Disheveled: Becoming “Post-Evangelical”

The main title for this post came to me as I sat in my bedroom in momentary silence, reflecting on the current state of my life. It was the one word that popped into my head as I stared at my messy closet and the shelved books I had just sorted through. My collection of books has always acted as a sort of barometer for where I’m at and what I’m interested in. In the past, the shelves were brimming with titles related to theology, Ethnic Studies, Christian romance, nutrition, classics. Over the years, I whittled down my number of books in hopes of abating a semi-addiction to buying reading material from Amazon. The books I knew I wouldn’t read, I parted with, and I refused to allow myself to purchase anything new until after the books on my shelves were read.

Since that first weeding through the books, my collection has seemed to shrink rather than grow. Or, perhaps the contents--the themes and topics--have merely changed so vastly that it seems shrunken, when in fact it’s not the number of books that’s been depleted but my sense of faith.

As I was examining the spines of books still in my possession, I came upon my university yearbook. The summer before I left for college, freshmen had the opportunity to send in copies of their senior photos along with a selection of two interests from a form that listed pre-determined activities and fields. I still remember when I received this notice and decided to participate. There was no option for Jesus or faith, and so I chose the write-in option at the bottom and inscribed “Christianity” on the blank line. At that time, it was very important to me that people knew what I was about. In my mind, knowing that I was a Christian was more important for people than knowing my name, or major, or how I spent my weekends (although, I could have come up with a way to link all of those things back to the fact that I’m a Christian). Even during my first phone call with the dorm roommate I was paired with, I openly talked about my faith and the depth of its importance to me.

Along with the yearbook, I found some old books on practical spirituality that I no longer want to keep. They seem to be the last bit of proof that I was once evangelical. Now, I make that claim with some hesitation, as I don’t know that I will ever be entirely “post-evangelical.” My upbringing in the church and experiences doing ministry around the world have created deep roots that I don’t know will ever really die off or be able to be pulled out. But I know that my faith is not the same as it once was; it seems to have become disheveled.

I was contemplating my feelings towards the church, and the only thoughts I can ever really come up with are that I have been deeply wounded. But as I sat and considered those words, it occurred to me that God and the church are not one in the same. God has not wounded me, but the church, and more specifically Christians in the church, have wounded me. And it’s not even necessarily specific people or churches or occurrences, but it is in large part the ideas and ideals I was imparted with so that I feel that I was in some ways recklessly (though the intention was not reckless) led to believe things that actually did more harm than good. Rachel Held Evans articulated my own sentiments beautifully:

“When you grow up believing that your religious worldview contains the key to absolute truth and provides an answer to every question, you never really get over the disappointment of learning that it doesn't...Like it or not, our religious traditions help forge our identities. The great challenge...is to hold every piece of my faith experience in love, even the broken bits, even the parts that still cut my hands and make them bleed. We are all post-something. We are all caught between who we once were and who we will be, the ghosts of past certainties gripping at our ankles. There’s no just getting over it. There’s no easy moving on.”

I haven’t regularly attended church in over two years, mostly because I don’t really know where I belong, but also because I needed space. My life was so hyper-focused for so many years on my participation in church and evangelical activities that I lost my sense of self. I would use the justification that we are to sacrifice ourselves for the cause of the cross and a crucified Savior. However, I think that my lifestyle was more representative of a codependent relationship and sense of fear than anything else. I was terrified of somehow losing my faith that my entire life became based on being engaged and a leader in as many Christian organizations and opportunities as I could possibly be involved with. In some ways, I admire that kind of dedication and commitment. At the same time, I had no idea who I was.

As my 20s quickly come to a close, I’ve been reflecting a lot lately on the amount of growth and change I’ve experienced during the past decade. I feel that every year since I first left for college has been one of pivotal self-discovery, particularly my year in China and those following. I can thank my time in college for providing me with the tools to think critically. It all started with ideas related to social justice. The frameworks for thinking that I learned in my Ethnic Studies classes began to shape how I viewed other fields, including Christianity. As justice for the oppressed grew in importance to me, I began to see my political ideals aligning with Liberalism. And because I had grown up believing that Christians were automatically Republicans, I had to begin to reconsider my faith and how I could possibly reconcile belief in Jesus and His message with Democratic ideologies.

I don’t consider myself to be a Democrat, but I merely point out this example to mark the first moment of the dishevelment of my faith. It was that one small reconsideration that has led me to become more critical in my thinking about Christianity, in relation to people groups, sexuality, church attendance, relationships, purpose, and beyond. I know that there are many circles and branches of Christianity throughout the world, but it’s difficult not to feel like you’re amidst a divorce from evangelicalism and looking to remarry a new Christianity. And perhaps that’s why I’ve taken a break from church for so long; I’ve been mourning the loss of a Christianity that was as formative as it was painful for me.

As I lay the on carpet in my bedroom and stared at my ceiling, all I could think about was the fact that God is with me and will continue to go with me--no matter the state of my heart or circumstances. And I know I will never fully understand Him in this life, and I know that I will often feel disappointed by the church and by Christians; but I also know that He is not done with me yet. He has appointed me my portion and my cup, and as much as I’ve faced disappointments and trials and pain, I truly believe that I am part of a much larger purpose and story. I just hope that those disappointments and those trials and that pain shape me to be more compassionate and Christ-like in my life. And even when I don’t know what label to use when it comes to talking about my faith, I pray my eyes will ever be fixed on Jesus and all that He was and all that He stands for and spoke about. God is bigger than our interpretations and ideas and labels and debates and churches.

I am a survivor.

That moment when you remember how your professors radically changed your life...

That moment when you're reminded of the vision you held for your future...

That moment when you realize you're a survivor.

Today is the 16-week anniversary of my total thyroidectomy, and thus my 112th day of being cancer-free.  These anniversaries are largely non-monumentous.  Every few weeks, I take a photo of my scar and post it on Facebook with a caption about which anniversary I've reached.  The photos always garner "likes" and comments, and they're a small and simple way for me to celebrate.  I have also been turning these photos into "covers" for my Facebook profile, after I add to them the statement "I am a survivor."

The fact that I'm a survivor has been a conscious reality since the day I was diagnosed with cancer.  But I have given the title (survivor) little meaningful thought in the past few weeks.  I don't know that I really considered what the word meant beyond the fact that it made a statement about my having battled cancer.  However, something in me shifted tonight as I read those words.

I've been struggling a lot lately with trying to figure out the future.  I realize that working in retail is unsatisfying and impractical for the long-haul.  I want to contribute something to the greater good of mankind--research, teaching, love.  I want to make a difference in the world.  As an INFJ, my heartstrings are always pulled in so many directions.  I read an article recently that said that career options for INFJs are always simultaneously exciting and heartbreaking.  As idealists, the world of possibility is thrilling and produces in us all sorts of fantasies about the future.  However, all of those possibilities are also crippling, because we come to realize that to pursue one pathway is to sacrifice another.  We can't do everything.  And so at once none of the options are appealing any longer because we can't do all of them in one self-designed career (wouldn't that be nice?).  It's frustrating.

So, I've been dealing with all of that INFJ confusion--the appeal and drawbacks of every job out there.  Add on top of this the fact that INFJs often feel misunderstood (and often are misunderstood) when sharing their intuitive insights, so people write off this deep analysis of future options as crazed neuroticism.  The INFJ then packs up all this thought and places it back into the very personal introverted intuitive luggage, and once again starts mulling over the more "conventional" options, because those aren't considered "crazy."

And then I get to throw an autoimmune disease, endocrine disease, MTHFR gene mutation, and histamine intolerance into the mix of my endless thought processes, which does result in a certain amount of crazy as I try to create a game-plan for my future.

The past few weeks I've been revisiting the idea of pursuing a Ph.D., as I think it may be one of the only career paths that affords me the level of freedom and time for contemplation that I'm seeking.  The struggle I have been facing with this idea is what kind of research agenda I would propose in my personal statement.  I want to write something honest and compelling, but to be honest would be to say that I really don't know what I want to do doctoral level research on.  Earlier tonight I read through old personal statements and academic essays, and then found a letter I wrote to my professors when I graduated from Cal Poly.  The letter mostly talks about how their mentorship and guidance is what made me want to become a professor in the first place (over eight years ago), and how I wanted to inspire my future students in the same ways my teachers inspired me.

When I finished reading the letter and closed it on my desktop, the first thing I saw was the cover photo I had posted on my Facebook profile earlier today.  It felt like the "I am a survivor" statement was boring a hole into my heart.  For the first time, those words made me want to cry.  They no longer just meant that I battled cancer, but that who I am in my very essence is a culmination of every event that has ever happened to me, both in the past and moving into the future.  I could easily say "I have hope" or "I have a future," and they would mean the same thing as telling people that I'm a survivor.

Writing this now brings to mind the verse that was a favorite for years and years--the one that all my friends knew I loved, and that caused them to give me knowing glances whenever we read or heard it.  It was my signature verse, for reasons that I won't outline in this post.  But, suffice it to say, the words still hold profound meaning in my heart, and are something I think I need a reminder of today.

Jeremiah 29:11

"'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future'" (New International Version).

or

"I know the plans I have in mind for you, declares the Lord; they are plans for peace, not disaster, to give you a future filled with hope" (Common English Bible).

I take the GRE in one week.  My prayer is that during the test, these words will be my companion:

I am a survivor.

I have hope.

I have a future.

Entrusting My Care to His Hands

No one tells you that when you're diagnosed with cancer, so much of the emotional turmoil and overwhelming nature of the situation won't have to do with the diagnosis at all, but with all the planning involved in having cancer.

My brother commented that it seems unfair for people with cancer to have to plan and pay when they didn't choose illness and all of its life interruptions.

There's the taking time off of work.  Getting shifts covered by co-workers.  Making calls to your insurance company (I thought I hated them before--true medical crisis takes hatred to a whole new level).  Coordinating finances with medical providers.  Tracking down a clear retainer to use in lieu of your nose ring so the piercing doesn't close while in surgery (wait, that one's just me?).

I stare at my computer, switching back and forth between my online banking homepage and my insurance company's summary of benefits.  I try to figure out how this is all going to work.  Why doesn't anyone tell you how expensive and annoying cancer will be?  It's so distracting that you forget why you're making the calls and perusing the websites and adjusting work schedules in the first place.

I contacted my boss earlier to let her know that I will be having surgery on Monday, and that I will need to take next week off if it's not a problem.  Her response made me cry, because it reminded me that this is about my cancer.  She told me she's proud of me and that I'm going to kick this thing's butt.

I was thinking about my sweet Tobin, and how much money I've spent on him over the years without ever batting an eye.  When it comes to caring for him, money is never a question or issue.  I'll do whatever it takes.  And then I realized that I need to extend that same grace towards myself.  I am worth excellent treatment by a skilled physician.  I am worth the cost.  Why do I place his needs so high, while so easily discounting my own?  Why do I apologetically ask my manger for time off to treat my cancer?

Reaching out to people for financial assistance has been hard and good.  Hard, because I feel guilty asking people to help me fight cancer.  Good, because it forces me to not fight cancer alone, which I would be prone to do.  I would isolate myself and place the burden on my own shoulders and not want to inconvenience anyone.

But I realize that instead of being inconvenienced, people experience great joy in providing support.  When it comes to those we love, we think about doing the best for them no matter the cost.  I think sometimes I approach God in that same way, feeling like I am an inconvenience and burden or not believing in the gravity of His love for me.  Having Tobin has allowed me to see that my love for him is not only mirrored by God's love for me, but that God's love is so exponentially beyond the love I'm capable of giving anyone or anything that it's truly beyond my comprehension.  And He is the one in whom my well-being and care is entrusted.

I was told to not let red tape or insurance hoops stand in the way of the best care.  I'm terrified to have my surgery done on Monday, not because they're cutting me open, but because of the bills I know will be arriving in the mail in a few weeks.  But, I'm entrusting myself to the hands of the Greatest Physician and Provider, and trusting that He knows and sees my needs and already has a plan.

Jesus, calm my nerves.

Trading Beauty for Ashes

I've never observed and experienced something so painful and scary turn into something so beautiful and awe-inspiring.

When I woke up this morning, I realized that I already had over $1,000 in cancer treatment donations from friends and family members, and I was moved to tears.  For most of my life, I've been an activist for various causes, and it's always been natural for me to champion a particular group's fight for justice.  When my sister and I were working to create an online place for loved ones to give towards my medical expenses, it felt like we were planning for someone else (typical INFJ that I am, I just can't tolerate the spotlight).  I was distracted from my diagnosis because I was focused on a goal and on spreading awareness.  It wasn't about me.

But then when I awoke to messages of compassion and concern, an outpouring of notes on Facebook and e-mails in my inbox, plus everyone's generous financial gifts, it hit me that all this is about me.  And I realize that it's actually about God, and my family, and a variety of people touched by my life in different ways, but it was the no-strings-attached rallying on my behalf that made me feel more loved than I probably ever have before.

I am reminded that He is with me and for me.  He surrounds me, front and back.  He places His hand upon me.  This unconditional love and rooting for my healing is the tiniest reflection of the depth and extravagance of the love He holds for us.  To contemplate that fact boggles my mind.  These gifts are from Him, this love is of Him.  And so in spite of this past week being one of the hardest of my life, my being forced to rely on the profound love of those around me makes me more aware of Him, and at the end of the day there is nothing more I could want.

What If I'm the Five Percent?

It's funny how passively we can talk about cancer when it poses no obvious threat to us or the people we love.  We use it as a sort of slang word--a word used in casual conversation to epitomize profound suffering.

For the past five years, I've had to get ultrasounds of my thyroid.  Initially, the doctor that diagnosed me with Hashimoto's just wanted a visual baseline of what was going on with my gland (nodules are common in those with autoimmune thyroid conditions).  With every test, there have been small changes, but generally no cause for concern.  My thyroid was inflamed, but it slowly got smaller, and my nodules weren't changing in size (actually, I think one disappeared).

When I went in to pick up my report from this year's ultrasound, I was surprised to see that the radiologist recommended a biopsy.  Not only this, but the nodule had doubled in size since my last exam.  You can imagine my alarm in learning this, when last year the basis for my and the doctors' believing the nodule was benign was the fact that it wasn't growing.

In terms of statistics, only five percent of thyroid nodules are malignant.  However, that rate dramatically increases when various factors are considered, like the patient's age, whether the nodule is solitary, and the nodule's features.  Unfortunately, despite the fact that most nodules are benign, mine meets many of the criteria that make it potentially cancerous, and none of the criteria that indicate it's probably benign.

It's a strange feeling not knowing whether you're part of the five percent.  Of course, immediately there is a lot of fear and sadness.  You troll the internet in hopes of being able to self-diagnose the nodule as malignant or benign (this is impossible without a biopsy).  You ruminate about the fact that you may or may not have cancer.  You spend a lot of time going back and forth in your mind, playing out the scenarios either way.  You realize that you will be okay either way.  Somehow, I think an actual diagnosis is probably a lot less scary than the not knowing.  When you have a diagnosis, you know which mountain you face.  When you don't know, you don't know.

Aside from being emotional (but that's nothing new), the news doesn't exactly surprise me.  I've been so inundated in healthcare and medical treatments during the past few years that I've almost come to anticipate issues like this one.  Yes, I am worried, but less about what will be done if I do have cancer than I am about having doctors and treatment protocols I trust.  A potential cancer diagnosis is terrifying to someone who is skeptical regarding modern medicine and suspicious about most doctors.

Today, I saw a new doctor that told me God made my cells and designed them to know what to do.  She said that I need to start thanking Him for my body and realize that He gave me a healthy body; it's the environment and our food and toxins that have tainted my healthy body.  Her words made me cry, because I so often think of myself as being sickly and diseased that I forget that I didn't start out this way.  It's comforting to know that God didn't give me a lemon from the get-go.  I was given a healthy body that bears the effects of an unhealthy world.

I need to start thinking of myself as healthy with or without a thyroid or some lymph nodes--whether or not I'm part of the five percent.  "For while we live, we are always being given up to death for Jesus’ sake, so that the life of Jesus may be made visible in our mortal flesh" (2 Cor. 4:11, NRSV).  I am healthy because His spirit is within me.

A Commitment to Newness

Last summer, I dragged my brother along with me on a field trip of sorts to our local Barnes and Noble.  My goal was to gather a variety of magazines to be used in creating a vision board.

For those of you unfamiliar with the concept of a vision board, it's basically a poster filled with a collage of pictures that cast a vision for an individual's life.  They are like a map of dreams, and supposedly have some sort of psychological effect on people so that those dreams are more likely to be fulfilled (I have no data on this, just a recollection of something I read in Oprah's magazine once).

My sister is a passionate proponent of vision boards, and is now fulfilling many of her own dreams by way of her recent move to Brazil.  So maybe the boards do have some underlying powers over the subconscious.

After choosing a variety of relevant magazines, ranging in central topics from photography to women's health to interior design, I dutifully searched for and cut out the photos and text that seemed to best represent what I hope for in the immediate future.

Pictures of chiseled abs, runners, women lifting barbells.  The words look good feel better, healthier, diet, gym, healthy weight, fight off cravings, exercise, strong, respect yourself.

Pictures of church steeples.  The words believe, change the world, truth, love, renewed views.

Pictures of camera gear, interior design drafts, paintings, drawings, hands holding pencils, marble busts.  The words photograph, crafting, create, design.

Pictures of women posing, pretty dresses.  The words confidence, myself.

Pictures of dogs.  The word dog (did you think I'd create a board without this?).

Pictures of yoga poses, women free in creation, women on scooters, women smiling and laughing.  The words content, peace, embrace, live, still, play, centered, free.

Pictures of brick walls, houses surrounded by fields, plant-adorned walkways, brightly-painted buildings, the coastline.  The word beauty.

Pictures of groups of people smiling, girls laughing together.  The words people, friends.

Pictures of libraries, writing desks, people sleeping in fields with their notebooks, home offices, hands cupping mugs next to open books.  The words ideas, influence, words, dream, think, your heart's desire.

Despite the fact that I spent so much time scouring each of my carefully-selected magazines for pictures and words, I have yet to actually create a vision board.  The cutouts sit in a stack hidden away in my desk, perhaps symbolic of the way in which my dreams stagnate.

For those who celebrate a religious Easter, the holiday commemorates newness--the new life given to people through the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.  He rose again so that we might be able to be spiritually reborn.

With the theme of newness in mind, I think back to the pictures for my dream map.  I have a renewed desire to take the time to actually assemble them together on a poster, much in the same way I have a renewed desire to act on and pursue my dreams.

Newness.  A commitment to healthy eating and exercise that pushes my body.

Newness.  A commitment to my faith and finding a church that fits.

Newness.  A commitment to my creativity and continuing to experiment in as many mediums as possible (without letting me talk myself out of anything).

Newness.  A commitment to accepting and loving who I am, flaws and all.

Newness.  A commitment to continuing to be a good dog-mom.

Newness.  A commitment to enjoying life fully.

Newness.  A commitment to creating and finding beauty in the world.

Newness.  A commitment to forming new and nurturing old relationships.

Newness.  A commitment to time for contemplation, reflection, writing, and pursuing my dreams.

So Easter is my New Year, a time that marks the newness that I hope to find in my life in the coming months.  Sometimes I'm so busy concentrating on my illnesses that I forget that it's not time for me to mourn my life (or what would have been a "normal" life).  While my conditions do place some limitations on the future, there is no reason they should be stopping me from living.  I need to renew my mindset so that I no longer think that way.

Newness.  A commitment to moving forward in spite of my diseases, allowing them to make my life richer instead of allowing them to stunt me.

Behold, He is making all things new.

Finding Purpose in the Ashes of Suffering

This afternoon, I started to half-consciously ask myself, "When did I become so filtered?"

At what point in my life did I start worrying about what people thought of me?  When did my writing change because of how it would be received?  When did my art stop because I didn't think it was good enough compared to real artists?

When did my childhood dream of working in a shopping mall on Mondays and an artist on Tuesdays and Wednesdays become not okay?

I wish we weren't filtered.  I wish we were real, authentic, genuine people.  I wish we contributed our unique gifts to the world.

Earlier, I read a quote by Vartan Gregorian: "The universe is not going to see someone like you again in the entire history of creation."

We are so driven and simultaneously trapped be our senses of duty and responsibility, by the endless struggle for survival and striving for success.  We think that more money, power, love, (whatever) will bring us more happiness--will provide us with more room to find the real 'us.'

But perhaps the very identity--the truest and deepest identity--we hope to find is the one that is found without money, power, human love, (whatever).  When we can pursue our dreams in spite of potential losses, in the face of great odds, then I think we are living authentically.

In our world of options and possibilities, I think it's become increasingly difficult to find a niche.  There are so many directions we could take, and sometimes I believe our own thinking paralyzes us from taking action.  What's more, creative/alternative enterprises and careers are not celebrated or compensated, and so there is little motivation to pursue what is potentially a person's true heart's desire.

I think that highly sensitive people and INFJs are particularly susceptible to feeling lost.  HSPs are overwhelmed as it is by sensory input, and so to present them with endless choices is to overload their psyches.  And for the INFJ, there is this need to contribute to the greater good of mankind and make a mark on the world--and so often we fear that we will somehow make a wrong turn and miss our calling.

Barbara Sher, in I Could Do Anything, writes that truly knowing how to live means believing in what you're doing with all your heart--regardless of wealth and status.  According to a Harvard study, real happiness is dependent upon a person's knowing what s/he wants and believing that s/he is moving in the direction of that goal.  Sher claims that our skills are of little consequence, but it is what we love to do that should guide our careers and lives.

I believe that each of us has a particular calling and purpose.  I know that, for me, the autoimmune journey is somehow deeply tied to my own.  I think all of the trials we face make us more compassionate, empathetic, and authentic; they bring us closer to becoming the people God designed us to be.

Sher states that in times of war, there are fewer incidences of depression because everyone feels that the work they do has great meaning.  All efforts, large and small, are necessary for the survival of a community.  I think, then, that times of adversity maintain a particular ability to awaken our sense of purpose.

When we become ill, our options and choices are sometimes limited, which can focus how we spend our time.  But, perhaps more importantly, when we become sick, we no longer have the time or energy to devote to causes that don't truly arouse our heart's interests.  And our perspective goes through a sort of spring cleaning in which we catalog those dreams that are truly important, and everything else is released.

Autoimmunity forces us to reevaluate everything in our lives.  And it tests us, in every way, and often shows us we can endure more than we ever thought possible.

With a new-found awareness of that strength, how then can we live believing we don't have something meaningful to contribute to the world?  Creativity and beauty and authenticity?

Recently, a customer where I worked asked me about my philosophy on art and creativity.  He wanted to know what I think about humans' artistic interests.  I told him that I believe we were fashioned to imitate the Creator, to create beauty that reflects His glory and truth.  I think we were fashioned to be like Him.

And what a beautiful thing, to know that out of the ashes of suffering, rises the beauty of art.  He uses our experiences to allow us to create that which will bring glory to Him.  Our suffering is not needless, but in fact reveals truth.

Knowing that my illness ultimately does good, how then would I be able to complain or live immobilized by my own self-pity?  I rise up out of the ashes and create.