Hello! I am Hannah. I am new to the Hammer on Anvil blog, and I am just so excited!!! I figured you might want to know a little about me, so I'll give you a silly rundown: I am a home-schooled, middle child of seven. I met Doug at a Bible school that we still call "Jesus Jail." We just celebrated nine years, and we have two brilliant kids, Missouri and Indie that I call the States. I like Star Wars, Jurassic Park, Captain America, and the X-Files. I make most of my clothes, and there is this quirky way about me that reminds people of a Muppet. Okay, now that is out, I am so glad to be here. God is doing amazing things in my life and I can't wait to get to know you as we get closer to Jesus. Feel free to comment and interact with the blog. Because blogs are like games and life, friends. It's more fun when you participate. Hugs!
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I was 15 the first time I was told I was not fit to serve in the church. Every Sunday the pastors would practically beg from the pulpit for more help -- mostly for the less glorious jobs of nursery duty and the Wednesday night meal. I thought,
I have worked a few summers in a kitchen; surely I could serve up some casserole in the fellowship hall. So after a particularly rousing service, I wandered to the back table with all the flyers and barren sign-up sheets, grabbed a pen, and signed my name for kitchen service.
Two days later, I got the call that they no longer had need of help, but thanked me for volunteering. The next day, someone from church called my mother and asked her to help in the kitchen. I was baffled, but assumed that perhaps I was just too young, and that's why I couldn't serve. That night I went to church early with my mother, and as she helped prepare the meal, I prepared a heartfelt inquiry.
In 2 Timothy 4:12, it says, "Don't let anyone look down on you because you are young, but set an example in speech, in life, in love, in faith and in purity." I figure if I read the big wigs this Scripture, they would see that they should let me volunteer regardless of my age. When I got up to bring my message to the table of officials, I was even more baffled: the 13-year-old soprano choir superstar stood behind the counter, ladle in hand, serving the church she called home. If it was not my age, why was I not allowed to serve?
The next Sunday the pastor pleaded again for help. I signed up. Two days later I received yet another call saying my service was not needed, and another "Thanks for applying." That Wednesday my mother was called upon again to serve, and I was starting to see a pattern. It wasn't my age, or that suddenly there had been a surge of volunteers. It was
me. I was not wanted.
Humbled, but not sure why, I confronted the person in charge of volunteers. "Hey, you keep asking for help. Here I am. Put me where you need me," I said. She turned, peering over her overly-padded shoulder, and said, "Yes, we feel that your appearance is a distraction to the comfortable, inviting place we are trying to provide. We can't have you out representing our church." I didn't know what to say to that. I had been told more than once that my quirky fashion and fondness for brightly colored hair was "prideful" and "sinful" -- but now I couldn't even help with the jobs nobody else wanted to do? Egads, church.
That was the beginning of the end. It took three incredibly painful years to realize that I would never be pretty enough for their church. I would never be what they wanted on stage, in the nursery, or anywhere else. I was not welcome. I was not wanted.
With that realization out there, I went good and crazy. I did everything I wanted to do. Believe it or not, until that point I had tried very hard to tone down Hannah. I would try to wear normal things and talk less passionately about nerdy things. I even spent a full week of my part-time dishwasher job money on a pair of name brand jeans in an effort to fit in. I tried, but even when I tried, it was still me and I was still unwanted.
So I went full Hannah crazy. I dyed my hair brighter, cut it shorter, made more silly accessories and even pierced my face. A lot. And the whole time I was physically going nutty, I was spiritually diving into the Word of God, making more time for Bible, prayer and seeking God's heart. Sad thing is, that didn't matter to the church. I had purple hair and metal in my face. I couldn't love Jesus and look like that. I was a disgrace.
Of course all this "acting out" prompted the youth pastor to call me out in front of everyone and say that "God had no use" for people like me. The following week, I told my parents I could not continue to attend that church anymore. I felt, and still feel, the saints went marching and I got trampled.
I spent the next several years turning to whatever felt good, looking for that acceptance and love I never found in the house of God. What I found is that nearly every group is more tolerant, kind and loving than the church had ever been. This made me bitter. This made me indignant. How could a group of people pollute such a profound message of grace and mercy? How could we turn that message of hope and redemption into a country club for pretty people? Friends, the Jesus I know did not come to pat the prettiest people in Polos on the back. He came here for the broken, the trampled, the sad and the dying -- and that is exactly what I am. I do not have it all figured out, but I know the church is doing it wrong. We judge sin that is different from ours. We exclude because we get uncomfortable. And we trample, because we are busy marching to a drumbeat that is all our own.
Believers, this simply will not suffice. We need to take down our privacy fences. Get to know the people around us, listen to what they need, meet their physical needs and then pour more love, more grace, and more mercy upon a world we so love to hate. Why? Because God so loved the world!
I believe there is a Redeemer and I believe all my hurts, failures and falls have brought me to the margins where all the trampled have been cast aside. I am here because Jesus is here. I tried to march with the saints and was told I wasn't even fit to serve them. I turned to the Bible and saw that Jesus didn't march with the saints either -- He hung out with sinners. Jesus, friend of sinners, met me there among the bitter and broken, and loved me where I was. And when I was ready to walk again, He gave me the grace to carry on.
Ten years later, I am still walking. I have not arrived, but Jesus led me to a group of believers, a church full of sinners, that loved me, met my physical needs and allowed me to serve. Together we are transparent, praying for each other, building one another in love and giving mercy to all who are weary from the road less traveled. Sure, we still fail and fall, but we get back up, rebuild broken pieces, and keep on walking towards a Light that never goes out.
Friends, let Jesus meet you where you are. Invite His light to illuminate the dark, ugly places where we like to hide our hurts and fears. Let Jesus heal and save you. Walk with Jesus and find a church that wants to know and love you, regardless of the baggage that you carry.
If you have been burned by believers, trampled by the saints, and lost in the shuffle, I want you to know there is a Redeemer. You are important. You are not a lost cause. There is a Love that will not let you go. Please come, "Taste and see that the Lord is good" (Psalm 34:8). I know the church has left a bitter taste, but Jesus is not found there. Please, open up your mind and lift up your heart to the Lover of your soul, the Friend to sinners, the Redeemer of life. I assure you it will not be easy. God does not make your life easier, but He redeems the things that don't make sense. I don't have all the answers, but the answer I always get from the Lord, and that is more love. More love, more light, more grace to the world that God loves so much.
