How do you “see” God?

I have been pondering seriously the idea of what we “SEE” in our mind’s eye when we think of God and/or Jesus. Do we connect God to being MALE, masculine, man? The New Testament offers almost no physical descriptions and the earliest surviving portraits of Jesus date from about two centuries after his lifetime.

Why do we picture God or Jesus as male? Should we, necessarily? Is it helpful or not? Is it important to God to be thought of as Male?

I want to create a photograph series representing an androgynous: (neither totally male nor female) God/Jesus, but beautiful, long-suffering, kind, generous, strong Jesus that all can relate to.

Why? Because for me and many people, male and female alike, it is destructive and even painful to think of God as male, masculine, or a man. I know Jesus came to earth in the physical body of a male, but there is very little in scripture that talks about his gender or sexual identity (it is actually very benign topic in scripture).

And the way I think of it, Jesus does not fit cleanly into typical masculine and feminine gender roles. Jesus was counter-cultural. He was a man, but then what? … If I am to be able to identify fully with God, who to me drew on both traditionally masculine and feminine emotions and behaviours, ways of thinking, approaches to life, I see that being as “between” woman and man, or if you will genderless.

If males are created in the image of God, then God has male attributes or traditional masculinity; and if females are created in the image of God, then God has female attributes and femininity. But we are uncomfortable with that in traditional Christianity.

God’s personality has attributes of maleness and femaleness. Males and females, created in the image of God, have God-given attributes of maleness and femaleness.

Androgyny is simply the unity of ‘man’ and ‘woman’, ‘male’ and ‘female.’

This changes the typical and peculiar valuing of woman or women and forces one to challenge thinking that assumes that Males have a higher position with God than Females. That man is the starting-point and woman the derivative. To me, an androgynous God is a correction to this one-sided thinking.

Where I have been reading:

“A better position of woman in Christianity (at least on the ideological level), or offering a Christian contribution towards a greater equilibrium between man and woman in our culture, will only be possible through a much more fundamental change of Christianity than is usually contemplated. A number of androcentric presuppositions, i.e. presuppositions which have the man as starting-point, or make him so, are present in Christian thinking; and it is precisely these unconscious presuppositions which accustom the legitimation by Christian thinking of one-sidedly patriarchal relations. Of course the spiritual movements, mentioned above, are present to give indications of the direction in which important aspects of deep transformations could be sought and achieved.” 1

This is not to say the person of Jesus was not a man, but was God, is God MALE. And is that important? How you or I “see” God need not be set in stone, need not be declared definitively, need not be harmful as it is now.

I want to blow people’s perceptions and stereotypes of God/Jesus, but I am not sure Blackhawk is ready for that … It is important to me. And I will pursue this project.

I am not certain that the person I have in mind would be willing to model. But I’d like to find out.

Melody

1 Boudewijn Koole, Man en vrouw zijn een: De androgynie in het Christendom, in het bijzonder bij Jacob Boehme (English title: Man and woman are one: Androgyny in Christianity, particularly in the works of Jacob Boehme), Utrecht 1986, with `Summary in English’, [with extensive Notes, Bibliographies, as well as Indexes on I. Subjects and names II. Citations of Boehme III. Citations of the Bible IV. Authors]; 341 pp.; = diss. Utrecht 1986; ISBN 9061940869 [This publication had been made possible by the Bibliotheca Philosophica Hermetica in Amsterdam]

2 Check out http://www.religionfacts.com/jesus/image_gallery.htm for images of Jesus.

I Remember …

I woke this morning with a certain wistfulness. I am overcome by a feeling that comes from wondering why it is so hard for me to remember and why I focus on the negative memories so often.

Truth, I have very few memories of my childhood and later years. For whatever reason they are simply gone. I honestly don’t know why I have lost them, whether I blocked them or they are simply lost because of my feeble brain.

Once in a while I have a memory, that floods in and I should write it down.

Today I am trying to remember good things about my parents.

My mother is a great cook, a natural and she used to love to bake or cook for us. We never had a bad meal in her kitchen. She had a heart full of welcoming hospitality.
I once sat at the kitchen table with my friend Heather, laughing over some shared experience. My father looked up and said how much I reminded him of his mom in that moment. This was in high school.
My parents always chose their churches for us kids, to ensure that we went to a church with a thriving youth group even if it meant that they didn’t necessarily love the doctrine or musical styles.
In high school or earlier, I worked for my dad in his office doing “lick, stick and stuff” type assignments. One day he came up to me while I was reading a novel, at my desk, and there he gave me the “work ethic” talk that has stuck with me for the rest of my life. I will never forget it. If you accomplish your work in less time than expected, ALWAYS look for or ask for more. That unforgettable talk made me the 110% person that I am today.
My mom is a fount of knowledge about nutrition, health, plants, and many other topics. She’s brilliant, really.
My father never met a stranger. He believed that every conversation could be “divinely inspired” and went through his life meeting the most incredible, influential people (unknown to him until later) and the simple, everyday persons that interested and challenged him with each encounter. He would strike up a conversation with anyone and show genuine interest, compassion and Christ’s love to each one. I am hard core shy and truly disinterested in meeting strangers. He would try to teach me “conversational starters” (From Dale Carnegie) but I must say I wasn’t the best student.
My father has no memory of being told he was loved by his parents as he was growing up. He was almost ritualistic about coming to each one of us at the beginning or end of the day, with a hug and a word, some expression of love (not always the words “I love you” but always the intent). I carry that tradition on now with my own children. I hope the words don’t lose their meaning I say them so much. But I never want them to be able to say “I’m not sure my parents loved me.”

That is all I have for now… seven strong memories to carry with me today.

eulogy to life

There was a time, when to wake with a pounding head

meant total indiscretion the night before.

On this day, the one year anniversary

of my choosing relief and power,

the day I rejected my empty Thirst

I can celebrate my life.

There is shame in being a drunk;

total confusion and self-contempt.

I do not remember to glorify it,

for it was pure wretchedness, and I still

sometimes feel disbelief that this is my story.

But I cannot, dare not, blot out the memories.

It happened.

There is guilt, humiliation, self-disgust,

but I dare not forget.

I choose sobriety.

I choose to be aware of my cravings and needs.

I am an alcoholic who chooses — every day — her Life.

What is suicide — picking up the glass knowing it is death, for me.

What is Life?

Awareness.

Humility.

Service.

Love.

Life is facing down my demons,

knowing the dark times will come.

Life, is wanting something more.

Power comes in the choosing.

Choosing more Love, choosing Life.

Even as I remember,

I choose this day to Live.

I choose my Life.

July 17, 2009

What I Didn’t Learn From My Parents … or Did I?

From my parents, I didn’t learn how to have or be a friend.

I didn’t learn to trust people.

I didn’t learn how to stick with a person, even if they are unpleasant or difficult, or to work at a relationship even if it is imperfect.

I learned how to be alone.

I learned how to mistrust.

I learned how to fear and to look for rejection.

I learned how to use people to get what I needed and wanted.

I learned how to break promises. I learned to lie, mostly to myself.

I learned to be afraid, to find comfort in being alone, to be anxious, and to be unpredictable.

I learned to look strong, while I covered my fears with work, or illness, or alcohol, or sarcasm, or wit, or intelligence, or knowledge and arrogance, or competence, or whatever was near that made it go away, for a time.

I didn’t learn how to need, to depend on others, to be open, to give and take. Me, me, me! Always, what mattered was how everything impacts me!

I learned how to take from and use people — I didn’t think I had anything to give back.

Isolation equaled strength somehow in my parents. Fear people, because they will let you down, hurt you, disappoint you, or even need you too much.

I didn’t learn from my parents and what I did, I am trying to unlearn.

Written 7/11, Sunday, 2009

Tuesday, July 13

Ah, the wretchedness of focusing on yourself and your internal distress and grief. Upon further thought I am truly ashamed. How self-centered these thoughts are and how sorry I feel for myself at times. Yes, all that happened but I also know, without a doubt, that what I learned and didn’t from my parents has made me the person I am today.

If anything, in the midst of my selfishness of thought, I am assured that I am not them. I am my own person. And although I am disgusted and ashamed of my parents’ behavior (and my own) at times, it came from their own pain and disappointment with their parents. My parents did not feel loved by their families, not a little, not a lot,seemingly not at all. And although intellectually I know I was loved, it always came with a sense of conditions, whether spoken or not, that I could not live up to. Not a little. Not a lot. Not at all.

I have made many, many mistakes already in my life. My addiction to work at one point in my life, and even my giving in to an addiction to alcohol, and came from lineage of broken people. Strength in the broken places was a mantra my father lived and I think he believedbut somehow he never changed; he never put a stop to passing on his pain, fear, isolation, and disappointments.

If I have any strength it comes from naming the sin of my selfishness. To continue on hurting others, or even blaming, would be the ultimate lapse of character and so I take my weaknesses, my awareness of what I did not learn, and what I did and reach out. For out of my fear, distrust and isolation come a raging and inconsolable need for Place. For Belonging. For a sense of Home, if you will, that I never knew as a child but crave as an adult. As I reach and extend my heart to others, I am trusting that we will each be strengthened by the risk-taking.

If it feels like jumping off a cliff, the terror unimaginably vivid, I am even more resolved! As I get outside of my doubts and fears, I can do something else with my life! Sometimes that is as simple as answering the phone, returning a phone call or email, replying lovingly to an inquiry and a revealing a little more of myself, or more importantly caring enough to ask questions of others.

Isolation only brings what I seem to always be looking for, which is ‘proof’ of others’ betrayal. I want others to reach toward me! What I am learning is to get outside of myself, to consider others before myself. Oh,I don’t do it perfectly, or even regularly, or even often enough; for the impulse to close in on myself is almost as natural as breathing. And yet although I breathe, that is not being alive. That is death in itself, to live hour-by-hour for myself and my own needs. It is to others that I am called or else this life in not worthwhile, not a life worth living. And I do want to live fully, as complete and whole as I can be.

In the end, this isn’t about my parents.

It ends with my parents and begins with,

jumping off the cliff,

today. Life in free fall is scary, but pretty great!

firsts

Originally uploaded by M e l o d y

Do you remember the first time you did anything? This is a friend of ours, and this is his first taste of watermelon!

When Dylan (ten years old) found out that this was Zeke’s first taste of watermelon he said:

“I wish I was little. I don’t remember the first time I ate watermelon. It’s an honor to share this with him.” (Yes, that’s a direct quote. He said ‘honor.’)

Is that not the sweetest thing?

It made my day.

My first AA meeting

…

Originally uploaded by M e l o d y

Beauty in the midst of Chaos

Just a few brief thoughts, because of the business of my day. It’s a bold confession to admit to others, especially Christians, that you are an alcoholic. I can admit it to myself readily enough, although it did take me six years. But once the admission is made internally I do not feel ashamed.

The moment that one speaks publicly, the idea of being an addict feels shameful. I fear that others will perceive me as weak (an unspoken judgment that I used to make about other addicts, if I am utterly honest).

So little is understood about the nature of this disease, and after all my training I still find it hard to believe that alcoholism is a disease, like cancer or any other.

My own internal judgment, my low esteem for myself, my fear that I am simply a weak person all join forces to tell me that I have to do this alone!

And so, it took me nearly a year to walk into my first AA meeting. I’ve been sober since July 24th, 2008 but yesterday was my first meeting where by walking into that room filled with beautiful, amazing women, I was admitting that I was powerless over alcohol and I was acknowledging that I have been judgmental about others and have not wanted to be surrounded by what I had perceived, in advance of even meeting them, as slightly -odd, -crazy, -weak, definitely-weird overly needy strangers.

Forgive me, for my wrong thinking. For the last year I have found strength in feeling “above” those others: addicts who need AA. I felt superior, intelligent, stronger, better … I didn’t ‘need’ AA.

You know what I have to say to that? WHATEVER!!!

I am powerless. And yet for nearly a year I have stayed sober by isolation and sheer strength of will. I have worked on very many aspects of my life, spiritual and physical, emotional and psychological. I have quit smoking. I have become more centered. I have sought out strong influences.

And yet, I can not stay sober alone. And so I went to my first meeting and for the first time in ages I felt that I was not alone** in my addiction. I could sit and listen to others and not have to think so much, get out of my head into my heart, and just BE.

Keep coming back was a good message for me yesterday and I will.

So be it.

Melody

** alone – by that I do not mean unsupported. Tom and others have been encouraging and supportive, but not being addicts, there’s just something that can’t be said, understood, known.

Images of Spring

The Journey In Between

In my journey between belief and disbelief, I have found Truth to be something I choose not to argue about, but to be what I have experienced in the mystery of the flesh-and-blood of the incarnation. My encounter with Truth is the Story — my responses, reflected in word and image, are but a ripple in the ocean of that mystery.

After a recent exhibit at an artist showcase at my church, I found that I was ultimately ambivalent about it. One image I preferred, titled Sinkhole, seen below, truthfully expressed the dark lull of depression which is a reoccurring struggle for me, but the rest of my images were drivel. After searching within, and asking for guidance, I found inside myself a desire which I came to understand as this:

I want my photography and poetry to reflect the improbable and shattering experiences I have had encountering Jesus — encounters between my grubby and muddled life and Truth. These moments aren’t at all pretty; my struggles with a life-threatening depression (the sinkhole), the death of an abusive yet charming parent, a loathsome self-esteem, the tensions between my passions & my search for ultimate purpose, and the shame & fear in acknowledging my alcoholism, are all relevant to my faith journey.

I am living with the tension of wanting to create beautiful, excellent art and to reflect the sweat and toil of my faith. To honestly reflect the sweet serenity of unconditional love & laughter, as well as suffering, pain and broken heart I have from things chosen and unchosen in my life. The satisfaction I have experienced in my slow, bittersweet surrender to believing God is who he says he is and can do what he says he can do! The heart’s quickening by the spirit of God which is earth shattering and good.

I’m fully aware that my writing and photography will never have the Answers to the Questions people have — but if it can be a simple witness to my experiences and a nudge toward Truth, I will be satisfied. Knowing Jesus promised that those who seek will find. We can trust him. He meant what he said.

I want my Art to be a connection that cannot help but push one toward God. I need to make this kind of art, need it desperately. And I hope in the act of creating, whether through a lens or written word., some restitution will be found.

Is it too much to ask that Art heals, directs, and in the end is a tiny inkling of God’s Truth? There is a certain anxiety or fear involved with the attempt. Not wanting to be marginalized by the world for making “Christian art,” I feel reluctant and yet strangely compelled! What other option do I have? If my art is relevant to the entirety of my experience, from the dazzling to the profane moments, then it just may be relevant to the people around me.

This is my wish.

MHH

Some of my thinking was inspired by: http://www.relevantmagazine.com, http://www.insidecatholic.com, as well as by the writings of C.S.Lewis. Teaching at Blackhawk Church, http://www.blackhawkchurch.org, has been a catalyst in this profound change in my life over the last seven years.

my poem: no dignity

There’s no dignity in panic.

It stops your heart from consuming any sensation, real or otherwise.

Your brain hums, but it’s got no tune. It is an off-key drone.

You can’t breathe, your lungs forgetting their purpose,like a pillow over your face, it suffocates.

Your feet are leaden; won’t walk, won’t work.

In fact, decency and decorum would help a lot right about now.

This moment, you wish was a memory.

But in fact, you have no magid wishes; not one, two or three.

Your brain, heart, lungs, legs are corrupted, having forgotten their purpose.

This is the simplest and worst of betrayals.

You are offensive even to yourself. Sickened by your fear.

There’s no dignity in panic, nor any humanity or decency;

only a crippling,fractured, dismembered day,

hour-by-hour

endured.

No self-respect;Until somehow

Wisdom anchors to your soul.

And you let it go. Not to forget,

but for now to breathe, think, move until the next

most unwelcome panic.

4/15/2009

Written by Melody Harrison Hanson

I need a filling (a poem)

…Originally uploaded by M e l o d y

It’s difficult to face

some days.

Yesterday was like that

simply

because I was face-to-face

with my [faithless and revolting] need

for Substance.

And I vowed,

again, as I do many days

to offer my need to God, the ultimate Other,

asking for a filling.

I need a filling dear Lord, I need a filling.

written 4/13/2009

by Melody Harrison Hanson

Addict

Being an addict catches me by surprise. Today,

seemingly innocent things — a drink, a smoke, a purchase, food, even exercise can become

urgent

need.

In the time that it takes to feel a flash of happiness, sadness or regret;

less than 60 seconds of my life

and I remember,

I am an addict. How could I have forgotten?

Today I must ask what brought this on?

For tomorrow I must fill the need

with OTHER.

As for yesterday, I can only look back and remember

I am an addict, but I am stronger than my need.

And as for this moment — I know I am an addict;

I am. I was. I always will be, always will be

an addict.

ADDICT written april 9, 2009 by melody harrison hanson

Those that have no background in addiction look at the word ADDICT and the word alcoholic as kind of wicked and weak. Face it, our culture doesn’t understand. But if you’ve been there, if you live there, if you love someone who does or has you know exactly what I mean. And I thank you for understanding.

Tom’s Music on Primetime CBS show

My lovely husband. I am so proud of him. Although his ‘day job’ is wonderful and he’s an amazing leader of his organization, I know that his passion is his music which does in his off hours. Last year he completed his 2nd album, ironically titled Everything Takes Forever, a five year project?! It’s a beautiful CD.

He just received word that one of his songs—“Even So” from his 2nd CD Everything Takes Forever will be used on the CBS prime time show, Ghost Whisperer, tonight Friday (2/13/09, 8:00 PM ET; 7:00 PM CT) If you’d like, check it out.

Also, his website is:

www.myspace.com/tomhansonmusic in case you want to stop by to sample.

Peace to all, Melody

Category: My Story