October was also a month in which almost anything I posted online about said trips (or any picture of me in a clerical collar or wearing vestments) attracted the attention of Christian internet trolls—strangers, often with anonymous profiles—who’ve told me I’m a heretic, a pretend priest, a LARPer, and that I will burn in hell. I’ve always dealt with this as a female priest, but the intensity and volume seems to be increasing. (Of course, others have and do respectfully express disagreement with my public ministry. I do not consider this trolling nor do I consider their views inherently sexist, as I’ve written before).

All told, I’ve been especially encouraged and especially discouraged by other Christians this month.

Beyond personal experience, October has included ongoing controversy among leaders in my denomination—including vehement disagreement about who or what is the real cause of “scandal” among us— and an (unrelated) leadership crisis in the Christian magazine I write for. Meanwhile, as the month draws to a close, Christians around the world are gearing up for the Feast of All Saints: one of the most important holy days of the year on which we commemorate the beauty, purity, and power of God’s people throughout time and space.

Drama, controversy, confusion, pain; hope, joy, encouragement, celebration.
Does anyone else feel the whiplash?

—

I wrote a book about what was like to watch my dad die of cancer as a child, and the legacy of faith he left me. In his prayer journal, which I quote in the book, he wrote, “Lord I seek intimacy with you over healing—over anything in this life. Please teach me…Lord, I seek you because you are worthy of my seeking. I do not seek you because of what you can do for me.”

After one of my talks at a church where I read from this quote, a man came up to me and asked, “Do you think your dad ever got there? Did he experience real intimacy with God?” A tidy, churchy (and partially true) answer would have been, “Yes, absolutely.” But I offered a truer, less polished answer: “I think he got there in part.”

When someone dies, it’s easy to remember the good and forget the bad. We idealize their memory—either because we want to honor them publicly or because we need something from them privately— and end up telling a less true story by accident.

The reality is that my dad was a complicated, complex human being like every other one of us. He was full of contradictions. I allude to this in the book but shared it again in conversation with the man who wanted to know: Until the day he died, my dad was equal parts sinner and saint.

—

To love the church, I think, looks like living with tension. Nothing is more beautiful to me than a community of people learning how to love like God loves. On Sunday I will baptize a little boy into this community— the community that helped raise me— and I will probably cry tears of joy.

But it won’t be the kind of joy that overlooks or cancels out the pain and confusion and anger I also sometimes feel about the church. I have seen and experienced too much to pretend we’re all rainbows and butterflies. I can’t make promises to this child that his new family, the family of God, will always look out for him or protect him or treat him with dignity. Much harder to admit, I can’t make promises that I will always do so. On my best days, I want to and “I will, with God’s help.” On my worst days, I am capable of every terrible deed I see others commit.

I guess what I’m saying is that wheat and tares grow together and that this is the church, and the church is me.

Here’s the true story of God’s people: we are full of contradictions. We’re a group who can’t be sorted into neat categories like healthy or dysfunctional, holy or sinful, right or wrong. We’re a family that will bless and feed and encourage you with one hand but slap and pinch and push you with the other. I’ve been on the receiving end of both—sometimes by one and the same family member. I have surely participated in both, wittingly or unwittingly.

Maybe this sounds crazy, especially to those who feel no loyalty to the church. One might reasonably ask, “Why stay in a family like that?” It’s a fair question. To which I’d respond, “What family isn’t like that?” Even at our best, every human community is comprised of imperfect people who are capable of both great love and great harm. The church is unique in one way: we’ve been given the resources to deal with the contradictions.

In God’s family, we uniquely can and should call sin the problem it is, because through Christ it can be dealt with. We have access to accountability without cancelation;^[1] forgiveness; reconciliation; and renewal. These gifts should make us unafraid to acknowledge that the problem of sin isn’t only out there, in the people we disagree with or who have hurt us, it’s also in here. It’s in my self-righteous finger pointing and my bitter withholding of forgiveness. It’s in my apathy. It’s in my insistence that if only I were in charge, I’d get it right.

In the church, we have access to confession and repentance. We have access to purgation. We are full of contradictions, but we are equipped for a journey toward singularity—singular devotion and Christlikeness— individually and together. I mentioned my dad got there in part. On All Saints Day, we’ll commemorate those who got there fully, or at least who got much further, in their own lives.

In a book I read with my kids this year about the saints, I marveled at how diverse their stories were. Poor, rich, young, old, male, female, slave, free, licentious, chaste—they all started the journey at different points.

I also marveled at how misunderstood they often were by other Christians. Far from being “Christian celebrities,” the saints were often demeaned, ignored, or even hated by the church. (St. Francis, pictured above, was disinherited by his Christian father and written off as a looney for choosing poverty and preaching to animals.) But they persevered on the journey to holiness, and now, centuries later, the church receives them as a gift—a gift we couldn’t always recognize when they walked among us.

—

God’s people, including me, are full of contradictions. We are sinners and saints. If we continue to follow him, we won’t always be so conflicted. But how long will we shuffle our feet and ignore the resources at our disposal? How long will we insist instead on our fig leaves, our fear-based narratives, our factions? To some extent, I suppose, until we see him.^[2]

And yet, even now we are called to strive for the holiness without which we won’t be able to see him^[3]— the holiness without which Jesus Christ might look to us like another weak-willed looney who chose poverty and preached to losers.

Let’s not pretend things are simple around here. But let’s not give up on us either. As we continue to have hard conversations and wade into controversy and challenge, we may not agree on much, but can we agree on one thing? Can we agree to strive together? ^[4]

Hannah+

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.” -Hebrews 12:1-3

PS- In case you’re interested…

• I think a lot, every year, about Halloween and its accompanying themes. This year I wrote for Christianity Today about our cultural imagination surrounding death and what graveyards used to— and can still— mean for Christians.

• An all-time favorite podcaster of mine agreed to interview me about the Lord’s Supper, liturgy, and being a female priest.

• At Holy Post, I wrote about how Christians of all political stripes can work together to protect unborn immigrants. Talk about living with tension!

  ---

^[1] I’ve written elsewhere about how forgiveness and grace are always on offer in the church, but that the Bible also provides clear qualifications for those in leadership. In other words, not everyone should lead, but everyone can still belong.

^[2] 1 John 3:2

^[3] Hebrews 12:14

^[4] This is not a comprehensive theology of the church or a how-to article promising solutions to our many problems. It’s a personal reflection on how God is meeting me amid my own experience of the church this month. I pray my own in-process thoughts offer something meaningful to your own.

I wrote about what Justice for Mica might look like, and I might at some point weigh in on the “true crime” maelstrom that Clancy’s case has revealed. But this is not a cultural analysis or think piece. This is a personal account of suicide grief. It’s a love letter to my brother Noah, who died by suicide in 2018. It’s an elegy for the lost and those who grieve them, but also a psalm of hope for those stories that don’t end the way we prayed they would.

Because what’s often beneath our frenetic relationship to the news, beneath our compulsive interest in tragic stories and even beneath our search for justice is a deep, raw, primal grief. We all bring our own stories to the news cycle. We’re all looking for answers to our own questions as we scour the internet. After my kids almost drowned in a rip current this summer, I became (unintentionally?) addicted to stories of children dying and/or being rescued from horrible situations. After consuming all of Google’s information about rip currents, my algorithm introduced me to sand holes and a beautiful child who died in one a couple years ago. In the aftermath of a personal scare, I was vulnerable and hypervigilant about ways my or others’ children might get hurt. I’m honestly still trying to break my habit of looking for bad news.

I share this because I know how easy it is to avoid my own grief through “research” or “activism.” Do those things matter? Yes. Are they enough? No. We also need to talk about what happened to us or to those we loved. We also need to turn off the news and cry. But when it comes to suicide, one challenge I’ve noticed is that we don’t know how to talk about it. After my dad died of cancer, lots of people called and checked in on us. They offered words of comfort and welcomed conversation about our grief. But when my brother killed himself, the social response was very different. I was surprised that certain close friends didn’t ask me how I was doing in the weeks afterward, didn’t really bring it up. I quickly realized: people don’t know what to say, so they aren’t saying anything.

I actually think this comes from a place of love. With a sensitive loss, there’s great fear of getting it wrong. We don’t want to be nosy about the details or add insult to injury with unhelpful comments about complex situations. But in my experience of bereavement, the silence can be equally deafening. What helped me the most when I was grieving were friends who made space to let me talk on my terms. These friends made it clear they were available to listen, but they didn’t push me. They didn’t ask for juicy details but said things like, “If you ever want to tell me more about your brother I’d love to hear about him.”

They also fed me. If you love someone experiencing bereavement, please do not underestimate the gift of food. Or grocery dropoffs or GrubHub gift cards. When my brother died, I had two young sons to feed and a brain that suddenly wasn’t working. A small army of friends at my church— organized by a friend who’d also grieved a suicide as a mom of littles—put food on our table for two weeks. They also kept my house stocked with flowers, candles, essential oils, herbal tea, and other things that spoke grace to our bodies during that time. To those friends: you know who you are. I will never forget the smell of that bread. Thank you.

To those of you who grieve a suicide or other tragic loss, I want to share a few things that have begun to feel true for me since losing my brother. Feel free to agree or disagree, but at least consider them as possibilities:

1. It is not your fault

Cliché, I know. And easy to write off, like Matt Damon in Good Will Hunting. But it’s also easy to wonder how many people looking in from the outside might secretly be thinking: Gosh, did they not do a good job raising that kid? Did his family not really love him? They must not have done very much to help him. In the weeks after losing my brother I agonized over the question, “What if I’d called him that weekend? What if I’d pursued him harder?” I also watched my family briefly pass this question back and forth to each other—for a moment, we unsheathed the knife of blame and almost severed some limbs with it.

One sad reality is that nobody is loved perfectly. Sometimes we do let people down, badly. Sometimes we don’t or can’t offer the support they need or we’re deaf to their cries. But it’s equally true that every person makes their own choices and ultimately, those choices are between them and God. We can confess our failures and learn from them without taking responsibility for someone else’s response to those failures. We can honor others’ agency.

2. You will probably never have the closure you want

My brother died without explanation or warning. He left no note. For a month after his death my family went into forensic detective mode, poring over his journals and eagerly awaiting toxicology reports, looking into all kinds of theories about what could have pushed him to the breaking point. I still have my theories. What I don’t have is answers. And over time I’ve realized, no “explanation” really resolves the existential agony of suicide. Even if we receive a personal answer like a suicide note, or a medical answer like addiction, sleep deprivation, mental illness, or anything else, we’ll always live with the question, “But why?” Because death, and especially death at one’s own hands, is unconscionable. It’s unfathomable. The only thing that will really resolve our grief and confusion about death is its undoing. As crazy as it sounds, I put my hope in this future.

3. Your love was not in vain

As a Christian, I’m sometimes tempted to believe that love, if rightly offered, should always “work.” That if we pray and care for someone, if they taste the hope of God, we’ll all get the happy ending we want. We resurrection people sometimes struggle with stories that we can’t tie up in a neat bow of redemption. But many times, love’s before and after photos look more similar than we want. Many times, love seems to end in vain. What then?

In ch. 9 of Feasting On Hope, I elaborate on my own wrestling with this question. This month I’ve revisited some of what I wrote there: “For Jesus, love was never about returns or results. It was a gift that he gave even though he knew it would be misunderstood and rejected. His obedience and his confidence did not hinge on others’ responses. He knew who he was and what he had come to do. He gave this gift unto death.

Of course, in his resurrection, Jesus was ultimately vindicated…His resurrection is proof that love is not impotent, even if we can’t see its intended effects in the short term. Jesus’ passion makes it clear: the gospel does “work”—but not always in the way we like to imagine… Sometimes our stories will seem to end in failure. Sometimes our love seems to return void.

…Sometimes, for reasons we can’t know, people refuse the mercy that is offered to them. But… unrequited kindness is never wasted. Instead, it is a seed that dies, planted in the soil of a kingdom that remains hidden. We may not see its fruit now, but one day we will sit together under its shade and remember.”

Noah- I know you aren’t reading this, but I still need to say it. I regret many things, but not loving you. In your memory, I will keep sowing seeds.

In hope for the Day,
Hannah+

I could say the McDonaldization of our world too, because everywhere we go is starting to look a lot more like everywhere else—I’ll never forget the disappointment and irritation I felt after seeing a literal McDonalds on my first trip to Europe as a teenager—but I say the McDonaldization of our lives because we increasingly inhabit every place we go in the same way. Thanks to smart phones, we cruise the sidewalk while staring at our screens whether we are at the beach with our families or walking our dogs after work. Thanks to social media, kids in rural Appalachia use the same expressions as kids in urban New York. Thanks to the 24-7 news cycle, we all ping-pong from one crisis (or salacious story) to the next without much ability to sustain thought or action about any one of them. We’re all shaping up to be greasy French fries that aren’t very healthy but at least will taste the same whether you’re in Georgia or Geneva.

This is technically the Zermatt McDonald’s, not Geneva

My interest in the above started with a desire to build better habits. Can I become more aware of how often I’m looking at my screen instead of my kids? Can I learn how to read and listen to longer arguments instead of being held hostage by Twitter-speak? I read a few books about this and have made some progress with my habits, though not as much as I’d like.

But along the way, my interest expanded to something a bit broader. I read some more books— they suggested the problem isn’t only with our habits, but with our habitat: we have engineered an environment that is forming us not only to behave in certain ways, but to believe and love certain things that reinforce our behavior. We’ve been taught that the good life looks like an Apple product: smooth, efficient, and marketable. In this worldview (metaverse?) there is no incarnate God, only a big “Machine.” We built it, but now we are cogs in its wheels. Which is a small price to pay for the convenience, pleasure, and beauty it provides.

If I were smarter or maybe just better versed in technology or economics, I could take this essay in a different direction. But I am a pastor and a mom. And I couldn’t help but think about the Machine while watching my favorite animated movie with my kids last week, which is about two brothers who discover magic. Their world is full of elves and sprites and centaurs and other mythical creatures, but they’ve all forgotten or “outgrown” their magical abilities. Now they have electricity and cars and have no need for archaic body parts like wings.

Then the brothers open a mysterious gift from their dad, who died sixteen years ago when they were young (readers who know me should now know why I love this movie). He left them a magic staff, and if they can master the right spell they can bring him back for one day.

The younger brother Ian doesn’t really believe in magic but is desperate to meet his father. The older brother Barley is a true believer, and this makes him unpopular. He’s the guy who in our world plays Dungeons and Dragons, dresses up for Renaissance festivals, and who has taught himself to write Tolkien’s Elvish (I can tease because this guy is my people). At first, Ian doesn’t want to take advice from his weird older brother. But when they learn to work together, the magic begins to work. Wings start to flap again. Dormant powers awaken. I won’t spoil the ending for you but if you watch it, prepare to cry.

As I watched this movie last week, I thought about the church. We (who profess faith in a God who became human, was born of a virgin, and who rose from the dead) have perhaps seen ourselves the way Ian sees his big brother Barley: naïve, deluded, and uncool. Our magical way of viewing the world seems archaic and foolish, and we’re embarrassed. We try instead to blend in with the beautiful, the efficient, the evolved. We McDonaldize our faith by adapting it to a naturalized, mechanized audience.

But eventually, desperation and longing become stronger than our embarrassment and we find ourselves asking the question: is the Machine all there is, or is there something more? Is “magic” something we’ve outgrown, or that we badly need to rediscover? I think what we are seeing both inside and outside the church right now is that people are growing disenchanted with the status quo and are starting to wake up to a different, older story. Their wings are starting to work again. They are still obediently glued to their smart phones but finding less and less satisfaction in their tiny screens.

On their quest to meet their father, Barley and Ian have to do a lot of remembering. The stories of how sprites used to fly, and how magical stones used to be imbued with curses or charms, aren’t just fantasy or even history but reality: in remembering, they reconnect with the real. In a very similar way, the church is called to remember. Every week in our worship, we remember the words and actions of Jesus Christ in the ritual meal that defines us.1 This sacramental celebration doesn’t merely recall Jesus’ life to our minds, but makes him present to us and with us and in us. In remembering Jesus, we are re-membered to him and to each other. It’s a little bit like magic.

Instead of chopping us up into little monolithic units of consumption that will smoothly operate as cogs in the Machine, the Christian story puts us back together as full human beings in all our cultural, physical, and spiritual complexity. It is very old-school, undeniably material, but also supremely spiritual. We should not be embarrassed about it.

We should, however, ask hard questions about how to live in its light. We should get curious about our habits and how they are forming us (among other things). We should ask, in all the little moments, which story am I living in? Am I being shaped more by the Machine than by my Maker? For me right now, re-membering looks like embracing the particulars of my life in the place God has put me. It looks like resisting the McDonaldization of conformity to something that might on the surface be more appealing.

I do not actually live in the non-space of social media, but on Wood Lily Drive in Canton, NC. I do not live in a house that Southern Living would want to feature, but one where three unique human beings are being forged (and where lots of cheerios hide on the floor). I do not attend a church that would impress celebrity pastors, but one where the Body of Christ is made tangible to me every week. That Body looks like men and women of all sizes, shapes, abilities, and ages. They are not uniform or exactly like me. But they belong to me and I to them. This is covenant language, and it is not nearly as convenient as its alternatives. It is not nearly as comfortable as gazing into my smart phone. I still choose the latter far more often than I should. But I am working hard to re-member instead.

Thanks for reading,
Hannah+

1

If you’ve read my book, you know that my own faith was shaped by the celebration of the eucharist in ways I could not understand at first, much less articulate. I’m still working it out, now fully confident I’ll never reach the end of it.

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On our first full day at the beach, my eight- and ten-year-old boys were desperate to get outside. When the rain finally subsided, we headed straight for the ocean. I did briefly wonder, Will all that rain make the waves more intense? But their enthusiasm prevailed over my thoughts. I gave them instructions: Stay together, don’t go out beyond waist deep, and make sure to stay in front of me. Then I turned my beach chair sideways so I could see them on one side of me and my four-year-old daughter in the sand on the other side.

My husband Michael joined us a few minutes later. It was low tide, so there was a huge expanse of beach between our daughter on the sand bar and our boys in the waves. My head toggled back and forth between them as Michael read out loud from a book. At one point I said, “Hold on. The boys look like they’ve gotten kind of far.” We walked to the water’s edge and heard my firstborn scream, “Help!” Then we sprinted into the waves.

My maternal intuition had already been raised, I think. Between the rain and the tide and the size of the waves I was on higher alert than normal. (I also was so frantic in my effort to get to my sons that I face planted in the waves at the start of our big swim, which my ten-year-old described as a moment of hilarity amid his distress.)

When we got out to them, they explained that a big wave pulled them out and they couldn’t touch the ground. Neither could I or my six-foot-tall husband. Still, we thought it would be simple enough to put them on our backs and paddle to shallower water. Thanks to an incredible surge of adrenaline, I managed to keep my ten-year-old on my shoulders while swimming against the waves—but we weren’t making much progress toward shore.^[1] My husband and younger son were having a much worse experience. As he’d begun to panic, my eight-year-old kept grabbing Michael by the throat and trying to climb on top of his head. Before long, Michael had lost so much oxygen that he couldn’t hold on to our son any longer. For a moment, I had both boys in my care in the deep choppy water while my husband struggled to recover.

As powerful as I felt in that moment, I knew I did not have the strength to swim my sons back to shore—especially not with the panic that was setting in for them. We were still too far out and the water had us in a holding pattern I couldn’t figure out how to escape. By some miracle, a trick from my childhood came to mind and I told the boys to float on their backs. (My younger son kept insisting he couldn’t, so I had to put him in the position myself and prop him up from below). Michael later reported that hearing this instruction probably saved his own life: he’d spent all his energy trying to keep our son above water and had no power left in his limbs. He didn’t think to float until he heard my voice. After we bobbed for a few minutes, a courageous stranger swam out to us with a boogie board and helped my sons get to safety, one after the other.

--------

I have already told this story a handful of times, in part to process the terror of it for myself and in part to raise awareness about water safety with other beachgoers. But I haven’t yet written about the internal struggle it has crystallized for me: when I sense danger, how do I know when to swim like hell and when to relax and float?

In crisis, I tend to be a “doer.” When Michael and I were nearing the end of seminary and needed jobs, I cold-called dozens of churches looking for potential openings. (Bravery that borders on annoying has always been a quality of mine.) In general, my approach to this process was intense and a little frenetic. Michael, more relaxed and peaceful about the future, joined in much later. The day he started looking, a job had been posted at a church near Washington, D.C. An hour later, Michael was on the phone with the pastor who ended up hiring us. Despite all my advance planning, I can’t take any credit for finding our eventual workplace.

Job hunting after grad school may not seem like much of a crisis. But I’ve gravitated toward over-functioning in heavier situations too. When my mom was diagnosed with cancer around the same time, I obsessively researched cancer diets and nutrition. Then I spent the better part of a year cooking things for her that admittedly didn’t taste very good— because I was determined to do my part to fight her cancer.

In general, I like my energy and task-orientation. But I also know that these attributes have been animated by a deep fear of loss, a tragic anger toward the powerlessness of my childhood. When my dad was sick, I had no agency. When he died and the bank foreclosed on our home, I didn’t get a vote. Years later as a young mother, when a series of other tragic losses impacted my family resulting in subsequent moves to new homes, my childhood trauma got its own kind of adrenaline rush, and I developed a white-knuckle reaction to all of life. You could say that as an adult, I’m overcompensating for the powerlessness I hated as a child. Now, I spend a lot of my time scanning the horizon for potential crises, hypervigilant and ill at ease. In certain ways, I am a control freak.

Of course, sometimes real crises are out there. This fact only fuels my fire. If I hadn’t been paying close attention to my boys on the beach, if I’d relaxed and closed my eyes for five minutes, it might have been too late. But also, in the end, it wasn’t muscular action that kept us afloat, but a surrender to the water to hold us; it wasn’t my skill that got us to shore but the stranger who helped us. How do I learn to hold these realities together? Truthfully, I’d rather not. Though I was relieved that we made it out of the ocean, I hated myself for letting it get that close.

As I laid awake in bed all night after our scary swim, watching YouTube videos about rip currents, my brain was desperately searching for the information I thought would help me respond better next time, or perhaps that would have prevented it in the first place. Maybe if I’d been more prepared, more vigilant, less stupid and trusting, this would never have happened. It felt more responsible to wallow in shame than to sit in gratitude for God’s mercy, more acceptable than accepting my weakness. I do not want to be in a position to need to float and wait. I do not want to get stuck in any current, damn-it.

And yet, as I now know from experience, the ocean is much bigger than my plans for it. I may think I can control my life through careful planning and strategic action, but that is like thinking I can control the tide. And I may think I can white-knuckle my way out of a crisis, but that is like trying to swim against a rip current. Over-functioning may make me feel more powerful in the moment, but long term it’s a recipe for burnout and exhaustion.

In this particular season of my life, certain real threats loom on the horizon. I know my call right now isn’t to close my eyes and wait. But I also know my call isn’t to grab everyone by the throat and try to resolve the threats myself. Instead, the call is to learn dependence: the kind that sometimes sprints in obedience and sometimes floats— it’s to practice the kind of trust that can take action but also be patient, that can powerfully participate but also confidently surrender. This is the most uncomfortable path forward because it requires me to stay alive to the problems without trying to control them.

I heard recently in this interview that authors often think they’re writing a book for others when really, they’re writing a message to themselves. In Feasting On Hope, I write about some of the above struggles in past-tense, which might imply that I’ve moved on from them. I have not. But I am finding in the pages of my own book a reminder that my past isn’t only full of ghosts and nightmares. It is also full of grace upon grace. It tells of a good God who was with me as a frightened child and who did hold me, both when I was flailing and floating. Who was actually there even when I couldn’t see him, just like he was for my panicked son who kept asking after being put on the boogie board, “Am I still on the board? Is it still there?”

I’ll never forget reassuring my son over and over as I swam beside him to shore. And as I ask my own, slightly more sophisticated adult version of the same question, I know God does not tire of reassuring me. Lord, I believe, help my unbelief.

PS- If you’re curious…

• Tangentially related: in June I wrote about the role of anger in Christian piety for Christianity Today

• One of my favorite podcasters interviewed me about Christian hope, being a female priest, church unity and what those things all have to do with the eucharist here.

• I gave a shout out to the stranger who saved us in this sermon about how Christian mission takes many forms.

^[1] I still don’t know for sure whether we were caught in a rip current, but since this ordeal I’ve done a lot of reading and watching about how ocean currents can trap swimmers. I want everyone to know something about them!

I first received a call to ministry at age eight.

I say “received” because I sensed some sort of draw (an impression? A desire?) to work for God and said yes in my spirit. I still remember gazing out the window of my childhood bedroom and daydreaming about the orphanage I would one day build in a far-off country and the hundreds of children who would live there (be merciful; I was eight!). This particular vision was likely an amalgamation of my love for kids and of the only model I had for women in ministry: Baptist missionaries who worked, often with children, overseas.

I might also have chalked up this vision to childhood dreams (like my subsequent interest in becoming a marine biologist, a world-famous singer, and a traveling painter), except it’s the one dream that never left me. When I entered college, I was still staunchly committed to a future in foreign missions and made a point of telling people about it.

What I discovered in college, however, is that mission work doesn’t only happen “overseas.” It can happen in a college classroom or a coffee shop or a local church. I’d grown up with a very narrow understanding of where God might call me and what kind of work he might give me to do—but in college he began to expand that. It took a number of years, plus a vision trip to another country, to realize that maybe God was calling me to ministry in the United States.

Suddenly, questions I’d been able to avoid as a future “overseas missionary” now rose to the fore. What exactly can women do in ministry in the US? I found it ironic that nobody asked these questions of women serving abroad. There was an unspoken “out of sight out of mind” (or maybe even “don’t ask, don’t tell”) policy about women serving overseas in my particular Christian subculture. But now that I was not in that category of women, I had to figure out what was appropriate to even consider before I could discern my vocational path forward.

This led to a multi-year study during seminary under the mentorship of conservative biblical scholars. Most of them belonged to denominations that did not ordain women, but some of them disagreed with their denominations. Suffice it to say, as a cradle Southern Baptist I was very concerned about going “off the rails” of biblical authority and truth, and I am grateful to have had such wise, godly guides on my journey.

Given that it took me years to work through the biblical and historical considerations about women in ministry, and that there are books and books to be read on this, I don’t expect to change anyone’s mind in 1,000 words. But I will recommend the work of Philip Payne, a fellow evangelical missionary type who spoke my language (and probably at least 5 other languages, including biblical Greek and Hebrew). His careful exegesis was the first to really get inside my head and help me think about certain biblical texts differently.

I will also say that my study among conservative scholars, many of whom were willing to say, “I don’t know for sure” or, “This is complicated” gave me a deep respect for various conclusions about the exact role of women in ministry, and it drew me to the Anglican Church in North America which allows for differing convictions regarding women’s ordination. (I wrote more about that here.)

Eventually, I personally came to believe that God created men and women to serve side-by-side in the church and the world. In the Garden, God gave Adam and Eve a shared calling. Meaning, “priestly” ministry is not a gendered thing, but a human thing. After a decade of ministry, I remain convinced that shared leadership between men and women is not only biblically faithful, but also relationally healthy: men and women are going to bring different insights, experiences, embodiments, and perspectives to the work of ministry. Just as children benefit from having both a mother and a father, the church benefits from having both male and female shepherds.

I will admit that even after changing my mind about what God might call certain women to do in the church, I was afraid to presume that he might be calling me to do those things (namely, things that might offend others—preach or lead, for example). This fear was partially godly, I think: nobody, male or female, should presume anything of God. In my experience, women who’ve discerned a call to ministry interrogate their own presumption far more thoroughly than most men, because men are rarely called “presumptuous” for exploring a call to leadership. Women often are.

But my fear was also partially cowardice. I didn’t want to upset people or become a target. For a while I tried to talk myself into pursuing the deaconate because that would be less controversial in my particular denomination. What ultimately made the difference was an honest exploration of my gifts and sense of call: What do I believe God has given me to do? In my tradition, priests are people who serve up Word and Sacrament to the church. Having been a word-person from childhood, and having asked in every church I’d belonged to since college, “Can I help serve the Communion bread?” I knew I had to at least formally ask the question about priestly orders.

Four years later, I was on the cusp of priestly ordination and again wondered if I should just stay a deacon. I confided in my bishop about this. He looked me in the eyes and said, “I do not see that for you. I want you to embrace what God has given you even if it will be at times uncomfortable.” I share this story to illustrate the fact that if it were not for the encouragement of other leaders—mostly men—to take some brave steps, I don’t know much harder or longer my journey to ordination would have been.

If you are reading this and are in a position to notice and encourage the gifts of women around you, inviting them to teach or preach or lead a ministry or consider ordination, you probably can’t imagine how significant that might be in their story. And even if you don’t believe women should do certain things in the church: if you are in a position to encourage greater contributions from women in whatever ways your tradition does embrace, you probably can’t imagine how much that will benefit the whole body. The church is healthiest when men and women are both engaged in the work God has given us to do.

PS- I wrote recently on Instagram that lay (un-ordained) ministry is equally ministry, and that being gifted and called doesn’t mean a person needs to have a title or stand behind a pulpit. However, since New Testament times, it is clear that certain persons are called to a certain kind of ministry, namely, to regularly teach and shepherd the flock. Those persons were appointed and recognized for their unique role in the body. God calls all of his people to ministry. Some are called to lifelong or particular roles within ministry. To what has he called you? Are you open to an answer that might surprise you?

Hannah+

PPS- If you’re curious…

• On the topic of women in leadership: In addition to Philip Payne, I was also influenced by N.T Wright who is often considered one of the foremost living New Testament scholars. He has spoken to this issue here and here, among other places.

• On the topic of ordination: these two books are helpful companions for those discerning the deaconate and the priesthood in the Anglican tradition. If you have a go-to resource for a different denomination or tradition, I’d love to see it in the comments!

• On the topic of Word and Sacrament: When I was ordained in 2018, I had no idea that I would eventually write a book about the eucharist. But, Communion really has so profoundly shaped my faith that I recently wrote 50,000 words about it. It’s a narrative theology of the eucharist, and how this meal can give us a taste of Christian hope amid really tragic life experiences. I would love for you to read it!

The Backstory: How I Got Here

To articulate where I am now (in the Anglican church), I must first reflect on where I have been. All of us are story-shaped: profoundly influenced by how we were raised, what we have experienced, who we have known and loved. I am lucky to have had positive experiences among Baptist, Pentecostal, Presbyterian, and Roman Catholic communities. In other words, my story has shown me the beauty not just in one tradition, but in the whole church. (It has also shown me brokenness, dysfunction, and sin in the whole church—more on that later.)

My family is Southern Baptist on both sides for many generations. My grandparents were Baptist missionaries. I was baptized by immersion at age five after making a profession of faith. I was homeschooled, memorized Bible verses at Awana, and assumed I would one day follow in my grandparents’ footsteps and become a cross-cultural missionary.

When I was eleven, my father was diagnosed with cancer and given six months to live. He was forty; he had six young children. My parents, desperate for a miracle, began asking a lot of questions about healing and whether God is still in the business of reversing death sentences. Our Baptist church at the time didn’t have a strong imagination for this, so we ended up at a Pentecostal church during his illness.

After my father died, I had a whole new set of questions as a young teenager: What does it mean when miracles don’t come, when fervent prayers aren’t answered the way we hope? How do we hold faith in an all-powerful, all-good God who doesn’t always act on our behalf in the ways we think he should? This led me to the Reformed tradition, to mentors who taught me about God’s sovereignty and his mysterious providence even in the hard things.

By the time I was in seminary, I cheekily referred to myself as a “Bapti-presby-costal” because each of these streams of Christianity had formed me deeply. Then, I discovered the sacraments. Part 1 of this discovery was becoming convinced that weekly Eucharist is a superb way to teach people about the God who has come near to be with us and dwell with us. Part 2 of this discovery was what happened in my own faith and my own life after I started receiving weekly Eucharist.

The Brass Tacks: Why I’m Still Here

It won’t surprise anyone who has read my book that the Eucharist is what brought me into the Anglican church. But once I got there, I realized how many other things I’d been missing all along. The Eucharist has helped me grow in my faith but so has the church calendar: If we are all story-shaped, what better story around which to organize our worship than the story of redemption? Every year we revisit the good news again, taking time to pause and reflect together on each part of it—Jesus’ birth and our desperate need for it, his ministry on earth, his death, resurrection and ascension, the gift of the Holy Spirit and our mission to the world, his ongoing presence with us, and our hope for Jesus’ return at the end of history. We never graduate from the gospel; we can only go deeper into it. The church’s liturgy is designed to help us do that.

The Anglican tradition also opened my eyes to a more global and ancient church than I’d known before. Sure, I knew there were Christians around the world from a young age. But I didn’t know that there were so many Christians in such active community around the world—that we share leaders (bishops) and traditions (liturgy) and even study the same Scriptures on the same Sundays (lectionary). I also knew that the church was born two thousand years ago. But growing up Protestant, my theological education functionally omitted most of the tradition between the New Testament and the Reformation— as if what happened between the second and sixteenth centuries of the church didn’t really count.

Becoming Anglican has not felt like a departure from my evangelical upbringing— it has felt like an expansion of it. The serious study of Scripture, the power of the Holy Spirit, the mysterious providence of God: all of these treasures are retained in the Anglican tradition. But so are two thousand years of church history, the real presence of Jesus in the Eucharist, and the support of the liturgy—centuries worth of prayers handed down to help us grow up into this ancient faith. (Spontaneous prayer also has a role in the life of faith, but liturgy helps us even with this—it’s like the chord structure of orthodoxy which then teaches us how to improvise well.)

Why Not Catholicism?

This is a question that often arises when Anglicans start gushing about liturgy and sacraments and church history. If those are the reasons we are drawn to this tradition, why not “keep going” all the way to the Catholic or Orthodox Church? I think it’s a fair question—though it’s one I never would have asked in my twenties. Like a good evangelical, I grew up with a lot of suspicion toward Christians whose faith I assumed was “compromised” by “unbiblical” teachings and traditions.

Now, I see things differently. I would not argue on principal against someone converting to Catholicism or Orthodoxy any more than I would argue against them joining any creedal, Trinitarian Church. I would ask: What’s driving you to this decision? Who have been your guides? What do you hope to find on the other side of conversion? If it’s a perfect church you’re looking for, you’ll be disappointed—but if you feel this is where Jesus is calling you, I sincerely believe you will find him there.

The reason I am not Catholic or Orthodox—at least as of this writing—is that I personally feel that the Anglican Church affords me the greatest unity with Christians on both sides of the Reformation. This theologian said it well in the context of liturgy, but I think it applies writ large: “Anglican [liturgy] is distinctive because it balances in a remarkable way continuity with the Church before the Reformation, with Reformation concerns and principles.”

Anglicans have problems. A whole lot of them. At times I feel weary or disillusioned by them all. But because I have been in ministry for a while now— and because I have friends in many other traditions— I know that everyone’s got problems. So I write about why I’m Anglican not to try and convince anyone, “Come over here and everything will be great!” but to hopefully convey, “Here are the gifts my church has to give.” I do think they’re pretty great. At the same time, I eagerly await the day we are all at one Table, sharing the gifts we’ve all received from our one Host. For now, I believe he has called me to this one.

Hannah+

PS- This piece is not even an attempt to exhaustively explain/expound any of the above. Books and books have been written on topics like liturgy, the Reformation, ecumenism, church history, etc. My goal was to introduce and illustrate some of the themes that have been most important in my own faith journey (and to stick to a reasonable word count). If you are interested in more resources, here are some that came to mind as I was writing:

-this podcast interview with Rev. Dr. Matthew S.C. Olver, an Episcopal priest and liturgical historian (other episodes of this podcast are great too)

-my book about how the Eucharist forms us as people of hope— which I pray will resonate with and enrich Christians of all traditions

-these accessible books about the church calendar, “rote” prayer, and other FAQs about the Anglican way

-the first public piece I ever wrote, about why I went ACNA and not TEC. There’s more that could be said than I say here, but I still agree with what’s written.

-this creepy but awesome podcast co-hosted by a Catholic exorcist and a Protestant entrepreneur (really— it’s weird and I love it).

I am not a biblical scholar, a philosopher, a scientist, or a historian. I do not expect to write some kind of slam-dunk defense of Christian faith or present any internet-breaking evidence for the resurrection of Jesus. (If you want to hear some interesting conversion stories or apologetics from people with PhDs, there are plenty. Check out Martin Shaw or NT Wright or Molly Worthen.)

I am not an expert or public intellectual, but I am still responsible for my choices. I am orienting my life toward a certain story, and as a pastor and a mom I am wielding what little influence and authority I have in the lives of others to point them in the same direction. This compels me to periodically pause and reflect: Why do I believe this stuff? Do I really have peace about inviting others to trust an invisible God and a future hope? These questions aren’t only for scholars; they’re for all Christians.

Why is a good question for all of us to ask, regardless of what we believe. Whether we like it or not, whether we are aware of it or not, most of our lives are spent in echo chambers. It’s easy to forget that there are good reasons for not believing or thinking or living the way you do—so why are you on the path you’re on?

I could be on the Christian path because it’s comfortable. It’s what I was taught growing up, and most people I know espouse faith. But the older I get, the less comfortable Christianity becomes for me. It is socially awkward to tell the other moms at my kids’ public school or the nice guy next to me on an airplane, “I follow a man I’ve never seen, but who I believe was born of a virgin and raised from the dead and is now in heaven and will one day return to renew the earth.” (Someone I met a couple years ago, after I told him I am a Christian, responded laughingly, “And I belong to the church of the flying spaghetti monster!”)

In addition to being publicly uncomfortable, Christian faith is also privately uncomfortable. I regularly chafe against submitting to a God who cares not only about what beliefs I express on paper but also what secret thoughts I indulge, what resentments I harbor, what small choices I make when nobody is looking. For me, and really for the majority of Christians throughout history and around the world, Christianity is not all that comfortable.

I could also be a Christian because it’s expedient. Who cares if something sounds weird if it works? My brother eats one meal a day: a pound of steak and four eggs. To me this sounds insane. But he feels better when he eats like this, so he does it. A lot of people assume—or even feel pressure to insist—that Christianity is practical, that it “works” for people, like any good self-help program. I beg to differ. I do not believe, despite how nice it would be, that Christian faith makes life fall into place. If anything, Jesus himself promised the exact opposite: “Follow me and your life will fall into the shape of a cross.” (Matt. 16:24)

This is not to say Christianity doesn’t offer an effective way of being in the world. The upside-down principals Jesus taught like forgiving enemies, forgetting wealth, and loving neighbors have changed the world precisely because they work—they lead to society’s healing. But the pursuit of these things doesn’t always yield the results we want in the short term. Following Jesus for me has looked like letting go of expediency, of practical solutions or promised outcomes. It has looked like entrusting myself to a story I can’t fully see and that sometimes feels entirely imaginary. Following Jesus isn’t the way to get rich or live an enviable, impressive life. It’s a way of dying to those goals.

So, why would anyone do it? Why walk the Christian path, a cross-shaped road that is uncomfortable and at times frustrating? My personal answer is because more than anything else I’ve encountered, the Christian story coheres. It tells me that this world is good, made by a God who loves it and therefore will not abide its corruption. Our anger over injustice, cruelty, pollution, and violence is more than an arbitrary or self-made moral judgment: it is an innate understanding of creation’s goodness and the problem of evil. This problem entered the world through sin and therefore also lives in me. The Christian story tells me that God’s response to this problem is to enter it himself in the form of a human being on a cross. And that his ultimate reversal of that evil will be complete when he returns, scars in hand. I follow Jesus because he alone has shown me how to hold honesty about the world (and myself) alongside hope for its healing (and mine).

That doesn’t mean I have no questions or doubts. It doesn’t mean I never struggle. But it does mean that in the struggle, I believe God has come near and that in the end, the struggle won’t be wasted. I am a Christian because I really do believe a man born of a virgin was raised from the dead and will never die again. I really do believe that one day we will see him and that he’ll wipe every tear from our eyes. I really do believe that because of this, it’s worth the trouble of caring about this world he loves and to work for its healing even if I won’t see it in my lifetime. Even if some days it sounds like a foolish dream.

It’s not comfortable or expedient, but I do believe this story is true. And though it is cross-shaped, at times laughable and often invisible, the way of Christ is also beautiful to me. It is the way he walked for me, for us, for the whole world. Because of him, I am compelled to follow.

Hannah+

PS- If you’re curious…

• This week I spoke with Curtis Chang on the Good Faith podcast about how the eucharist informs our hope for the world.

• The sermon I preached on Easter included almost none of the above, but a fair bit about Harry Potter (and my 9 year old and what this has to do with Mary Magdalene’s announcement of the resurrection)

• I am hugely grateful to the ~150 people (!) who’ve written an Amazon or GoodReads review of Feasting On Hope. If you’ve read it, would you take 30 seconds to go give it a rating? Reviews really help more readers find a book.

This sermon is still tucked away in my computer because I got very sick on Saturday night and didn’t get to preach it. (I’m ready for you next year, fifth week of Lent!) I joked with a friend about how instead of preaching Lazarus, I became Lazarus. This in itself was a good sermon for me to hear because it’s easy when we are responsible for things to think that it’s all up to us—if we don’t show up, get it done, do the things, it won’t happen. Then we taste our fragility and weakness and remember: there is a God, and we’re not him. It’s a severe mercy to discover that without you, the world keeps spinning.

But I’m realizing my time spent in John 11 wasn’t wasted, even though I won’t preach it for a year (or ever. Who knows what 2027 will bring!) I’d read it many times as a personal message to me, a bereaved sister. But last week I read it for the first time as a message for the church, bereaved for the world. This was a timely message given how many ways the world is in turmoil these days. We are watching wars and hearing rumors of wars; we are grieving injustice and misinformation and corruption and relational breakdown; we feel powerless to change it.

As Christians, we tend to respond to these crises in one of two ways. Either we hide behind our theological maxims, insulating ourselves from the pain and madness of it all with emotionless claims about God’s sovereignty and mysterious purposes— or we give ourselves fully to our grief over the state of all-the-things and become overwhelmed.

The gift that Jesus gave to Mary and Martha at the grave of Lazarus—and that he offers to us—is theological perspective AND compassionate presence. “I am the resurrection and the life, believe and you will see the glory of God”—but also, “Show me where you laid him.”

As we turn toward the pain of the world, it’s so hard to hold these two things together.

In our desire to offer theological perspective, we might talk about the problem of evil or the reality of sin or God’s sovereign purposes— but we might unintentionally convey a kind of callousness about the real pain and agony of life under these conditions.

Or on the flipside, in our desire to be present and empathetic with world in its pain, we can get lost in the bigness of its problems and feel overwhelmed ourselves. We can fall into the trap of despair, of grieving without hope.

Intimacy with the God of the gospel looks like staying alive to what’s hard without losing hope of the resurrection. It looks like presence and perspective—because that’s where God is. He’s in the mix of life as it comes to us in real time, and he is the life.

There is a God, and we are not him. There is a God, and he is not callous to the pain of the world. There is a God, and he is not powerless to change things. There is a God, and his name is Jesus. He weeps beside us (John 11:35) and gives life to the dead, calling into existence the things that do not exist. (Rom. 4:17) As he holds us, may we learn to hold the world in this hope.

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In other news…

March was a whirlwind with a visit to two churches in Dallas, TX and to Berry College in Rome, GA to talk about my book. Each audience has blessed me and taught me. College students have as many thoughts about hope as seasoned adults. Baptists have as much to say about the Eucharist as Anglicans. I’ve been so honored to share my story with others and to learn something of their stories in return.

Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, or engaged Feasting On Hope in some way!

In April, I head to Chicagoland to speak to a group of congregationalist churches about Communion and atonement, then to the Calvin Festival of Faith and Writing where I’m leading a lunch circle. If you are going to be there, I’d love to meet you!

Hannah+

PS- If you’re curious…

• One of my heroes Jessica Hooten Wilson interviewed me on her Substack (this will be free for everyone at the end of the month)

• I shared on two different evangelical pastor podcasts that want to think more about the Eucharist: FrontStage BackStage and Innovative Church Leaders

• I wrote about the Eucharist and justice (food for the hungry!) at the invitation of my new friend Drew Miller and talked about it with a former-pastor-former-chef-turned theologian who knows a lot more about cheese than I do.

It is weird.

Old Testament weird—ancient, confusing, fantastical, challenging, exciting.

Lots of it I don’t quite understand. If I’m honest, reading it has reminded me of faith: we plod along, day after day, in a story that is often mysterious to us.

At times we find refreshment and resonance: “I myself will be the shepherd of the sheep cause them to lie down in peace” (Ez. 34:15). But other times, it’s all Greek (or, in this case, Hebrew): “Wherever the spirit would go, they would go, and the wheels would rise along with them, because the spirit of the living creatures was in the wheels” (Ez. 1:20).

Having learned a bit of actual Greek and Hebrew, I can speak to the value of digging into the mystery. There’s a lot we can glean if we give ourselves to the study of God’s Word and his work in our lives. But there’s also a lot we’ll never fully grasp. There are seasons that don’t make sense or that suspend our belief.

Despite how much I hate this, our lack of understanding isn’t a flaw but a feature of faith: our faith holds us even when we can’t hold it. Because ultimately, we aren’t the storytellers. We are the storied; we are the ones being carried along in a narrative much, much bigger than we think. Much bigger than we can even appreciate. One day, we’re told, we’ll know fully—but even then, I don’t think we’ll know all things. We’ll know him, and that will be enough.

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I’ve been reflecting lately on the weirdness of having lived through a hard childhood and to now be sharing it with strangers publicly in a book. It’s very rewarding, of course, to see how God has put it to use—nothing is wasted if we offer it back to him. And yet, that doesn’t explain why it happened in the first place. Redemption of a thing doesn’t justify the original scandal.

As much as I like analysis and crave closure, I think conclusive explanations often cheapen reality. Confident faith looks less like having simple answers to all questions and more like being able to embrace paradoxical truths: God-and-man, sinner-and-saint, already-and-not-yet. In my life, this looks like embracing both lament and gratitude. I grieve what happened to my family, but I am grateful for how God has met me in it and how he has worked through it. The finer points really belong to him, not me.

Launching this book at the start of Lent has invited more reflection on this: even the parts of my story that I have processed well enough to articulate in 50,000 words, even the things I’m ready to shout from the rooftops, are subsumed in a larger story that I’ll never stop exploring. I say my bit, then I quiet down and listen. I receive ashes. I remember that I am not the lead character. It is quite freeing.

The story of redemption is weird. And so, so good. We’ll never get to the bottom of it.

My book is one week old today. I have so many people to thank for helping me send it into the world. If you pre-ordered, recommended to a friend, or wrote an Amazon review, thank you!! A highlight of last week for me was having my mom and two sisters drive from out of state to celebrate our Fat Tuesday/book launch party in North Carolina where I live. I loved sharing its message with my local church and their friends.

Another highlight was speaking at a church in Columbia, SC about how “hope in the wilderness” relates to Lent. Next month I go to Dallas, TX and Rome, GA. If you are in one of those areas, or if you are interested in hosting a conversation about Christian hope where you live this summer or fall, let me know!

Hannah+

PS- If you’re curious…

• Here are a few podcast conversations I’ve had about the book with friends Esau McCaulley, Courtney Ellis, Meg Cranshaw and Kat Silverglate.

• Here’s what I learned about Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness and what it can teach us about how to live (starts at around the 30 minute-mark)

• Here are some book excerpts: from one about church hurt at Christianity Today and here’s one from one about joy at Mere Orthodoxy . But shoot, if you’re going to read the excerpts you might as well just read the book!

As I write this, I’m sitting in my brightly lit, electrically heated house counting down the potential hours until our power goes out (and feeling extra thankful for our two fireplaces!). Winter Storm Fern is making its way across the country this weekend, and my fellow North Carolinians (and many others in the Southeast) are doing what we can to prepare for an uncertain week ahead. Hurricane Helene taught us the hard way: “preparedness” only goes so far in the face of nature’s matchless power.

This month I am sitting in another calm-before-the-storm as I anticipate the launch of my book into the world in February. I’m preparing for what I expect—some visits to churches and schools, some podcast interviews—and aware that there will also be some things I don’t expect out of this next season. Joys, challenges or disappointments, or all of the above. At the very least, a public discussion about personal details of my childhood (a risk I chose) will generate some unpredictability—what will people say, or ask me? How will I handle reading critical reviews, or positive ones? What will this new season do to my soul?

Writers can be very “special” about their interior lives. It’s easy to feel spiritual when I am sitting alone in a coffee shop with a bunch of open books and deep thoughts to occupy my mind. Engaging social media, pitching my work to strangers, and ordering a credit card reader feel decidedly less so. In fact, they sometimes feel downright cringey. And yet, this is the season I’m in, the one I’ve prepared for by writing this book—a message I deeply believe in and want to share with others. Walking it out is humbling, in a way. Yes, even the “special” people can learn how to use Canva and Zoom.

I’m not sure there’s a point to this reflection other than this: life can’t be neatly controlled. We may think we know what we are signing up for when we move to a certain part of the country, or take a particular job, or give birth to a child, but we don’t. We may think we know how we’ll react to a situation, how it will shape us, but we don’t. We can only weather it in real time. This can be terrifying for planners like me who want to map it all out in advance. But there is a greater gift on the other side of our perceived control. It is the gift of trust that says, “I don’t know where this is headed or even how I will handle it—but I trust You are with me.”

My prayer journals for years were filled with petitions like, “Show me what You want, show me Your will for me.” I still pray this way often. But I’ve noticed more prayers in the last few years that ask, “Help me to trust You, help me to be faithful.” It’s a slight shift of emphasis from wanting an actionable to wanting acceptance—acceptance that even if I don’t know what to do, or what God is doing (!)—that He is trustworthy in it and will guide me through it.

I don’t know what this weekend, or this month, or this year will bring. Neither do you. But I do know that we can trust Him. At least, trust is a risk I’m choosing.

On the note of this book…

One unexpected joy I had this month was opening my box of author copies with my kids, who were out of school on a snow day. I wasn’t planning to include them in this experience (or at least not the video) but my 7 year-old, a born performer, grabbed my phone and wrote himself into the script in the most hilarious way. You’ll need sound on to hear his commentary. [Note: also unexpected, my bunny slippers making it into the video.]

If you want to engage the book yourself before February 17, here are a few options:

• join my launch team for an author conversation on Zoom next Friday, Jan 31 at 12p ET (register here for 30 minutes with me about what/why/who this book is for, and to discuss questions like “what do hope and grief have to do with the eucharist?” And “what do Anglicans, Baptists, and Catholics exactly agree on about the Lord’s Supper?”)

• listen to a sample of the audiobook, from the prologue, read by me!

• Check out this early-release podcast interview with Joshua Johnson of Shifting Culture (it will be live wherever you get podcasts on Feb 17; this is an mp3)

• Read the first chapter online or preorder a copy of the whole thing!

If you’re new to this Substack and still aren’t sure what exactly I’m referring to when I say “this book,” here’s a little blurb about it from one of my endorsers:

If you made it this far, thanks for reading. And if you live in the path of Fern, please don’t feel silly stocking up on flashlights, candles, ice melt, and firewood. Life can only be weathered, but it doesn’t hurt to prepare.

Hannah+

Though my own physical stature does not reflect it, I inherited my dad’s “big” genes. And like the rest of us, I live in a world that equates value with scale: How big is your house? (Or, in ministry circles, How big is your church/How many books have you sold?) Moms ask each other, How many tasks do you accomplish in a week/how many Christmas presents do you buy for your kids?

It’s easy to criticize when we state it so bluntly, but the reality is that we’ve all been taught to believe that bigger is better. Consciously or not, we privilege those people or places that represent “more”—more money, more influence, more options. It’s one reason rural populations have tended to be overlooked in American politics—because who cares about those randos in small towns?

I’ve started thinking more about this since moving to one of those small towns, where I currently serve a small church. Here in the mountains, away from the economic and political epicenter of American society, I’ve been learning about life from a different angle. I am not sure I understand it yet, but I am beginning to be attracted to it. I’m beginning to see what smallness has to offer us. And as Christmas approaches and we’re thinking about how the all-powerful, transcendent God chose to become a tiny baby, born to a poor woman in a small town, I wonder: what if bigger isn’t always better? What if there’s something to learn from the God who made himself small?

Of course, it would be an overcorrection to assume that smaller is better instead. The contained, incarnate God still also looms large over the cosmos. But there is a gift, I am beginning to believe, in receiving smallness, whether we find it where we live, or in the limits of our bodies, or in the scope of our daily work. What seems insignificant or maybe even invisible to our eyes is perhaps an invitation to see differently: if we let it, small can become another word for sacred.

Now, for a book update…

In (less than!) two months, my book will be in the world. It’s a personal account of Christian hope as we taste it in the Lord’s Supper. It is both a “big” work of love and prayer on my part (and my prayer team, and my editor, and my friends who read early drafts) as well as a “small” contribution to the church. I am truly so excited to share it with readers who are looking for an exploration of hope amid unmet longings, or a deeper understanding of the eucharist, or both — and I would love your help:

Will you join my launch team? This is a group of volunteers who get early access to the book (in January) so that they can be ready to write a review when the book comes out in February. They are also people who are willing to pre-order a copy of the book now— though this is not a requirement to join the team, pre-orders tell the internet to show the book to more potential readers. So, please consider joining the team if you would like to:

• read the book in early 2026

• review the book on Amazon/Goodreads (eg. “5 stars! This book was helpful”)

• recommend the book to others either online or in real life

This will be, purposefully, a “small” launch team in the sense that I am not going to plan lots of extra activities/discussions for you to engage with. You can expect a few email reminders from me and the chance to vote on whether a ZOOM call would be meaningful to you or not. So, please sign up here if you want to join, and you will get a link to read the book on New Year’s Day!

Hannah+

PS- I’ll leave you with one last picture, which my publisher created and I think so beautifully captures in a few words how unmet longings & the eucharist fit together in one book:

He and my mom came home from the doctor one morning after what I assumed was a routine check- up—if he’d been having symptoms of some unseen illness, I didn’t know it—and they corralled us all into their bedroom to “talk.” This was unusual, but my dad often had a grandiose way about him, so we complied without too much confusion.

Their bedroom wasn’t large. I’m not sure why they chose to crowd six children into this space for our life-altering conversation. Maybe it was the place in our house with fewest distractions. No toys, no snacks in eyesight. Maybe their room represented their own safe place. Its central feature was two large windows on the far side of the bed that bathed the ancient wood floors in sunlight. That’s what I remember most from our conversation. Not the words exchanged, not my siblings’ reactions to the news; just the shimmering white light pouring over my dad’s enormous frame as he spoke.

He said, “Today we found out that Daddy has cancer. And we have decided that whether I live or die, we want my life to glorify God.”

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In the years since this moment, I’ve wrestled with how to articulate its impact on me. I don’t believe that God glibly kills people—that he removes fathers, mothers, friends, spouses—to teach us a lesson or to “get glory.” I also know that my father didn’t just accept his cancer diagnosis like a death sentence. During the four years of his illness he fought, literally, for dear life.

But the words he spoke over us at the beginning of this journey were like a prophecy: They invited me into a truth I will never fully understand. They introduced me to the mystery that a life yielded to God is a glorious life, regardless of outcomes.

This mystery does not fit neatly into our paradigms.

Religious or not, we all have a script in mind for the story of our lives. We expect, or at least we hope, that circumstances will work out in our favor. Some struggle is permissible as long as there’s a happy ending. My young sons, who’ve been catechized by Disney and other kid-friendly films, reassure each other during tense moments on family movie night: “The good guys are going to win.” But what happens when they don’t? How do we find equilibrium when our personal narratives take an unexpected turn and deprive us of the resolution we crave?

These questions are especially troubling for Christians, who believe in a God that is both powerful and good. When God allows tragedies to occur, people of faith are rightly scandalized. Our oldest prayer book, the Psalms, is full of the question why? Sometimes, it is the only honest word of faith we can muster.

This is from chapter 1 of my book. Read the rest of the chapter here!

If you made it this far, thank you for reading the first 500 words of my story. I am excited to share the rest of it with you in February. If you are willing to preorder a copy here, it will help more potential readers find it (because Amazon’s algorithm is snarky like that).

If you want to read a little bit from chapter 3 (which is about embodiment and in which I confess some things about my cooking skills), please visit Amanda Held Opelt’s Substack on Thanksgiving weekend—she will be sharing an excerpt there. While you’re at it, you should subscribe to her newsletter because her writing is thoughtful, beautiful, nuanced, and prayerful. She is among my favorite writers out there!

That’s all for today, but I did sneak an extra book-ish thing in the PS section. More info on that next month!

Hannah+

PS- If you’re curious…
Here’s some other stuff I’ve been working on:

-Figuring out a book launch team! If you know what this is, please join me by signing up here (I’m supposed to try to get a good group of people to help read, review & recommend the book). If you’re confused, I’ll say more about it in December’s letter

-Thinking about the influence of saints v. celebrities. I wrote this for All Saints Day (Nov. 1) but also in honor of my grandfather who is nearing the end of his life.

The brilliant people at IVP have encouraged me to share more regularly with you all over the next few months so that you, my “first” audience, can hear first about what is happening with my book in real time (and yes, things are happening! After a long, luxurious trip to the editing parlor, my book is now starting to show its face around town and will be available in 3D on February 17!) There are ways you can help me between now and then, and there are some things I am excited to share with you as readers.

So, I will be writing here monthly for the next 6 months (and maybe beyond, we’ll see). Here’s what you can expect:

• First, a short reflection on what I’m learning (usually 500 words or less)

• Then, an update(ish) on book related matters.

• Lastly and if applicable, a “PS” section of other things I’ve written/said if you are interested in other topics.

If you signed up for this newsletter because it was quarterly, I see you and I hope you will forgive me! And either way let me know come February whether the monthly rhythm works for you or not.

Now, onto the stuff.

Subscribe now

Over the last months, I’ve noticed that ministry has gotten both “bigger” and “smaller” for me. Writing a book has connected me with more people than I typically would interact with and in more places around the country. And serving at our local church has connected me with smaller and younger groups of people than I have experience with in a church setting. Yes, I have young kids at home, but at church I have begun leading our youth group and am getting to know tweens and teens better than I have before.

Some days I am writing articles for national outlets, other days I am playing Uno with a handful of 6^th graders from my church. Some days I’m doing podcast interviews with strangers, other days I am hanging out with toddlers in our Sunday nursery. It is an interesting mix.

I haven’t quite decided what I think about it all yet, other than I believe it is good for me. It would be easy to “minister” to a bunch of disembodied people on the internet and forget what they are like in real life. It would be easy to think that “the real work” happens out there in the abstract world of other people and not right here in the actual world of my kids and neighbors. It would be easy to chase something else, somewhere else, and miss the gift I’ve been given.

Even if we aren’t in work that requires attention beyond our neighborhoods, we all live in a world that demands it. We all read the news, or at least the memes. We all know about big and important and painful stuff happening in other places and countries. And it really matters. But so does the person who lives next door. And here’s what I’m learning: maybe, the way I treat the person next door actually has some kind of impact on those national and international issues that I just can’t see or predict. Maybe the local and the global aren’t as disconnected as the internet wants me to think.

I got really interested in this dynamic tension when I studied the Old Testament book of Ruth for a sermon* a few weeks ago. In the time of the Judges (aka Israel’s dark ages), God addressed national dysfunction through the life of a poor, elderly old widow. Israel’s future hope was secured not through political campaigns (although those would come) or public debates (plenty of those later too) but through the quiet faithfulness of a daughter-in-law and a local farmer. Ruth stayed with Naomi and found a way to feed her. Boaz was generous to a hungry sojourner who showed up on his property. The result was the restoration of King David’s line and the promise of Israel’s future. God used one family, doing ordinary family things, to bring hope to a nation.

I guess my point is, we shouldn’t stop caring about what’s going on out there. But we shouldn’t stop caring about what’s going on right here either. We do the work God has given us to do, and we let him decide the way it all fits together.

So about this book…

Time is a funny thing for an author. It crawls in silence while you write, then it’s hurry up and wait while it’s edited, then it’s suddenly six months out and you’re supposed to do stuff NOW to help people find it eventually. Here’s what some of things are (and how you can participate if you want!)

• Now, you can pre-order or share the link with friends (or in your newsletters, or whatever). Pre-orders really help, especially new authors. Thank you to everyone who has done this!

• In November, you can read some early excepts here and in another place (excited to share more next month!)

• In December, you can let me know if you’re willing to join my launch team, which is a group of early readers/reviewers who help spread the word about the book around the release date.

• And any time between now and then, if you have a church group or a podcast or a book club or an idea for me about where/how to share this message with others, I would love to hear from you!

With gratitude,
Hannah+

PS- if you’re curious…
Here are a few other places I’ve shared recently:

• A podcast with Dru Johnson of The Biblical Mind about how the eucharist forms us, and how God can use the sacraments to help heal trauma.

• an article at The Holy Post about prayer as more than a copout for the church in times of political turmoil, and one in my local newspaper about remembrance & healing one year after Hurricane Helene.

• *The sermon I preached on Ruth (as mentioned above)

When I was a kid, my friends’ parents nicknamed me “Hannah of Green Gables” because I wanted everything to have a beautiful name or a haunting story. (I did not mind being teased like this. In fact, it inspired me to grow my vocabulary and thus further entertain those adults who thought me odd.)

In second grade, I wrote my first full-length story about a unicorn made of snow who came to life at night and took her creator on rides through the frigid sky. (Her name was Snow Star and I remember her so well.) Below I stand in buck-toothed glory at the Cobb County Writing Fair where Snow Star won a prestigious award— a gilded paper certificate and a tiny plastic trophy.

In high school, my writing took a more serious turn. It became a way of processing things I really didn’t have words for at first—traumatic experiences that rocked my family and my faith but that simultaneously forged it. Over time, I learned to pray on paper and witnessed how God can turn agony into art.

As a priest, words are now part of my vocation. And in sharing them with others through the years, I’ve realized that the most powerful Word ever spoken was enfleshed. God’s greatest truth is not an abstraction, but a story—a person who lived and lives among us. Which means I can’t tell you what I think is true without telling you about Jesus, and how he has changed my life. I can’t tell you what I think is true without telling you my story.

This is why I’m so excited to share my first book with you. Feasting On Hope: How God Sets a Table in the Wilderness recounts my own journey through disorientation and grief and into a fuller faith. In it, I ask the question that followed me through my teen years: what does hope look like amid unanswered prayers and unmet longing? Christianity speaks of healing and renewal. But most Christians still live with unmet longings and seemingly unresolvable pain. Grief and loss. Family brokenness. Chronic illness. Traumatic memories. How do we integrate these realities with the promise of new creation?

For me, the answer has come at the Communion Table. In the middle of our unresolved stories, we are nourished by Christ. In the bread and wine, we taste resurrection (Jesus is raised!) even as we grow hungrier for the renewal of all things (Jesus will return and finish His work!). Feasting On Hope looks at the gospel through the lens of the Lord’s Supper and proposes that Christian hope is both a feast and a foretaste. I might have heard this in a classroom or sermon as a child. But the tangible, repeatable practice of the Lord’s Supper is what helped my body to begin to believe it.

My friend Esau McCaulley, who was kind enough to write the book’s foreword, described it as “part memoir, part reflection on…the eucharist, part theodicy, and so much more besides.” My team at InterVarsity Press designed this beautiful cover for it:

I did not write this book to try to get rich (writers everywhere are laughing along with me!) or to win a prestigious award (Thanks to Snow Star I can rest on my laurels). I wrote this book to encourage others who might be looking for hope, or for a deeper experience of Christian faith in the “wilderness” of life as we now know it. I’d love for it to reach as wide an audience as possible.

Here is something I’ve learned in my journey as a new author: preorders make a big difference in a book’s chance of finding readers. If you think you might eventually buy a copy of this book to read or gift to a friend, would you please consider placing your order now? It releases on February 17 next year (just in time for Lent!) and if you order before then, your copy will arrive on release day.

As a first-time author, I could also use your help spreading the word about this book. You can mention it/share the Amazon link on social media, ask your pastor or small group leader to consider using it for a book study or sermon series, or ask me to come talk to your church/school/organization about it. You can also pray for me, and for this book to find whatever readers God intends for it. Already I’ve been blown away by His providence in getting this story into my life and into the world. Already I am so honored to share this small part of it with you.

PS- In the coming months I’ll be sending periodic updates about the book here. If you aren’t already subscribed but would like to hear from me every couple months, sign up below!

Subscribe now

In Him,
Hannah+
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If you’re curious…

I shared a little bit of the book’s content with my new friends on their new podcast. If you like it, or any of the episodes you find there, give them a review— they would love to hear your feedback!

The word Lent comes from a Germanic word that means long. Technically this has more to do with the lengthening of days as the season changes (side note: add Daylight Savings to my list of springtime gripes) but I often think of its unintended double meaning. The in-between seasons of our lives are almost always longer than we want them to be.

Lent is purposeful, important, formative. We fast or give alms or at the very least think more about Jesus’ death than we might otherwise during the year. But we are doing these things while the promise of Easter whispers at us in the weather. With our senses, we anticipate the joy of resurrection. Through our penitence, we remember the agony of the cross. If I’m honest, Lent is for me at times an exercise in cognitive dissonance.

Last night at my house we celebrated St. Patrick’s Day with cupcakes and a cartoon film about Patrick’s life. I was struck by how long he had to wait from the first time he cried out to God for rescue from slavery to the day of his escape. At one point in the movie, he sits in the muddy rain and asks, “Why me?” Of course, we know the answer. We who’ve heard how the story ends know that these long years in isolation—where Patrick learned to pray and to love Ireland— were part of his formation as a Christian and as a future missionary. But in real time it must have been very confusing.

In my own formation, there are a handful of areas where I can tell that God is at work, but I am confused by the slowness. Or rather, I’m confused when things that I thought were “healed” or behind me reappear, like cold rain after a few warm days. My faith, my ability to forgive, my fragile trust in God’s goodness are like tiny buds that get frost-bitten from time to time. What I think I’m learning in this is to recognize time as one of God’s tools—to not resent the long, slow work of grace but to embrace it as the only path forward.

Right now, I’m working toward a book launch that is still in the distant future. It’s so far away that I can’t even tell you the date yet (!) but it’s also close enough that I have work to do on it. Work that is exciting to me but remains, for now, quiet and preparatory. One day I’ll get to share more of that with you. Until then, I know God is wasting none of this quiet spring with me. In the cognitive dissonance of working on a book that remains hidden, I am learning to be less subject to the frequent changes in weather and more solidly rooted in the soil of His sovereignty. I don’t have to understand it all. I just need to remember that He is trustworthy.

Hannah+
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If you’re curious…
Here are some things I have been up to the last few months:

-A really beautiful podcast conversation about incarnational ministry (and yep, the eucharist) with new friends at Global Trellis, who support cross-cultural workers.

-An article in Christianity Today about how my parents’ witness (in life and death) have shaped my understanding of love.

-An appearance as the “bonus” (read: junior) Hannah on The Esau McCaulley podcast for a discussion about internet rage. (There is one exciting book update in the last 5 minutes of this one!)

By hate, I mean I get really sad about saying goodbye. When our summer babysitter went back to college this August, I embarrassed myself by crying on her last day at our house. When I finished my book manuscript in September, I embarrassed nobody because I cried in secret behind my laptop after typing my last sentence. Whenever a calendar year draws to a close, I feel sad about saying “goodbye” to another year that we’ll never get back.

But I also love endings, because I am an enneagram 4 and I can out-nostalgia almost anyone. Give me some good (or bad) memories and I will nurse them like sick children. I cherish the week between Christmas and New Year’s because I usually make a family photo album to chronicle the year’s big events. I love remembering and “treasuring” the stories that matter to me.

This year, 2024’s end dovetails with the end of our first year in the mountains. And here’s the thing: while I definitively do *not* feel sad about saying goodbye to a season of transition, I do cherish this year’s hard-won healing and open heartedness. I treasure the memories of those first people who reached out to me and treated me like a friend. I am grateful for a new normal, and for the (newly) long-distance friends who have held onto me in a new home. This year has been a whirlwind of transition, grief, growth, and grace— and at the end of it, what I mostly feel is gratitude.

For Christians who observe the church calendar, the end of each year is also a beginning: during Advent, we look back on our lives so that we can better look forward to the light that is coming into the world. In this way, Advent teaches us something about the pattern of Christian life. Because of Jesus, what feels like the end of one thing is actually the seed of its new beginning. Death gives way to resurrection. Sin gives way to holiness. Sorrow gives way to joy.

I think because of this, Christians are often tempted to skip over the pain of goodbye entirely by slapping some Christian good news on it. “Don’t worry, Uncle Bob won’t stay dead! Don’t be sad about your past sins, Jesus will make something beautiful of them! Don’t think too hard about the person who hurt you, just forgive!” There’s some wisdom in each of these sentiments, but they also sell us short by rushing the God-ordained purpose of time. If we don’t mine our losses, we won’t understand the gains they yield. If we don’t sow our tears, we won’t reap as great a harvest. (Ps. 126:5)

One day, of course, there won’t be any more goodbyes. But we’ll still have the memory of them. Our resurrected bodies, like Jesus’, will bear scars. Redemption doesn’t erase history; it transfigures it. This means that even in the future, our past will be with us— only, it will be healed. By grace, we get to practice that healing now. We look back and forward at the same time, practicing a kind of present-orientation that, as James K. A. Smith put it, “is pregnant with both memory and anticipation.” This doesn’t take the sting out of goodbye, but it does fill it with hope. And that’s something to cherish in itself.

Hannah+
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If you’re curious…
Here are some other things I’ve been working on the last few months:

-In October, I joined Dr. Doug Sweeney on the Beeson Divinity School podcast to talk about ministry, seasons of life, being a woman in ministry, etc.*

-In November, I was invited to present some material from my book for the first time(!)* at a church in Charleston.

-At our church, I preached about Christ the (Crucified) King and wrote about some easy ways to practice Advent.

*NB: rookie perspectives and presentations here!

PS- If you’re still looking for a last minute holiday gift, consider supporting some Western NC businesses!

This is probably a product of our modern, western imaginations: from childhood, we’re taught that life is a series of personal choices and that we get to “decide” things like what we want to be when we grow up, where we will live, whether and who we will marry, etc. And of course there’s truth to this. As human beings, we have agency and can act upon the world. We aren’t helpless victims of circumstance; we do get to make choices.

But I think the extent to which we believe we control our lives is an illusion. It’s an illusion we can usually sustain when circumstances unfold as we expect. But occasionally, a diagnosis comes or a job disappears or a hurricane hits—and we realize how little control we had all along.

I am so very proud of myself for finishing and submitting my book manuscript this past month. (Woo hoo!) Every chapter went more or less “according to plan” except the last one, in which I found myself sharing the story of how I thought (and hoped) my home for the next twenty years would be in a certain place, and how that ended up not being the case. And I submitted that story to my editor in the chaos of my new home’s post-Helene emergency. Sending in my book, with this content and under these circumstances, reminded me: as much as we imagine the future, as hard as we might try to craft it, we really are powerless over it.

I realize this might sound kind of nihilistic. Or perhaps self-pitying. If we can’t direct our lives or protect desired outcomes, what’s the point of making plans or taking risks or getting emotionally entangled? But for me at least, this realization is freeing: We are not in control, so we can stop trying to be. We can release our feeble grip on outcomes and choose to focus instead on obedience. After all, God has not asked us to be responsible for the future. He has only ever called us to be faithful.

This doesn’t mean that our future is irrelevant or even uncertain, however. In the short-term, we should expect the unexpected, including a fair amount of heartache. We should learn to hold our loves loosely because we aren’t sovereign over them and we can’t ultimately keep them from destruction or decay. We can’t stop time, death, others’ choices, or even rainwater from hurting us and the people we love.

But in the long-term, our future is secure. In God’s hands, our stories and our dreams will be gathered up and put together in a way we could never accomplish in our own power. This is the heart of Christian hope: that one day, everything we’ve loved but have been powerless to save will be renewed. One day, we will live in a city with foundations that will never be lost in a mudslide. We will be Home and will never have to leave. And this will be His doing, not ours.

Until then, I think the call is to keep making plans and taking risks and getting entangled— to keep loving our homes and writing our books and raising our kids and baking our bread, as an offering to God. We put ourselves to stories that we aren’t sovereign over as a form of entrustment: we may not hold the future, but we trust that He is holding us.

Hannah+

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If you’re curious…
Here are some other things I’ve been thinking about the last few months.

-At CT, I wrote about denominational angst (very inside baseball for clergy & leader types) and my experience in Western NC after Hurricane Helene.

-At a couple churches, I preached on some reasons why I’m crazy about the Eucharist and why I’m writing a book about it (at least, this is the 20-minute version. There’s much more to say!)

-In anticipation of the holiday season, and to support small businesses impacted by flooding, I am planning to buy gifts for people from some shops in my city. Please join me by shopping online!

My plan was simple. I was going to get a dog, buy an RV, and drive around the country painting landscapes. Sort of like Travels with Charley 2.0. It sounded so dreamy. Then I realized I’m an extrovert. And that traveling the country in an RV meant I’d have to drive one.

The artistic work I’m doing now bears some resemblance to this dream. Thankfully it does not involve operating large vehicles. But writing a book does require a lot of alone time, which has challenged me. I am writing this story because I want to share it with people. But right now, I’m spending months working on it in solitude.

What I’m beginning to realize is that a writing life is a hidden life. Yes, the finished product of writing is often public—but the finished product represents thousands of unseen hours; tedious, slow, sometimes boring days full of research and revision and prayer, on repeat.  

Writing isn’t the only work that is hidden. When I’m not focusing on my book, I’m making lunches or folding laundry or refereeing arguments or telling Knock-Knock jokes. Most days, parenting doesn’t feel hidden as much as it feels invisible. And yet, it’s in these years of obscurity that my children are being formed.

In my book research, one writer who has captivated me is Henri Nouwen. A prolific theologian, Nouwen taught at Notre Dame, Harvard and Yale before leaving academia to pastor a community of people with intellectual disabilities. He left his prestigious titles behind and embraced a largely unseen ministry among people who couldn’t care less about his degrees. From there, he wrote the books that have so blessed and nourished me in the last few months. His hidden work of pastoring and writing in obscurity is still bearing much fruit.

In a way, it doesn’t matter what our job description is. Whether we are writers or parents or teachers or mechanics, the richest content of our lives is largely unseen. Who we really are, and are becoming, is hidden—even from ourselves.

The Christian call, I think, is to embrace this. It is to give ourselves wholeheartedly to whatever work God has given us to do, seen or unseen, and to entrust its meaning and measurement to him. For, as Paul tells us in his letter to the Colossians, “our lives are hidden with Christ.” One day, when he appears, we will too—and we will see the beauty that he has wrought.

In the meantime, then, obscurity is nothing to fear. It’s where the treasure of the kingdom lies waiting for us. At least, I’m beginning to believe this.

Prayerfully,
Hannah+

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PS- If you’re curious…
…Here are some other things I’ve been thinking about the last few months.

- In May, I preached about how Pentecost can heal our relationship with power in the church.  

-While writing a chapter on scarcity in my book, I came across this article by Old Testament scholar Walter Bruggeman. I hope it inspires you as much as it inspired me!