Hope is an Anchor

15 April 2024: Hope is an Anchor

I struggle with church. Don’t most people struggle with church? So much of the joy of church is the community built by repeated immersion, like a candle growing with each dip in the wax. But the consistent upkeep needed for anything of value—a house, a body, a congregation, a nation—can be a grind. Sometimes I get caught up in the grind and forget to enjoy the thing we’re keeping up. And if enough people in a community forget the joy, then small issues loom too large because they’re easier to fight over. Larger issues become overwhelming, and national hypocrites undermine local possibilities. Is it even worth it? What does it all mean? Why do we have to go anyway? God doesn’t care what I wear. Oh wait, that was my kids complaining.

But church can be a community that anchors us in real life. In the deep life below the surface rapids of schedules and due dates and sign-up genius duties.

It’s the community that holds us together and is there in times of need. That watches children grow, and elders die, and life unfold together. It offers a way to join voices for justice and hands for mission. The constant drip of community is what makes church work. And that community gives me hope.

In a recent interview with NT Wright, Kate Bowler tossed in this riveting thought. “Perhaps hope is an anchor dropped into a future that is not just my own.” Their conversation swept right along but I skipped back a few times to let that thought sink in. Hope is a communal future.

Mark and I were invited to a party. It had been a long week, and I was anticipating a big week of travel ahead, so I wasn’t super enthusiastic about going. The fact that it was a karaoke party did not help. I told a friend about the karaoke party, and she thought I said a karate party. She was picturing Mark and me with a bunch of people drinking some beers and practicing kicks. Honestly, that sounded better than karaoke.

But the party was a fun blend of new-to-me people and people I don’t usually see, and it was fun to find connections among folks. I knew a few folks, but also felt somewhat anonymous, which is kind of how I like it. I was trying to place a woman, and when a friend told me who she was I realized she probably had known my mother. When I asked her, she said, “You’re Julia!!!?”

She told me lovely stories of my mother, and how Mama had been so good to her. She said her father said you could tell a gentleman by whether he acted the same to everyone no matter their social status. And she said no one did that better than my mother. I aspire to that virtue myself, and I’m sure it’s because it was taught to me and modeled by my parents, especially Mama.

It was so sweet to hear stories about my mother from someone I’d just met. It was an unexpected gift to see her through someone else’s eyes, like finding a message in a bottle.

Mama died 18 years ago. That means I’ve lived 1/3 of my life without her. And the proportion only grows, while the number of stories I hear about her shrinks. So, I wanted to corner this woman and demand she tell me everything she ever remembered about Mama. What did she like to do? Did she dream aloud of places to travel? Did she complain? Was she happy?

At the same time, it felt strange to be known to someone I’d just met. This person had formed opinions about me by conversations that occurred 30 years ago. Still, I wanted to hear everything that Mama had ever said about me. Was she proud of me? Worried about me? Was I a challenge or a bright spot? You could tell she loved me, right? Tell me more.

Of course I couldn’t ask any of this. We were shouting short bursts of words directly into each other’s ears. Around us people were yelling support for friends attempting hits by Madonna, Brooks and Dunn, Flo Rida, Harry Connick Jr.

But I can’t stop thinking about it because I miss my mother, and also because I am a mother.

I definitely talk about my children. With colleagues or acquaintances, I share updates and anecdotes. With close friends I can unload when I’m scared or worried, I can sympathize when we encounter some new challenge of adolescence, I can ask for help when I feel I’m making parenting decisions by the seat of my ever-expanding mom jeans.

Talking about my children with friends gives me hope. Conversations are the way we drop anchors into a shared future.

Yesterday was Youth Sunday at church. Youth Sundays can be hit or miss. But yesterday was a knock it out of the park hit. Two years ago, youth group participation was tallied on one hand. Now we have healthy counts at Sunday School and at youth group. Thanks to great leadership (looking at you, Andy Fox, and the youth committee) who for two years built back infrastructure and consistent programming, today 34 middle- and high-schoolers led all aspects of worship. And they had practiced!

I got a little weepy with joy for my friends whose children played instruments, read scripture, led the time with children, gave sermons, ushered, and led prayer. I don’t know most of these children personally well, but I know a little bit about a lot of them, and a fair amount about several. Their mothers and I have shared joys and fears, anxious moments and frustrations; we’ve bragged and complained; we’ve watched each other’s children grow up.

 What came through especially clearly in the two senior sermons was how much the church community has meant to these youth. There were some particularly special people, sure, but there was also an underlying feeling of safety in a larger community. Of feeling seen enough, but not singled out; of feeling held and supported by a community in general.

I wondered whether, in 20 or 30 years, one of these seniors might run into me at a party, and marvel that I’d known their mother back in the day. They’ll be a little unsettled that I know some things about them, that I’d noticed them in the church and out in the community. Maybe they’d like to hear a few of my memories of their mother. Maybe they’ll be curious whether their mother ever talked about them.

It'll be like pulling up an anchor cast into an unknown future.

I’ll make sure that, no matter how loud the background music, they’ll hear this message clearly: your mother was always so proud of you. She loves you so very, very much.

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One more thing. The plant pictured above is Colletia paradoxa, also called anchor plant. Also called crucifixion thorn or thorn of the cross. It reminds me that hope is barbed to latch on and hold fast, but sometimes it hurts. And sometimes it flowers.