Last week, I was laying on my couch looking at God. At least, I was looking into the air where I assumed God was sitting, skeptically asking aloud, 鈥淲hat help have you been these past few days?鈥�

My prayers, my journaling, my yelling in the bathtub with a glass (or four) of wine, had gone unanswered and I wasn鈥檛 very happy about it. My tears had turned into contempt and I wanted an answer.

It didn鈥檛 take long for other voices to come rushing in, a damage control team, 鈥淲hoa whoa whoa, wait a second, you鈥檙e talking to the creator of the universe there, mister! Let鈥檚 be a little more respectful.鈥�

Really?

I shot a few choice words back at them with an even dirtier look than the one I was shooting at God. Then I turned to watch the smoke rise from the stick of incense I lit a few minutes earlier, pouting.

Hope is not something I鈥檓 particularly into these past weeks. It feels dangerous and yucky. After a summer of leaning into hope and an autumn of having those hopes plucked off one by one, I want nothing to do with it. I鈥檇 rather stay wrapped in a blanket on my couch sighing loudly while listening to Adele and watching the rain fall.

However, hope doesn鈥檛 want to leave. Despite my best attempts to scare it away, I鈥檓 left wondering if maybe I should stop taking Vitamin D because it鈥檚 making me too cheery. Why will it not leave me alone? What is it about hope that makes it sticky? I鈥檒l be lost in my clouds and all of a sudden a little burst of wind will whisper 鈥淲hat if?鈥�

Ugh.

What is it about hope that makes it sticky?

Last year around Advent, I wrote about how the mourning of Holy Saturday felt more appropriate than the hope Advent brings. The world feels like it has been ripped apart even more since then. More shootings, more terrorist attacks, more deaths: heartache surrounds us with an impenetrable thickness. To jump to hope feels glib, as if we are whitewashing the pain. I don鈥檛 want to hope. Thus, I鈥檓 even more hesitant to be entering into a season almost solely based upon hope and anticipation. It doesn鈥檛 match my mood. That鈥檚 annoying.

This season is the little voice whispering 鈥淲hat if?鈥� to me while I鈥檓 cursing on my couch. I may try to sleep through it, but it鈥檒l still be Advent nonetheless. With silent persistence, the days will continue inviting us to come see the Good we鈥檝e all been waiting for. We are swept up into it whether we like it or not.

With silent persistence, the days will continue inviting us to come see the Good we鈥檝e been waiting for.

I was walking around downtown Seattle when I spotted the first Christmas lights of the season. They were wrapped around the trees of 4th, softly glimmering off the streets. My breath left my mouth as the mirror-like wetness of Seattle magnified the magic. That small voice whispered, 鈥淲hat if?鈥�

What if, even on these cloudy, rain-filled days, there鈥檚 still light?

There鈥檚 a part of me wishing I would see the Christmas lights as a vain attempt to decorate mostly-dead trees and focus instead on my perpetually wet socks. The world is awful and nothing good seems to be coming out of it. Why even bother?

Why even bother talking to that guy? Or contemplating that relationship? Or working on that book? Or writing that blog post? Why bother hoping for peace and a church that welcomes the least of these? What is the point if it鈥檚 all going to turn out horribly anyway?

These are the questions I鈥檓 directing at God as I stare at the bit of space where I鈥檓 pretty sure he鈥檚 sitting, smiling coyly, waiting patiently for me to tire of my outburst. When I鈥檓 sufficiently worn out, he gets up, pulls my blanket around my shoulders, puts in a fresh stick of incense, and whispers, 鈥淏ut, my dear child, what if?鈥�

I like to imagine the magi, the astrologers, who spent their time looking up at the glimmering lights in the sky. The ones who noticed the bright new star and decided to follow it, not knowing what they would find. A daunting journey all based on the question 鈥淲hat if?鈥� and the hope something Good was waiting for them. I鈥檓 sure the little light in the sky was covered at times by clouds and rain and wind and sand and despair. Yet, the little voice remained, whispering softly, annoyingly. 鈥淲hat if?鈥�

That voice remains today too, in the wind, and in this season.

What if the Good we are hoping for is almost here?

The post What If? appeared first on 天美视频 of Theology & Psychology.

There are days when I scroll through my Facebook and Twitter feeds and feel anxiety and desperation and jealousy and anger rising from my stomach and into my chest.

Oh, look what so-and-so wrote. Oh, that person鈥檚 post is going viral. Oh, someone else came out and is starting a blog.

I clutch in, territorialism rising. This is my space. Oh, well, that person only has a few followers, ha.

Or. I can鈥檛 believe that leader said that. I could say it so much better.

I鈥檓 constantly measuring. Where am I compared to them? Am I rising? Falling? Who else is trying to get in? How are they doing? Who is getting the attention and why is it not on me when I鈥檝e been doing this longer?

I was walking to get coffee this morning as these thoughts were flooding me. I was feeling good because I had just had a wonderful conversation with someone 鈥渋mportant鈥濃�攅xternal validation that was quickly crumbling into judgment and fear of others.

There鈥檚 a word for this. It鈥檚 called scarcity.

In a scarcity mindset, there is only so much room. Only a little bit of space. And there鈥檚 never enough. We naturally tend to operate out of it; the world around us relies on it. Advertising uses it against us. We never get enough sleep, we are never busy enough, we aren鈥檛 attractive enough, our blog posts aren鈥檛 getting enough hits. Never enough.

Scarcity also creates hierarchy. We rate and place ourselves within the ratings. Climbing, clutching, scratching, trying to get further up and flashing smiles at those beneath us. The top is a pinhead, tiny, one person and I鈥檓 going to get there no matter what. We displace and belittle and project our insecurities onto the people above in order to feel better about taking their places.

As I was walking and passing by the changing colors of the trees, my mind went to a quote that I鈥檓 going to paraphrase because I can鈥檛 fully remember it: 鈥淭here is no competition in this space, there is room for us all.鈥�

When I read that quote several days ago, I felt my breath release and the invitation of spaciousness. There is room. In that brief moment, what was constriction became a wide open space. Hierarchy dissolved. Room, for everyone, working toward a common goal.

Of course, that utopian ideal didn鈥檛 last for long in my head, it never does. (Let鈥檚 add in 鈥渦topian ideals鈥� to the 鈥渘ever enough鈥� list). But, it stuck with me, like it did the time that I heard it before, and before that. It鈥檚 not a new idea. Ancient wisdom teachings have been trying to get this point across to us for thousands of years.

We don鈥檛 have to live in scarcity.

While looking my bathroom mirror I exclaimed rather loudly: 鈥淭here is no scarcity, there is no scarcity, there is no scarcity!鈥� This has been happening a lot in the past couple weeks. I鈥檓 sure my neighbors are wondering who Scarcity is and why he doesn鈥檛 exist. No scarcity in my life would mean that there is room for me to appreciate all the people around me who are furthering the work that I鈥檓 also trying to do. It means not judging those around me because they鈥檙e getting more attention than me. It means resting simply in an idea that I have written on the same mirror: 鈥淚t is my job to write, that鈥檚 it.鈥� Response, success, failure, attention鈥攖hey all fall outside of my job. They are dependent upon me doing my job, but they are not the ideal.

Yuck.

It all sounds so idealistic, doesn鈥檛 it?

It goes against so much of ourselves. We want scarcity. We want to restrict. We want to be at the top with everyone underneath us.

I think about the wide open spaces of scarcity-less-ness when I鈥檓 listening to nature sounds and burning incense in my living room, but the moment I walk outside, pull out my phone, and start reading my Twitter feed, I鈥檓 right back at it. (Note: reading Twitter while walking is not always the best idea).

Yet, as Christians, we have an example of what this looks like in the Triune being that we worship. Jesus came to earth with the message of there is room for everyone. There is no scarcity. Even within the Trinity, the Godhead, there is no scarcity. There is no hierarchy. There is only perfect mutuality, relationship, room. And we are invited into this. Everyone.

“Even within the Trinity, the Godhead, there is no scarcity. There is no hierarchy.”

There is room for us all.

Wide, open spaciousness.

There is no scarcity to the love that surrounds us.

May we be people who work to bring that spaciousness into our own lives so that we extend the invitation to others.

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Where were you this time last year? How did you end up here? This week, we are launching a new series in which first-year students reflect on the path that brought them to 天美视频. Check back every Thursday for a new story.

鈥淚f you don’t like the direction you are going, change it.鈥�

I sat at my desk in the small marketing and design firm I was working for and felt my stomach drop. I was browsing the company’s Facebook page, and the 鈥渋nspiring quote鈥� above had been chosen to be broadcast across our social networks. I glanced around, worried that my coworkers in our brightly lit collective workspace could hear the thoughts that were blaring in my head: No! I don’t like the direction I’m headed!

Just a couple days before, I had found a packet from 天美视频 in my mailbox that contained the paperwork I needed to fill out in order to decline admission鈥攆or a second time. I had chosen my path the year before when I took my dream job at this trendy new design firm. I knew I was saying goodbye to my dream of 天美视频 by accepting the job offer, but at the last minute I checked 鈥渄efer admission to next year鈥� instead of 鈥渄ecline.鈥�

That afternoon, as I sat at my desk, I was keenly aware that this new round of paperwork was due the next day. I had been avoiding it. Every time I picked it up to decline, I couldn’t quite bring myself to fill in the bubble. I had already told everyone at the school that I wasn’t coming; this was just a means of making it official.

The pit in my stomach grew as the afternoon drew on. I tried to focus on my work, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the quote. If you don’t like the direction you are going, change it. As soon as 5:00 hit, I rushed to my car, pulled out my phone, and proceeded to try to explain to my sister what was happening. 鈥淎m I crazy?! I have a great job! I love where I live!鈥� It took her two hours to settle me down.

That evening, I stared at the familiar warm brick walls of the coffee shop I had been going to ever since it opened four years earlier, and I asked a good friend the same question. 鈥淎m I crazy?鈥� He looked me in the eyes. 鈥淲hat’s holding you back?鈥� Only myself.

I cried on the way to work the next morning. Owl City’s 鈥淒reams Don’t Turn to Dust鈥� played on my song rotation, and the tears flowed freely as Adam Young sang, 鈥淚’ll drag the anchor up and rest assured that dreams don’t turn to dust.鈥� I need to do this. It’s time to move to Seattle. (Of course, the next song I listened to was 鈥淗ello Seattle鈥�…because that felt appropriate.) I got to work, opened my email, and sent an apologetic note to Rachael Clinton, Admissions Counselor for Theology Programs: 鈥淵ou must think I’m the most wishy-washy person in the world. But. I’m coming.鈥�

Things have felt somewhat whirlwind-ish ever since that email. I found out several months later that I would have lost my job anyway because of restructuring in the company, effective the same day that I had already put in as my last day. Blocks fit into place as I stepped forward into this new adventure. And now, as I write this, I’m looking out my apartment window at the tall buildings of downtown Seattle, still astonished that I get to call this place home.

It’s slowly starting to feel like home. Yesterday, my roommate and I put up magnets on the refrigerator and hung the Christmas cards that we got last month. It’s funny how the little things make all the difference, and that’s something I’ve noticed while at 天美视频. The little things like walking past the bookstore and hearing 鈥淗ello Matthias!鈥� from within, or grabbing coffee and a long walk with the dean鈥攖hese things make leaving the home where my heart still finds itself more bearable. The warm brick walls in the Commons remind me of the brick walls of my coffee shop. As I sit on the black leather couches of this new environment, sipping my coffee and looking into the eyes of new friends, I find myself deeply grateful that I decided to change where I was headed.

Because now, I like the direction that I’m going.

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