Of Mess and Moxie: Wrangling Delight Out of This Wild and Glorious Life by Jen Hatmaker

Author:Jen Hatmaker [Hatmaker, Jen]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Published: 2017-08-08T04:00:00+00:00

Sometimes, I feel discriminated against, but it does not make me angry. It merely astonishes me. How can any deny themselves the pleasure of my company? It’s beyond me.1

— ZORA NEALE HURSTON

CHAPTER 12

SANCTUARY

I have a colorful father-in-law. He grew up in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, as a quintessential 1950s teen, a track runner and football player at UT in Knoxville, then straight into the army where he retired as a first sergeant twenty-four years later. I regularly keep my notepad handy when we’re together, because, out of the clear blue yon, Bob Hatmaker will jumpstart conversations like this:

“When I was a teenager, Bobby Tichner and I used to go squirrel hunting before school. We were always late to school, but at least we got fried squirrel that night!”

“It was 1965. I was in Germany, and I found a couple of I-talian girls . . .”

“In 1957, I visited my friend Mikey Ryder at Tulane during Mardi Gras. Everyone had bottles up their sleeves. I remember about thirty minutes of it.”

These stories are endless and delightful, a daughter-in-law’s thrill and a writer’s dream. Most of Bob’s tales are wildly entertaining, but there is some real tenderness too. He told of his small church in rural Tennessee where he and his buddies were surrounded by deacons, pressed on all sides, and terrified into receiving salvation during a church service. Strong-willed and resistant to spiritual bullying, Bob alone refused to “walk the aisle.” The pastor threw his hands up and proclaimed, “Well, I’ve done all I can do with this one. I guess he’s going to hell.” Bob walked out that door and never looked back.

It was the last time he went to church regularly—more than sixty years ago.

Who could blame him?

Sometimes the one place we should all be most welcomed is the very place we are most rejected; the house of healing becomes the inflicter of pain. Much like any betrayal, the more considerable the source, the harder the loss. No one can wound us more than those supposed to nurture: our parents, our spouses, our churches. The chasm between expectation and reality is particularly grim in supposed safe places.

As I’ve written often, my history with the church is complicated. It spans my entire life and, like any long-term relationship, has had its ups and downs. As a pastor’s daughter and wife, I’ve seen too much behind the curtain to idolize the church. It is a form meant to bring order to and strengthen the Good News; it is not the Good News itself. It is only the wineskin, not the wine; one of the containers, not the substance.

It’s an important distinction, because for many, it is tempting to worship the church, removing the inherent safety of the sanctuary and prioritizing the structures instead, at which point the people become a commodity instead of the body. By definition, a sanctuary is “any holy place of refuge” and, more specifically, “a sacred place where fugitives were entitled to immunity from arrest.” In other words,

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