by Laura Hollengreen
“For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of power, of love and of self-discipline.”
2 Timothy 1:7
My dear friends at St. John’s, I write this on a Sunday morning, having already watched and listened
to the weekly worship video from Lutheran Church of the Foothills, my church in Tucson, and as I
await our first-ever Zoom coffee hour in a few hours. LCF is blessed with levels of commitment
similar to yours and yet the pandemic has exacerbated some existing challenges: this is an older
congregation, with 70+% of members over 60 and we have recently lost several long-time and very
active members; our pastor, who ministered to the congregation for 17 years, retired in early August;
and we have received an interim pastor for whom getting to know the congregation is a particular
challenge at this moment. In all of this, despite our feelings of distress, grief, confusion, anxiety, and
resignation, we remind each other of God’s loving presence and guidance. That helps to re-center
me each and every day.
Sometimes, though, it’s hard to exercise the self-discipline with which the verse above ends. So
many people around me—colleagues, students, family members—and I myself seem to careen
emotionally between energy, anguish, optimism, anger, pride, and frustration. Salaries have been
reduced dramatically at the University of Arizona where I work, the second-largest employer in
Tucson, and some people have lost their jobs. Faculty distrust of the university administration is at
a peak. Students are beleaguered and those of color and modest means are rightly demanding faster
movement towards equity. The tenor of many conversations is unpleasant and scapegoating.
Although adverse sentiment is not typically directed at me, I feel implicated … and exhausted.
And yet … I am reminded by Paul’s words to Timothy of what I prize most when I come to
church. It’s not just the friendly greetings and hugs of wonderful people, it’s not just the inspiring
music or the familiar ritual. Worship around the Word of God “re-sets” my mood and my outlook
for the week. It’s really my re-consecration. The time of worship and devotion is set apart from the
rush of my daily life, with its myriad voices, needs, and demands. That time feels precious. During
it, I try to see God—and remake myself in God’s image. I admit I am sometimes distracted, even in
worship, so this is hardly a perfect process. But it is one of hope for the future, my future as part of
God’s plan.
This reminds me of a scenario I’ve witnessed in architecture design reviews: a guest critic picks up a
student’s model that may be awkward or unresolved compositionally, takes it apart, and puts it back
together in a new way. The act is surprising—even shocking the first time one witnesses it!—and it
can seem disrespectful or even damaging. Often, though, it’s a kind of guidance that encourages an
emergent designer to see things with fresh eyes and to find a way forward from a moment of
uncertainty: it can be an act pregnant with possibility. Someone outside one’s specific project re-
asserts the big goals for it from a position of greater experience and knowledge. Isn’t that what God
does for us? At our best, we are willing to risk being taken apart, so that God can put us back
together in a new way. Doing that over and over again is, for me, the daily and weekly renewal of
my baptism. I am resistant at times, but when I let go of my resistance, I feel God’s creative and
loving power course through me.
I’ve returned recently to some reading about the spiritual “athletes” of the early church who sought
the self-discipline that would bring them closer to God, not in spite of themselves, but through
themselves. They were not timid! In Heaven Begins within You: Wisdom from the Desert Fathers, Anselm Gruen calls this process “spirituality from below” … “the lower path to God, the path that leads
through one’s own reality to the true God.” His description of the humility and self-knowledge that
the desert monks sought in themselves and others gives me hope as we grapple with our current
unparalleled and sometimes scary circumstances:
The way to God leads through our weaknesses and powerlessness. When we are stripped of
power we discover what God has in mind for us, what God can make of us when God fills
us completely with divine grace. … Wherever my greatest problem lies is also the site of my
greatest opportunities; that is where my treasure is.
Where is your treasure? I’m trying to find mine at a site of repentance, the reception and gift of
forgiveness, and love.
“For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of power, of love and of self-discipline.”
2 Timothy 1:7
My dear friends at St. John’s, I write this on a Sunday morning, having already watched and listened
to the weekly worship video from Lutheran Church of the Foothills, my church in Tucson, and as I
await our first-ever Zoom coffee hour in a few hours. LCF is blessed with levels of commitment
similar to yours and yet the pandemic has exacerbated some existing challenges: this is an older
congregation, with 70+% of members over 60 and we have recently lost several long-time and very
active members; our pastor, who ministered to the congregation for 17 years, retired in early August;
and we have received an interim pastor for whom getting to know the congregation is a particular
challenge at this moment. In all of this, despite our feelings of distress, grief, confusion, anxiety, and
resignation, we remind each other of God’s loving presence and guidance. That helps to re-center
me each and every day.
Sometimes, though, it’s hard to exercise the self-discipline with which the verse above ends. So
many people around me—colleagues, students, family members—and I myself seem to careen
emotionally between energy, anguish, optimism, anger, pride, and frustration. Salaries have been
reduced dramatically at the University of Arizona where I work, the second-largest employer in
Tucson, and some people have lost their jobs. Faculty distrust of the university administration is at
a peak. Students are beleaguered and those of color and modest means are rightly demanding faster
movement towards equity. The tenor of many conversations is unpleasant and scapegoating.
Although adverse sentiment is not typically directed at me, I feel implicated … and exhausted.
And yet … I am reminded by Paul’s words to Timothy of what I prize most when I come to
church. It’s not just the friendly greetings and hugs of wonderful people, it’s not just the inspiring
music or the familiar ritual. Worship around the Word of God “re-sets” my mood and my outlook
for the week. It’s really my re-consecration. The time of worship and devotion is set apart from the
rush of my daily life, with its myriad voices, needs, and demands. That time feels precious. During
it, I try to see God—and remake myself in God’s image. I admit I am sometimes distracted, even in
worship, so this is hardly a perfect process. But it is one of hope for the future, my future as part of
God’s plan.
This reminds me of a scenario I’ve witnessed in architecture design reviews: a guest critic picks up a
student’s model that may be awkward or unresolved compositionally, takes it apart, and puts it back
together in a new way. The act is surprising—even shocking the first time one witnesses it!—and it
can seem disrespectful or even damaging. Often, though, it’s a kind of guidance that encourages an
emergent designer to see things with fresh eyes and to find a way forward from a moment of
uncertainty: it can be an act pregnant with possibility. Someone outside one’s specific project re-
asserts the big goals for it from a position of greater experience and knowledge. Isn’t that what God
does for us? At our best, we are willing to risk being taken apart, so that God can put us back
together in a new way. Doing that over and over again is, for me, the daily and weekly renewal of
my baptism. I am resistant at times, but when I let go of my resistance, I feel God’s creative and
loving power course through me.
I’ve returned recently to some reading about the spiritual “athletes” of the early church who sought
the self-discipline that would bring them closer to God, not in spite of themselves, but through
themselves. They were not timid! In Heaven Begins within You: Wisdom from the Desert Fathers, Anselm Gruen calls this process “spirituality from below” … “the lower path to God, the path that leads
through one’s own reality to the true God.” His description of the humility and self-knowledge that
the desert monks sought in themselves and others gives me hope as we grapple with our current
unparalleled and sometimes scary circumstances:
The way to God leads through our weaknesses and powerlessness. When we are stripped of
power we discover what God has in mind for us, what God can make of us when God fills
us completely with divine grace. … Wherever my greatest problem lies is also the site of my
greatest opportunities; that is where my treasure is.
Where is your treasure? I’m trying to find mine at a site of repentance, the reception and gift of
forgiveness, and love.
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