[5] Oxford Dictionary of the Christian Church, 3rd ed (New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 2005).

[6] The language of the discipline still resorts to using the word “mother” here. It is now fairly well assumed that the word “mother” has been generalized to refer to the role of primary caregiver. The tendency to associate a particular gender with this role is no longer useful. The word ‘mother’ will henceforth be used with the caveat that no gender nor biological connections are being assumed.

[7] One can trace a similar theme in the history of the nation of Israel in which humanity’s relationship with God is constantly ruptured and repaired, both directly with God and through the levirate priests. Furthering this conversation will require attention to the ways in which the believing community has seen God’s grace play out in the history of Israel as well as with the church of our current age. Both histories are rife with rupture and repair between God and humanity, between peoples, and between individuals.

[8] Brené Brown, “On Vulnerability”, in TED Talks, June 2010.

[9] There is vocabulary in Christianity of adoption into the family of God. If such an adoption has the power to change one’s attachment style, Caron may be one such example. Research needs to be done on what Christians can learn about the process of attaching securely to God from the process of adoptee attaching to adoptive parents.

[10] James Alison, “God’s Self-Substitution and Sacrificial Inversion” in Stricken by God? edited by Brad Jersak and Michael Hardin, (Abbotsford, BC: Fresh Wind Press, 2007).

[11] Anais Nin in Diary of Anais Nin: 1944-47, 7 vols. Vol 4, (Orlando, FL: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1971).

[12] Kathryn Tanner, in Jesus, Humanity and the Trinity: A Brief Systematic Theology (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2001).

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my sin

Sin is complicated. It would be so convenient if there were a list, encompassing every detail of life, of the permissible and the unacceptable. I could memorize the list, then be set for a happy and simple career.

But it’s not that way, or at least it shouldn’t be. For one man, sin might be pride, the over-valuation of his opinions and over-exertion of his agency. For his wife, sin might be humility, an under-exertion of agency, a lack of a defining sense of self.

Recently, I had a run of long days, so much so that I started my days exhausted and ended them in despair. In those moments before sleep, temptations are strong. I murmur to my husband, “I don’t have to work.”

“No, you don’t,” he agrees, knowing the pattern of this conversation.

“I could be a mom all the time.”

“You could.”

“I could have a garden, and put things in cans. I’d learn how to sew our pajamas. Our house would be so clean…” I allow myself to slip into this fantasy for a few escapist minutes. Yes, life could be so easy. I’d make my own schedule. Laundry would be folded while it was still warm from the dryer—or better yet, I’d take the time to hang wet laundry and let the sun dry it, folding it at dusk. Pinterest could supply me with a never-ending list of projects for my ideal home, activitiesfor my hypothetical children, and, if unfulfilled, I could fill my time making items to sell. The only struggles I’d experience would be the small self-inflicted ones: learning how to embroider a french knot. Yes, life would be serene.

But I don’t even manage to fall asleep before I feel the Spirit pushing me out of the fantasy. Don’t deny you identity! she screams. Don’t check out! I need your agency in your body!

This is sin, at its core: the attempt to be fulfilled by something less than what God desires for me. The life I described above might be a Spirit-willed outpouring of identity for another, but I know it’s not me. So I get up, I hear the Ghost, I sit at my desk and struggle through writing a few hundred words and reading a few thousand others. And I wait in my want to see what might become of my work, to see the unveiling of the person I was created to be.

My despair.

[What despair looks like for me.]

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on advent, anticipation, and active hope

This year, the first Christmas party to which I was invited will be taking place on December 1st. I informed my husband, enraged. “There was a time when Christian meant anticipation! What happened to living in the already and the not-yet? What happened to the patience of hope?”

He thought I was being unfair. “It’s the culture, love,” he said in his best soothing voice. But I will not be soothed. I go off on how it used to be that Christmas day began the twelve days of festivities, that no parties occurred before Christmas because it was a season of anticipation. Now, if I want to anticipate, I need to begin around Halloween. No wonder the stores put out their stockings when Fall has barely begun.

He attempts to use reason, “It’s not a good reason to want to go back to a tradition just because it’s what we used to do.” Which is true, of course, but not my argument at all. “I’m going to decline on theological grounds.”

Israel knew how to wait. They waited, expectantly, for the New Jerusalem. Even with the knowledge that they may not live to see its coming, they lived in hopeful anticipation.

In advent, I remember that Mary knew about anticipation. I would think every mother does. From the realization of the first missed menstruation until the child is in arms, a mother lives in anticipation of that tiny breath. It’s not a passive waiting, she actively works towards it, feels her body change, increases her food intake. She prepares not only in her body, but also her home, child-proofing and readying. She prepares psychologically. At the birth of her child, she will become a mother, and spend the rest of her life learning to be what she already is, a mother.

So what does it mean to anticipate the birth of a boy who became the man who taught us to pray “Thy Kingdom come”? I would suggest it means living in anticipation, active and excited anticipation, working towards new life and new creation with a patient hope. Perhaps advent teaches us to be patient for 30 days, so that we may be patient for another 30 days, 30 years, 30 generations as we actively work to bring the Kingdom into existence.

Or we could have a Christmas party to start off December. That sounds just as good, right?

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liturgy: honest creations

The most genuine moment of communal worship I’ve experienced was at a concert. Singer/songwriter Sufjan Stevens was performing to a full house in Detroit and ended with his song Casimir Polaski Day. The piece is about the death of a girl with whom the narrator is in love. The final lines are heartbreaking in their blatant honesty: “All the glory when He took our place/But He took my shoulders and He shook my face/and He takes and He takes and He takes.” As the hundreds present sang along, ending in barely above a whisper, there was a sense of solidarity, community, even worship. God is sometimes awful, and it feels like He takes endlessly, and yet here we are bound together by our human hurt, sharing in and singing of His presence. I craved more art forms and more honest art in aiding my relationship with God, and in joining my community in our covenantal relationship with one another and God.

Sufjan Stevens

In contrast, many of the church services I’ve attended are full of smiling people. From the moment I walk in the door, I’m welcomed by a grinning greeter before a smiling volunteer hands me coffee and a program, then sit down to hear a pastor tell me how great love and grace and forgiveness are. The Church has become a center for certainty and belief, a place to feel better about human experience. We hide our doubt and avoid acknowledging the hardships of evil in our lives. The arts can teach the Church about honest engagement, and incorporation of arts into our practice can guide community into encompassing and embracing the range and depth of human experiences.

There was a time when the arts, like present day liturgies, were full of idealism and beauty in perfection. Artists were once encouraged, as John Walford puts it, to “avoid addressing the brokenness of creation as we experience it.” Instead, they were to depict beauty in perfection, to conjure an imagined or lost ideal. Walford goes on to point out that  “such works fail to engage the viewer because they are devoid of the substance and grit of life as we know it.” Art portraying idealized beauty is sentimental, and in the Church such art “cheapens, rather than deepens,” as John Witvliet states, the viewer’s relationship with God. Indeed, sentimental art in the Church is counter-productive in that it averts viewers from action, as well as from their own encounter of a genuine emotional experience with the world.

Eventually, artists’ understanding of beauty moved from an ideal into one that is equated with truth. As Walford summarizes photographer Cindy Sherman’s understanding, standard beauty had become dismissive “as obvious, easy and boring.” Artists began to develop a mature aesthetic of beauty, characterized as broken and wounded. In this understanding, beauty incorporates the horrible, hurting, and disfigured as part of the art’s honest engagement of the world we inhabit. Herman argues that such an aesthetic is not only permissible but encouraged by the resurrected Christ. To Herman, the aesthetic of wounded beauty “bears the marks of Christ’s resurrected body — marks that memorialize suffering but move beyond it to redemption.” Just as Christ bears the marks of pain while simultaneously offering a hope that is beyond the present world, the challenge is for art to bear pain while offering an image of what could be.

Art in liturgy is also a participation in the work of the Spirit. Begbie approaches the question of art in worship by looking at where we are headed as shown by the ending chapters of Revelation and by the Spirit’s work among the Church as portrayed in the New Testament. He writes of a Spirit who “exposes the depths” of both humanity’s forsakenness (exemplified of Christ’s cry on the cross) and the depths of God’s love for us (exemplified by the act of Christ on the cross). Artists participate with Jesus and the Spirit by avoiding sentimentality and delving into the depths of both human joy and sorrow.

Another way that artists join the work of the Spirit is in the act of re-creation. Artists take existing materials and transform them into objects of beauty or curiosity: pieces that evoke a response from the viewer. Similarly, the Spirit took the existing person of Jesus and resurrected him. It was not a mere resuscitation, for the resurrected Christ was in some ways unidentifiable to his followers at first glance. The Spirit’s work was one of transformation, of taking a person and making him new. When artists take tired materials and create something compelling, they are participating in the redemptive and transformative work of the Spirit in our midst.

This is the art of suffering, allowing art to ask the same difficult questions we ask of God that encompass not only hope and love, but also despair and tragedy. With broken or wounded beauty, art is a continuation of the work of transformation the Spirit began in resurrecting Christ, and the resurrected Christ can be found there. Just as Christ carried the memorializing marks of his crucifixion while offering hope for a new world, so art can expose the depths and range of human emotion while avoiding sentimentality.

This piece was originally written for Theology of Spiritual Formation with Chelle Stearns. Students were asked to write on liturgy.

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away we go

The Bible is a big book. Actually, it’s a big collection of books. There are so many verses, details, and themes to study on a small level that it can be hard to remember that this is one collection, bound together for a reason. It’s the story of God and His people. It’s one story. It’s good to study specific books, passages, or themes, but when we do it’s often easy to lose sight of the over-arching picture of the one story. Since it can easily take months to read the Bible cover-to-cover, it can be useful for us to find parallel stories that we can see and understand in a few hours. One such parallel story is found in the movie Away We Go (2009), which has an over-arching plot similar to that of the Bible.

Both Away We Go and Genesis begin with a couple and an ideal. In Genesis 2 God creates Adam and Eve, thus embarking on an epic relationship with humankind. Their relationship is intended to be so close that “they will become one flesh” (Genesis 2v24). The garden in which they live provides them with all they need. Similarly, in the opening scenes of Away We Go, we see the ideals of Bert and Verona, the protagonist couple. Although not married, they share respect, love, and devotion, and the baby growing in Verona is proof that they’re becoming one flesh. Their ideals are often voiced through Bert, who speaks of his high hopes and plans to become the kind of father he wants to be. He’s already preparing before the baby is born; as he gets ready for a family defense class he tells Verona : “I want to be that dad that knows how to make stuff out of wood, you know? I want our kid to wake up in the morning and walk out on the back porch and find me cobbling … I got this great book on knots … I still have to build that kiln. Man, we gotta be ready.”

In a scene shortly after, Verona is driving them to his parents’ house for dinner when she takes a bite of an apple. Perhaps this apple is a signpost to an apple with more mythical importance, an apple that grew during the beginning of human history and relationships. In Genesis 3, Eve is tempted to eat fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil and shares it with Adam. For the story of humanity, this is the first negative turn. Before the apple, life was predictable. Afterwards, humanity lives in a broken world full of pain and suffering. For Bert and Verona, the apple has similar significance. Right after she bites into the apple, their world loses its stability.

In the next scene their world is shattered when Bert’s parents inform them that they will be moving to Belgium. The couple had moved to Maryland to establish this community for their unborn child, and now find themselves unmoored, much like Adam and Eve must have felt after being expelled from Eden. Thus, Bert and Verona begin a journey across the continent in search of a new community in which to raise their child.

During their quest, the pattern of brokenness is extended and elaborated upon through each family encountered. Each family has some awareness that we all live in a broken world and each handles it differently. They all wander like Moses and the Israelites in the desert, looking for the best way to find a sense of home. Lily, the mother in Tucson, declares that children are “kids are … genetically predetermined anyway, they’re screwed up out of the womb,” so she has given up on protecting her children from the knowledge of good and evil. LN and Roderick practice “continuum family” which says the world will give people “plenty of alienation and despair in good time, so while we can we should hold them close.” The extent to which they do so is played as a comical gaffe, but is similar logic to that of Tom and Munch, who keep their children from watching the second half of The Sound of Music in order to protect them. “We think they can live a few more happy years before Juicy Couture and Hitler,” Tom explains. Later we meet Bert’s brother, who can’t bear to tell his daughter that her mother has left. He wants to protect her from that disillusionment for a few more days. Every parent tries to keep their children living as close to Eden for as long as possible. We all know how hard the renewal process can be after our reality is shattered, how many pages of our stories we must wander through before reaching Revelation 21 and 22.

In both stories, there is a major positive turning point. In the Bible this is very clearly divided between the Old Testament and the New; humanity before Christ and after. Before Christ, we were wandering in the wilderness with little sense of where we were heading. Jesus lived, died, and lived again so that we can live with hope for our own personal futures and the collective future of our species. Through His words and actions, through His tender strength, we learn about redemption, renewal, love, grace and peace.

Similarly, in Away We Go we see the couple wandering from city to city in search of a community. With each prospect they find more brokenness and suffering. Each place they go, they sense that their search won’t end in this place. On a trampoline in Florida, Bert hits his breaking point, declaring about their friends’ relationships: “there’s nothing we can do about it … [it] can’t be fixed.” Yes, he’s talking about the individuals that he knows, but he’s also touching on the world’s uncomfortable reality: the whole world is broken. And he’s just a human. On his own, he has little power to fix anything.

The turning point comes in Verona’s steadiness. With the strength and tenderness with which I imagine Jesus must have spoken she states, “it can be fixed, and you know it.” Given that hope, they immediately begin to fix what they can. It’s not in their control to fix their friends’ flaws, to heal society and the environment and all the unfairness “that bad parents still get to be parents, and good parents die when their daughters are in college.” Instead, they must dedicate themselves to fixing what they do have control over: their relationship, their lives, their behavior towards each other and their unborn child. They immediately take personalized vows on the trampoline – a most beautiful marriage bed that fits their relationship. It’s untraditional, some might say it’s not very stable, but it’s springy and flexible and helps them, in the most literal sense, to jump with joy. It suits them perfectly.

In the Biblical story, where we go from here is largely up to us, but we do have the help of John’s vision as found in the book of Revelation to show us where we’re headed. Revelation is full of beautiful images of our future kingdom. Interestingly, many pieces in it are renewed versions of what we find in Genesis. Genesis describes a garden (Genesis 2v8); Revelation is set in a city (Revelation 21v2) – which can be viewed as the evolved garden, or many gardens near each other. In Genesis we see the river in Eden (Genesis 2v10), and again “the river of the water of life” in Revelation (Revelation 22v1). The Tree of Life grows in the beginning (Genesis 2v9) and again at the end of times (Revelation 22v2). Very concrete parallels exist between where humanity started and where humanity is headed. Revelation points us back to Genesis; in order to find out where we’re going, we must first learn about where we started.

This is exactly the process Verona goes through. The morning after the exchange of vows on their trampoline marriage bed, she does something she normally refuses to do: she talks about her childhood. She speaks about her past, her siblings and parents, and the joy she experienced where she was with her family at that time. And immediately afterward, she and Bert share a look that says “we know where to go.” The next scene shows them driving to her childhood home. Verona began her story in a happy home with loving parents, and she wants to end her story by providing the same joy and love for her future generations. Just as the tree is a link between Genesis and Revelation, Verona’s story of her childhood involved a tree, and it’s still there when she and Bert drive up. As she recounted to Bert, this tree is covered in plastic fruit, making it a comic version of the one in Revelation, which “bear[s] twelve crops of fruit, yielding its fruit every month.” They’ve found a way to restore themselves to their Eden.

In his teaching “The Importance of Beginning in the Beginning” (8/16/2009), Rob Bell states “where and how you begin the story, and where and how you end the story, shape and determine what the story even is.” There are clear parallels in Genesis and Revelation that give us the over-arching story of paradise, brokenness, and redemption. Bert and Verona’s story shows how the big-picture multi-generational story presented in the Bible looks when lived out small-scale for this one couple. We can also see the same story lived out in the life of Jesus, who lived a perfect life, died, and lives again. The story is seen in every baptism: we’re born innocent, are broken through the trials of life, and mysteriously through  physical act of being immersed in water, are redeemed, renewed, restored.

This is where I see my role in other people’s lives. Not to make things holy or to convince people to behave in a certain way in order to avoid eternal damnation. My role is to tenderly and with certainty point out to people who they were created to be, and to help them look into themselves to find out how to better become the person they were made to be, the person who deep down they already are. I am completely powerless to make anything holy or to add anything new. My job is simply to point out what’s already there and share the good news that everything God created he called good (Genesis 1), and that new life is possible.

Just as humanity’s beginning as described in Genesis 1 and 2 gives us clues as to where we’re headed in Revelation 21 and 22, Verona’s personal beginning showed her where she needed to end up. In both the Bible and Away We Go we see a comfortable world that is broken, the wanderings of characters struggling to find a  home, and finally a redemption that connects back to the past that had been left behind. This is Bert and Verona’s story. This is the Bible’s story. This was Jesus’ story. Humanity’s story. Your story. My story. The miracle is not only that Jesus lived, died, and lived again. The miracle is that each one of us is born, broken, and resurrected to new life. The miracle is that humanity was created, has fallen, and will rise again. The movie ends in the place humanity is now: still broken, unsure of what will happen, but doing our best with the lives we have and hoping for a more perfect tomorrow. Just as Verona says  in the very last line, we don’t know if the kingdom of God will become reality, but we “really fucking hope so.”

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