A Place in Sedona

by JaneAnn Kenney

Growing up, I became increasingly aware that places matter, for better or worse. When my first experience of our house in Kentucky involved a man’s demise, it took years for the very physical location of that house not to bring me to panic, feeling that the house and the whole town were overshadowed by death. Conversely, I remember our home in Hurricane as filled with laughter and light, a place of peace to which I wish I could return. A certain dry riverbed in Benjamin, Texas—all red dirt and stars—gives me a similar feeling of familial acceptance.

Studying literature fine-tuned my locative sense. No longer must I base my assessment of a place merely on my own feelings. Rather, I can analyze it—what does it mean for a female to enter a traditionally masculine space (the academy or the work force) or to stay in traditionally feminine space (the home)? What does it mean for a place to be restricted, or dangerous, or uninhabitable? Where are the places which are for all people, and can thus become holy?

Coming to Arizona was a shock to my sense of place. On a superficial level, it is strange that my midnight text goes unanswered because my friends on Central Time don’t have their phones on at 2 am. (Arizona is currently on Pacific Time, with California.) Reds’ games are finished before I wake up, so it seems, and the Spurs/Heat games begin during happy hour. What glorious insanity is this? 

The heat in Phoenix is unlike any I’ve experienced before—dry and close, like the very molecules in the air don’t have enough room or energy to move, made lethargic with fever. Cactuses are real, and if you’ve never seen a bird of paradise, stop reading right now and Google it. (Perhaps the tourism board should give me a job?)

Physically, Sedona has great significance in my family. My parents were married here nearly 30 years ago, in the shadow of Bell Rock. The only wedding picture I’ve ever seen is of them standing in the wind together, back when Mom had shoulder-length waves of hair, gazing (although I hate the word) into each other’s eyes (I guess this is their love story), so excited for the adventure to begin that she didn’t even buy a white dress; Mary Beth found one for her. This place represents a time when I was not. All that existed of me was my parents’ love for one another (to leave out boring biological facts; I would be born four years later, so figure it out yourself).

Being in this physical location takes me to a place where my own existence can be questioned. I exist (most often emphatically, and if you’ve met me, you know that it’s true), but this land seems so mystical, so otherworldly compared to the rolling hills of Ohio or the old mountains of West Virginia—it feels as though the very place has taken me back in time. The eastern United States are, in my mind, predictably situated, content to remain as they are. They are my context. Should I even exist in this place?

Metaphysical questions aside, the drive up from Phoenix on “the 17” (when did interstates start using definite articles?) and now being here in Sedona at my mother’s best friend’s home put me rather in mind of a journey to some holy land. This is God’s country. The climb up through the mountains, my ascent; the rope lightning of a summer rainstorm in the distance, a demonstration of power and presence. He painted these rocks red and sent them reaching for the heavens, created unobtrusive trees as contrasting accents to the rock and the heights. This is not a useful place—not good for farming, not convenient for industry—and yet it feels purposeful. This place is meant to recall God’s majesty.

We speak sometimes of the thin places, the places where heaven and earth meet, places where we hear echoes of eternity and feel the goodness of creation as though it had not fallen. Being in Sedona, I remember stories which are not my own—of my parents before I changed their lives in Alaska, if you can believe it, and of another people for whom places were important, marked with rocks to say “this is Beth-El”. In this place, my hopes for my life are peacefully swallowed up in my hopes for the future of humanity and the greater creation. My personal goals are subsumed in this larger purpose: that God will one day renew all places so that heaven and earth are permeable and each is made new by the proximity of the other. In that day, our relationships will be renewed—to God, to one another, to the creatures and creation.

Do not hear this as an otherworldly hope. It is very firmly rooted in my 5’6” frame being in this physical location, two hours north of Phoenix by way of interstates and state routes. I arrived in a black 2013 Corolla. I have cat hair all over me from Tony, the friendly striped beast. I am eating a green apple which came with me from Nashville, Tennessee, and I hope soon to have red dirt covering my white sneakers, wind in my blond hair, my purple sunglasses protecting my blue eyes from the fiery setting sun.

The apostle Paul also insists on the importance of this earthly place in God’s plans: “the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now; and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies. For in hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience” (Rom. 8:22-25, NRSV). Creation’s pain is not without purpose—not even Paul would describe labor pains as being for naught. Rather, something good this way comes, and the pain itself evidences the struggle for the birth of this good, which God reassures us is coming.

I’m sure if I stayed here in Sedona and made a life, I’d find it is further from heaven than I imagine. The everyday headaches and cyclical heartaches would find me here, as anywhere else. I would experience loss, and the world of violence and hostility would invade my tranquility. 

Today, however, in this place, I need no patience. Hope is being justified right here, in front of my eyes and under my feet, in the red stone distance and the wind blowing through tree branches. To pray “Maranatha—Lord come quickly” is appropriate and yet feels superfluous. He is coming, and he has put this thin place on earth to remind us that the places we love and the people of those places are very much the object of his very real purpose.

You can ask JaneAnn about: Nashville, theology, cats. Baseball. Glacial rivers. Her stance on the color purple, and then again the existence of the word "purple." General frivolity and terrible music (for the DANCING!!). Old Stephen King novels, time zones, and toll roads in Oklahoma. She will not, however, answer any questions about that thing living in her fridge. You can follow her on Twitter @JAKof3Ts.

You can follow On Pop Theology on Twitter @OnPopTheology or like us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/OnPopTheology.

You might also like:  

• Laments for Lent
• Faith As Measured By Camels
• How is God With Us?

 

Heaven and How I Met Your Mother

by Ben Howard

Last night my friend and I ended up watching the season premiere of How I Met Your Mother on CBS. If you’re unfamiliar, How I Met Your Mother, or HIMYM, is a sitcom entering it’s eighth season. The narrative catch of the show is that the protagonist, Ted Mosby is telling his future children the story of how he met their mother. The story is set in the present, but the narrator and his kids are set in the future about 20 years.

Different reviewers and critics have termed it a love story in reverse, or a love story wrapped in a mystery. I simply find it entertaining…or infuriating. It really depends on where the story goes.

You see the problem with a show based around a mysterious identity is that it can only tease out that mysterious identity for so long until that tease just becomes annoying. HIMYM has been carrying out that tease for seven years plus one episode at this point and its been pretty annoying since about season three.

However, I almost always enjoy the show when it focuses on its five main characters and their lives. Whether it’s how they interact, or how they deal with the problems of transitioning from twenty-something dreamers to a life with families and careers, I enjoy it. On some level the show connects to the reality of the my situation as a twenty-something who is a little apprehensive about the idea of families and careers and growing up.

As a single man, the frustration over not finding “that mysterious someone” connects to me as well. However, much like the show, I find that when I become overly focused on this kind of end goal, when I believe that the idea of finding “the one” will somehow be the pinnacle of my existence, things aren’t nearly as enjoyable or fulfilling.

I don’t think this just parallels my life or the lives of others in my generation, I think it also parallels the different focuses of the church and it affects people's faith.

A lot of churches focus on the goal of heaven, or if they aren’t so polite about it, they focus on hell. I understand why you would want to focus on that. Happily ever after sounds terrific, especially on the really hard days when nothing makes sense and everything feels hopeless. I understand wanting to jump to the end of the story, but on the other hand I think it misses so much.

The best parts of HIMYM have not been the parts associated with Ted’s search for his future wife. The best parts have been the bizarre moments of life together in community in the present. The best parts have included watching Marshall and Lily get married, or watching Barney develop into a nearly passable human being, or learning about Robin’s past as a Canadian pop singer.

Some of those moments in community have been painful, some have been ridiculous, but they have all been together, in community, in the here and now. The show's very premise is that these moments are part of the story of how Ted met the mother of his children, part of how he became who he needed to be.

In the same way, these moments of community that we experience in the present are part of the story of how we come to embrace heaven and resurrection and redemption. Real life is not a waiting room, it is an essential part of the journey filled with growth and love and pain and laughter.

If we only focus on the end of the story, then the present becomes little more than a frustrating reminder of what has not yet come. However, if we focus on the present, then the future can emerge in its full beauty without the weight of our exasperation and expectation.

Do I hope for resurrection, redemption, and the coming Kingdom of God? Of course! But until it comes, I will love my friends and family and enjoy growing into the person I will be in that hoped for future.

Peace,

Ben

When he isn’t writing about the value of not focusing on the mother in HIMYM, Ben is really really hoping that they’ll just reveal the mother already. It’s been 8 years! I need more than a yellow umbrella! You can follow him on Twitter @BenHoward87 or email him at benjamin.howard87 [at] gmail.com.

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We Are So Sure

by Amanda Taylor

I think someone just decided not to be with me because I am a Christian.

I feel certain it wasn’t my WWJD bracelet. It wasn’t my weatherworn journal/bible combo that I take to (insert hip local coffee shop), my cross necklace, fish bumper sticker, Chick-fil-A sandwich, or compulsion to remind folks Jesus is my homeboy on my super hip loose-fit v-neck tee.

It wasn’t any of those things because those are the things in life that make me want to punch a baby. I can’t wear my faith proudly around like a shiny banner of joy and peace, because I’m too busy silently brooding about how nonsensical Christianity is today.

And brood I do. I analyze. I watch. I listen. I contemplate. I assess. I obsess. I’m so engulfed in this cycle of frustration and fatigue that whoever responds to this fresh break-up of mine with an “everything happens for a reason” is not safe from a sincere and biting face-punch.

Not babies though, thank goodness. They can’t talk yet.

As I sit here, I can’t tell what hurts more: the fact that this beautiful, wonderful person is walking away, or that my own brothers and sisters in Christ have caused it. I have caused it. For all my cynicism, he knows how important faith is to me. He’s seen through the cold exterior of skepticism to a meek and seeking heart, one that needs Jesus. And it terrifies him.

Why?

It’s probably not an encouraging sign that he kept calling it “the religion thing”. “Back to the religion thing.” Yes, yes, let’s discuss that dumb thing called religion that has ostracized you, dumbfounded you, belittled you, told you that you weren’t good enough for someone. That religion thing. Yes, that’s my thing. Let’s talk about it.

I am no longer sure how many of us think eating a chicken sandwich is a meaningful way to follow Christ. It depends on which day you ask me. I’m inclined to believe most Christians don’t think tokens or phrases or buildings are the way to heaven, but I do worry that too many of us think we know the way with far too much certainty.

We know what Jesus thinks, we know what God wants, we know what it means for society and the way we must govern ourselves throughout the world. We are so sure.

Christians have had to continue to draw new lines in order to make sense out of the great mysteries of our Lord and Creator. The Great I Am. As we simplify the complexities of the good book into chewable bites, we find ourselves comfortably arranging our faith around these tokens and routines and phrases that provide us comfort and sensibility as they help us identify. Good. Bad. Me. You. Me. Other. In. Out.

This story that Christians are telling resonates far and deep into society, but we’re shielding ourselves from the repercussions of the tale. Life is HARD. It is hard. But God is supposed to make sense of it, to explain it, and to make it better. The harsh and acerbic reality of our lives is boxed up and wrapped in pretty fish-decorated, God-approved paper and passed around the world giving the “gift of Christ” to those in need. But what do they find when they open it? 

What is so frustrating is that this guy, my dear friend, doesn’t hate me, or Christians, or faith. He’s just not sure about it all because the story he’s hearing is one full of mistrust, and rules, and hierarchy. He’s an outsider. He’s afraid he’ll be a disappointment to me for not being sure enough.  

We are so sure. 

(Christianity) is not the sort of thing anyone would have made up.  It has just that queer twist about it that real things have.  So let us leave behind all these boys’ philosophies – these over-simple answers.  The problem is not simple and the answer is not going to be simple either.  – C.S. Lewis

 

You can follow Amanda on Twitter @tayloram03.

There's a Thin Line Between Heaven and Here

by Ben Howard

The title of this post is a taken from a show called The Wire. It's a really great show, and I expect I'll write about it at some point in the future, but today's post isn't about the show. This post won't be about pop culture at all, it's just something I need to write. It's about that line and it's about what that line means.

As a lot of you may know, I live in a not so great neighborhood. It isn't necessarily dangerous, but it does have it's seedier elements. In the time I've lived in my apartment I've been broken into three times. Needless to say, that can be a bit frustrating, but such is life and things are just things. However, the last break-in brought about a new experience. A few weeks after the house was broken into, we received word that the perpetrator had been arrested. We're still awaiting word on the outcome of the case, but the prosecutor is convinced he'll go to prison for at least a few years.

Ever since the arrest, I've felt strangely about the entire situation. Since I had the guy's name, I visited his Facebook page. I found out he has a girlfriend and a young daughter. At first, I thought I might be feeling guilt for my role in his probable incarceration, but that wasn't it. He chose his course of action, I never had any control over the situation. I don't feel guilt, but I do feel sadness.

I'm sad for people who feel like they have to steal in order to survive and I'm sad for children who have to grow up without fathers. I'm sad because of a system that treats people like nuisances and rap sheets and robs them of their humanity while simultaneously saying that it's all being done in the name of justice. I'm sad because of that little twinge I feel when I see a lonely black man walking down my street at night, and I'm sad because, while I know it's wrong, I know plenty of people will tell me it's right. I'm sad because it's so easy to see just how broken things are.

There's been a lot of talk about hell in the evangelical community in the last year. In my mind almost all of it misses the point. Why do we worry so much about where everybody will go after they die, yet we have no problem avoiding the very hell that ensnares so many among us? Yes, hell is real. Hell is addiction and pain. It is violence and abuse and depression and that glazed over look of defeat, the loss of hope. Hell is the place where we throw those we no longer know what to do with. Hell is all of the brokenness that batters us on every side. It is the destruction of our very humanity. Hell is here.

The church's task is not about defining where we go when we die. Our job, our mission, the reason we exist is to join with the work of God and the Spirit to bring heaven to the places where hell has infected our day to day. We are in the business of redemption and salvation, not prognosticating about the afterlife. We are being called to bring about the abolition of war and poverty; to stand with the isolated, the hated, and the miserable. We are called to bring reconciliation between the oppressed and the oppressor, between the victim and the criminal. There's a thin line between heaven and here.

Peace,

Ben

You can contact me on Twitter @BenHoward87, leave a comment or email me. I'd love to hear your thoughts.