A Story about the Spiritual Journey

by Sharon Garlough Brown

  She walked faster, boxing the air with her fists while a single gull kept pace, matching her forward, straining movement with playful backwards flight.

  And what about all those good gifts you promise to those who love and trust you? What about me? How many years did I cry out to you for healing? How many years did I beg you to touch my body and make me whole? Remember those prayers, God? The nights I would lie in bed and imagine I was reaching out to touch Jesus’ garment so my hemorrhaging would stop? I didn’t have any doubts you could touch and heal me. No doubts at all. But there was no answer for me, was there? One more dream laid down on the altar of sacrifice. One more disappointed hope. But what do I do? I smile and tell people that you’re a faithful God, that you have a plan and purpose in our suffering and sorrow.

  No. You. Don’t.

  Do you even care how much my heart broke every time I held someone else’s child before you, speaking your words of promise and love over that family? Do you care?

  You know what? I don’t like the way you treat your friends. I’ve had enough. I’m done pretending I’m not angry and disappointed with you. I’m not going to fake that I believe your plans are always best—that you do everything out of love. I refuse to be a hypocrite.

  Lover? You want to be my lover? I won’t have you. You hear me? I won’t have you. I’m saying no! Go pick on someone else. I’m done.

  Sinking to her knees, Hannah rocked herself back and forth in the sand, her sobs muffled by the plaintive shrieking of the gulls and the thundering tumult of the surf.

  8

  Intimacy and Encounter

  Where can I go from your spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence?

  Psalm 139:7

  Charissa

  Love (III)

  Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,Guilty of dust and sin.But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in,Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning If I lack’d anything.

  A guest, I answer’d, worthy to be here:Love said, You shall be he.I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,I cannot look on thee.Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,Who made the eyes but I?

  Truth, Lord, but I have marr’d them: let my shame Go where it doth deserve.And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?My dear, then I will serve.You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:So I did sit and eat.

  George Herbert (1593-1633)

  Charissa sat in Dr. Allen’s class, listening to her peers discuss “Love (III)” with graphic intensity. They were probing Herbert’s description of the Eucharist as an invitation to the deepest levels of intimacy and communion with Christ.

  “The whole imagery of Love bidding welcome but the soul drawing back is a movement of passion, isn’t it?” one of her male classmates commented. “Especially the lines, ‘quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack from my first entrance in.’ Herbert’s playing with metaphor there.”

  Another one agreed. “God is Lover and Host here, and the distance between Lover and Beloved, Host and Guest keeps shrinking as the poem goes on,” he observed. “Christ keeps welcoming, keeps inviting, until finally, the beloved and forgiven guest says yes and ingests God. ‘You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat: So I did sit and eat.’”

  “We’re in the realm of profound mystery here,” Dr. Allen commented, sitting down on the edge of a desk and fastening his keen eyes on his students. “For the moment, let’s set aside Herbert’s theology of the sacrament so that we don’t get drawn into a debate about how Christ is present in the Lord’s Supper. Instead, I want to delve more deeply into your observations about the dance of movement between the soul and God, the movement of attraction and resistance. What’s the connection between self-awareness and God-awareness for Herbert?”

  One of the students spoke up. “It’s all about the right kind of humility, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Go on,” Dr. Allen urged.

  “I mean, the guest begins by recognizing his own unworthiness to draw near to Christ, even when the Lord is inviting and welcoming him to come. The guest sees who God is and also sees himself clearly—and the gap between them seems too big to overcome.” She paused. “And I suppose the guest could keep making endless excuses about why he can’t say yes to God’s invitation to intimacy and love. The wrong kind of humility—a kind of self-loathing and despair—could keep someone from saying yes to Love. And so could pride.”

  “Well said,” Dr. Allen replied, nodding. “And that’s a good segue into contemplating your own spiritual formation as a result of your reading. Where does each of you find yourself in the movement of attraction and resistance that Herbert describes? What do you notice within yourself as you read these lines? What’s happening in your spirit?”

  What’s happening in my spirit? Charissa repeated silently. This was exactly the sort of questioning she hadn’t comprehended before.

  And yet—

  Suddenly, something Emily had said to her years ago came to mind: “You’ve never needed Jesus the same way I have, Charissa. You’ve always had your life so well put together.”

  Emily was right. Charissa had worn her self-sufficiency as a badge of honor. For years her own pride had kept her from Jesus. She had never glimpsed her need for conversion or grace.

  But now—

  She had sat in worship on Sunday morning, listening to the Reverend Hildenberg’s sermon about the sinful woman anointing Jesus’ feet at Simon the Pharisee’s house. Charissa had never liked that text.

  “Which one are you?” he had asked the congregation. “Simon the Pharisee or the sinful woman who anoints Christ’s feet with her precious ointment and her tears? What kind of host are you to Jesus?”

  Now the question was pursuing Charissa again as she listened to her classmates openly discuss their own sense of resistance and attraction to the Host’s invitation to intimate union and fellowship.

  What kind of host are you to Jesus? What kind of host are you to the Host? Charissa was surprised to find her eyes burning.

  A lousy one, she answered. Absolutely lousy.

  Like Simon the Pharisee, she had welcomed Jesus into her home, but she had stayed in the position of control. She was polite and respectful, but she showed him no gratitude, no devotion, no—

  Love.

  No love.

  Did she actually love God? The question startled her.

  For as long as she could remember, she had dutifully performed all that was required and expected of her in leading a good Christian life. But why?

  Why?

  The answers came swiftly while her classmates’ conversation swirled around her.

  Because she didn’t want to feel guilty. Because she wanted to avoid reproach and punishment. Because she wanted other people to respect and admire her. Because she knew it was the right thing to do.

  But love for God did not appear anywhere on her long list of reasons and motivations for living an obedient Christian life. How was that possible?

  She had been self-centered, even in her faith. Totally self-centered.

  She couldn’t believe she had missed that. How could she have missed that?

  She leaned forward in her chair, holding her head in her hands. Suddenly, she saw new depths of sin, and she was disgusted with herself. How could she have been blind to that kind of self-centeredness?

  Hot tears began to splatter the page, and she hoped no one was watching. She wanted to run, to hide, to disappear and retreat in shame. How could she have been so hard-hearted toward God? How could she have spent years priding herself that she didn’t need Jesus?

  And now—

  Now what? Where was she supposed to go from here?

  “So when you hear Love’s voice, gently pursuing you,” Dr. Allen was saying, “what’s your response? What do you lack?”

  Was he inside her head?

  Charissa stared at the blurred verses in front of her. A guest, she answered silently, worthy to be here.

  And Love— />
  Love was bidding welcome, drawing near, and tenderly reassuring: “Charissa, you shall be she.”

  Charissa waited to speak with Dr. Allen until after the other students had left the classroom. “I had my aha moment today,” she said, her voice quivering and her eyes filling with tears. “I see now.”

  “Tell me,” he said gently, sitting down again.

  She seated herself in the chair across from him, meeting his gaze. “I’ve been reading Herbert and the other poets the wrong way,” she said. “I’ve been reading the literature the same way I’ve been reading the Bible all these years—clinically and critically, as an intellectual exercise and something to accomplish rather than as a devotional pursuit.” She hesitated, wondering how to articulate what she had experienced in class that day. “I’ve been so frustrated with this class, Dr. Allen, feeling like I just didn’t comprehend what you were asking us to do. I couldn’t figure out what you wanted from me. But today . . . today the poetry actually became prayer for me.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’ve never had that happen before.”

  Dr. Allen’s face lit up. “Beautiful, Charissa. That’s a beautiful gift from God.”

  She went on, “You asked us to pay attention to our own sense of attraction and resistance, and I was right there, experiencing it while you were talking about it. Like this supernatural synergy or convergence or something. I don’t know how else to describe it.”

  “Sounds like the Holy Spirit’s stirring,” he said, smiling.

  She nodded. “I guess. There’s just so much about God I don’t understand.”

  “And that’s the beginning of wisdom, Charissa.” He paused. “May I offer you something, as one recovering perfectionist to another?”

  She laughed and wiped her eyes. “Yes, please.”

  He leaned in closer. “God is always the first one to move in his relationship with us. Our movement is always a response to the Love which loved us first. It’s not about being more perfect in your faith or in your love for Jesus, Charissa—it’s about being more open to responding to his deep love for you. So no guilt or condemnation about not seeing things before now, okay? It’s the Spirit who opens the eyes of the blind. Always at the right time.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for everything.”

  “You’re on a great journey.” He rose from his chair. “Sailing, remember?”

  Sailing. She still wasn’t sure she would ever prefer the unpredictability of the wind to the power of an engine, but she understood. “I actually thought of you this weekend,” she said as they left the classroom. “I was at the lake, and there were still a few boats out.”

  “See? I’m not the only stalwart one,” he said, chuckling. “Where were you?”

  “A cottage near Lake Haven.”

  Should she tell him about the small world coincidence? Should she tell him they had a mutual acquaintance? What harm would it do? If he didn’t remember Hannah, what difference would it make? And if he did—well, maybe he’d want to get in touch with an old friend. “Actually,” she continued, “the woman who invited us said she went to seminary with you.”

  He raised his eyebrows inquisitively. “Is that right? Who’s that?”

  “Hannah Shepley. She said she didn’t think you would remember her, though.”

  His face was inscrutable. “I do remember Hannah. Last I heard she was a pastor in Chicago. Is she living in Kingsbury now?”

  “No, she’s still pastoring in Chicago, but she’s been given a nine-month sabbatical, and she’s staying at a friend’s cottage on the lake. We met in the sacred journey group.”

  “Well, when you see her again, tell her hello from me.”

  “I will.”

  Another student approached, waiting to speak to him. “God bless you, Charissa.”

  “You too, Dr. Allen.”

  As she watched him walk down the hallway with his student, she wondered if they were speaking about literature or faith. Knowing Dr. Allen, probably both.

  Her mind kept whirling as she strode across the quad to the library. Intimacy, she thought. The spiritual life was all about intimacy. She’d just never seen it that way before.

  She thought again about Herbert’s imagery of passion and longing. Could she let her recognition of sin drive her into Jesus’ arms? Could union and oneness with Christ be an even deeper kind of intimacy than what she was discovering with John?

  Something unfamiliar and exhilarating was stirring within her. Let me love you, Jesus, even as you first loved me, she breathed. Amen.

  Charissa hopped into the car and kissed John provocatively. “Hey!” he said. “Good day?”

  “Excellent. I had this amazing aha moment in Dr. Allen’s class today, and suddenly everything is shifting into focus.”

  John listened as she spoke excitedly about her new revelations, her need for Jesus, her longing for more. Somehow Charissa’s awakening faith was stirring his own spirit. Truths he had taken for granted for many years were coming to life in new ways as he watched his wife grow and change. So much had happened in such a short time that it seemed hard to believe. But he was grateful—very grateful.

  “So, I’m thinking I need to do some research tonight,” Charissa said when they entered the apartment.

  “Do you need to go back to campus after dinner?” He hung his keys on the ring.

  She set down her backpack and gazed intently at him. “No, I don’t need to go anywhere.” She wrapped his arms around her body and pressed against him. “I was analyzing some sacred poetry at the library today—reading in the Song of Solomon, actually—and I started thinking that the best way for me to understand the text would be to explore the connections between intimacy with God and intimacy with a spouse. Can you help?”

  He laughed. “Can I just tell you? I’m thanking God you signed up for Dr. Allen’s class. And for that sacred journey group.”

  “An unexpected benefit, huh?” she said, smiling. “I told you—intimacy without defenses is a whole new world for me. Spiritually, emotionally, physically.” She kissed him alluringly.

  John breathed in the citrus fragrance of her hair. “So this research,” he murmured. “When do you want to start?”

  “The sooner the better.” She guided his fingers to the top of her blouse. “It’s urgent.”

  He grinned. “The work of a grad student, right?”

  Charissa squeezed his hand and whispered, “It never ends.”

  Hannah

  October 15

  7 p.m.

  I’m sitting here on the deck at the cottage, watching the sun sink below the horizon. The sky is streaked with lavender and amethyst. Glowing, luminous, lovely. Sunsets are about the only thing I’m paying attention to these days—my only spiritual discipline.

  I haven’t had the energy or desire to write this week, but if I let this go on much longer, I know I’ll end up disintegrating. And I don’t want that to happen. My journal has always been a lifeline to me, and I can’t let this go now. No matter how much I’d rather avoid writing, I can’t. So here goes.

  I’ve spent the past couple of days sleeping a lot. Don’t know if I’m actually that tired, or if I’m just trying to escape. Meg was sweet to call Sunday night. She was worried about how I was doing. I just said I was tired, and thankfully, she didn’t ask any questions.

  I could never confess to her what a fraud I am—that I’m a pastor who can’t even declare the simplest truths about God being great or good or loving. Meg wouldn’t be able to handle my disappointment with God, and I’m not going to say anything that could hurt her growing faith. She doesn’t need to know the darker truth.

  I’m mad at God. I feel totally disappointed and betrayed and angry.

  I used to tell people, “Give God your anger. He can handle it!” And what have I done? I’ve stuffed it. Totally stuffed it. I’m such a hypocrite. And now that it’s out, where do I go? I can’t talk to anyone in Chicago about it. Not even Steve. Even though he might
understand. I don’t know. I guess I could call Katherine and see if she’d be willing to talk with me, even though I’m not scheduled to meet with her again for another two weeks. I don’t know where else to turn. And I’d say, “Help, Lord!” except I’m not speaking to him right now.

  The fiery blaze of sunset is yielding to the cinder grays of twilight, and everything is in ashes. Everything.

  October 16

  1 p.m.

  Slept in again today, and I’m still not dressed. Just sitting here staring out the window. Maybe I’ll go for a walk later. Maybe. I did call New Hope. Katherine offered to see me this afternoon, but I’ll go tomorrow instead.

  Talked to Nancy a little while ago. She says she’s worried about me—that I don’t sound like myself. Guess I’m just too tired to fake it with anybody. No energy for faking anything. Hoping Katherine can help me.

  October 17

  11 a.m.

  I’m sitting here in the labyrinth courtyard, trying to process everything that happened during my time with Katherine this morning.

  I completely unloaded on her. Not about Nathan. I didn’t mention anything about him. I just talked about disappointments in general. She didn’t seem a bit shocked by my anger or bitterness. She just let me pour out all the ways God has disappointed me over the years. She didn’t argue with me or try to defend God. She just listened. I was surprised that I didn’t try to censor my words or my feelings. I just dumped it all out.

  Her eyes filled up when I told her about the hysterectomy. That surprised me. Then she said something that took my breath away. “You’ve been bleeding on the inside for a long time, Hannah.”

  At first I didn’t know what she meant. But then I began thinking about why I ended up having surgery. All those years battling chronic pain, not knowing what the source was. I just assumed it was normal to have such terrible cramps and horrific periods. I just dealt with it. I’d never even heard of “endometriosis” when the doctor finally said that’s what he suspected I had. All that undetected bleeding tissue within my body, accumulating for years and years, fusing things together and growing in secret.