“Who is your Herod?” This question was posed to me in a sermon by a German priest presiding over an English mass on the feast of the Epiphany. “Who (or what) tells you something that is masquerading as a Truth, but you realize that you must not listen and instead go ‘home by another way’?”
I have been thinking about this question over and over for the past month. With so much of the world in upheaval, where it seems as though destruction is one of the only constants, who (or what) is playing the role of Herod in my life? I would love to say that it is any (or all) of the following:
· The U.S. political system
· The systemic institutional Church
· The frustrating banality of my current program
· The fact that I feel so unbearably alone at moments in this experience
· The anxiety regarding next steps
· Etc. Etc. Etc.
These answers do hold a lot of truth. All of these things are systems that are attempting to tell me what is True but are lying. One way or another, these things are saying that some matter more than others, that I am too small to make any sort of difference, that what I do is worthless, and that there will never be enough. I reject the lie that any of this is actually true.
While all these things are contributing factors to my internal and external struggle, they are not the biggest “Herods” in my life right now. This moment is an instance in which the answer that is hardest to face is the answer that is most correct. Right now, the Herod in my life that is the strongest and most present is nothing external: not a being, an institution, or a concept. I am my own Herod.
I would never allow anyone to speak to me the way I speak to me. I would never blame others the way that I blame myself. This perfection that I seek is simply idolatry. It is fear of change that I do not know.
I am coming to realize that I must come home to myself by another way. Not by ‘self-improvement plans’ or by putting more on my plate or by shaming myself into trying to do better. I must come home to myself by another way.
By gentleness.
By honesty.
By bravery.
By hope.
And the way of hope is proving to be a tricky one.
Two weekends ago, I ran a half-marathon on a whim. I signed up for the race after quite a bit of peer pressure. Everyone around me knew that I would regret not running through the city of Sevilla on a course that was known to be one of the best races in a city that I am trying to make into home. The proper mix of nerves and butterflies followed the sign-up, but I was most excited to enter something I knew. I pictured running through the city, sun on my back and face, my feet matching pace of my heartbeat. I was ready for a good run through the city, where they say it is always sunny and never rains.
God laughed. It rained every day leading up to the race and continued to rain for The. Entire. Race.
The irony was not lost on me. I expected and prepared for sunshine and got rain instead.
Partway through the race, soaking wet and struggling with being undertrained, I looked down at my race-bib and just had to laugh. I was running under someone else’s name because I signed up for the race so last minute. According to the half-marathon of Sevilla, I was “Esperanza”, as my race bib proudly displayed.
Esperanza means hope.
I quite literally was running with hope on my chest, through the rain, for 13.1 miles, the day before the U.S. Inauguration. I was running with hope on my chest, but the rain didn’t stop. I was running with hope on my chest, and there were parts of it that hurt so incredibly much.
I was running with hope on my chest when the person from run club I was with looked back and made sure I was ok.
I was running with hope on my chest when a random stranger looked at me at mile 11.5 and said, “si, Podemos hacerlo” (yes, We can do it).
I was running with hope on my chest when I crossed what I thought was the finish line…and then realized I still had ¾ of a kilometer left to run.
I was running with hope on my chest when I finished and it was still raining.
Hope stayed on my chest as I smiled and celebrated.
Hope stayed on my chest as I was sore and cold and afraid.
I’ve been thinking about this reality a lot lately. Being in Spain has been, without a doubt, one of the hardest things I have pushed myself to do. While I have plenty of moments that feel like sunshine, there have been stretches upon stretches where this whole experience has felt like constant rain.
Hope doesn’t get rid of the rain. Hope didn’t stop Herod. Hope doesn’t make the hard things magically easier.
Hope instead provides something to hold amid it all.
Hope is not the fuel, but rather the reminder that you’ve been here before, you’ll be there again, and that the rain might just keep falling. Hope is not the cure, but the constant.
In the name of Jesus, I reject the lie that Herod has the final say. I reject the lie that hope is a fool’s errand. I reject the lie that hope will magically make everything easier. I embrace the countercultural way of moving in the world. I choose to hope.
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