Book Review: Humble Roots

Humble Roots: How Humility Grounds and Nourishes Your Soul by Hannah Anderson
Moody Publishers, 2016

Hannah Anderson has a way of getting to the heart of certain struggles in my walk with God, so when I had the opportunity to review her latest book, I couldn't pass it up. Humble Roots is a continuation of the conversation started in her earlier work, Made for More, which is about being made in God’s image. (I shared some reflections on it here.) Her second book is about learning how to flourish as those created in God’s image, by being grounded in our dependence on Him.

To put it more directly, “The goal of Humble Roots is to understand how pride manifests itself in anxiety and restlessness; and how humility frees us from the cycle of stress, performance, and competition.”

In her own life, Anderson realized that, implicitly, she “believed that finding rest comes from both simultaneously learning to let go and keeping your act together.” As she reflected on Matthew 11:28-29, she saw that neither of those things yields rest. Humble Roots explores those things that cause restlessness and how becoming rooted in Jesus’ humility frees us from them. 

In chapter one, Anderson describes the familiar scenario of lying awake, feeling overworked and overwhelmed, and “also tired of knowing that I had absolutely no right to feel the way I did.” This was so painfully resonant for me: “The truth was that I had no large looming problems, only small ones that felt large. I had no major life crises, only minor ones that felt major. I had no monumental difficulties, only trivial ones that felt unbelievably monumental. I was stressed and unhappy with a very normal life.” She suggests that maybe the little things rankle us so much because they reveal our larger helplessness: “Failure at small things reminds us of how helpless we are in this great, wide world. When little things spiral out of control, they remind us that even they were never within our control in the first place.” Jesus understands these mundane sorts of worries and never shames us for having them. The only thing we can do is seek Him, trusting that He knows both our troubled hearts and our limits better than we do and that He will take care of the rest.

One of the things I’ve most struggled with since becoming a Reformed Christian is being told to rest in my identity in Christ. I find it difficult to know what this means in everyday life, especially when anxiety and shame continue to make themselves felt. Is it mainly a matter of (ironically) trying harder to think the right way?  I appreciated Anderson's sensitivity to this. She writes, “[I]f we’re not careful, telling someone to ‘seek God’ without explaining how and what that looks like can actually compound her stress…when she tries and, for whatever reason, doesn’t experience the rest she expects, she will feel more confused and more burdened. Apparently, not only is she incapable of finding time to cultivate her current relationships, she’s also incapable of finding the largest Being in the universe.” I can’t tell you how often that has been the story of my spiritual life over the years. So what does seeking Jesus’ kingdom look like?

It starts with humbling ourselves and submitting to His yoke. If we’re “plowing” under our own strength, it’s possible we are operating with a messiah complex. I admit that I struggled at this point in the book. Reading some of her diagnostic markers for pride, I found myself thinking that I’m not really a solve-other-people’s-problems, save-the-world kind of girl. The things that rob me of peace tend to lie much closer to home—I can’t even keep my own kitchen clean, much less worry about someone else’s. I’m not disputing that pride may be just as much at the root of that; however, I did wish that Anderson had unpacked this a bit more. Is it setting myself in God’s place to desire a baseline competence in “adulting,” and to grieve when I can't get there? In any case, I take her point that striving to have it all together does “reap stress, restlessness, and anxiety.” This year, for example, the more I have accepted that I’ll never get "on top" of things, the freer I’ve felt to serve Christ and my family in the midst of daily routine instead of longing to jettison my responsibilities. (To save space, I’ll just point to some of my perennial wrestling with striving, grace, and sanctification in this old post. If you have the answer, please spell it out for me.)

I appreciate Anderson’s repeated emphasis that humility is not a commodity, that there is no technique one can master in order to attain it. It comes of being grafted onto Christ such that His humility is truly ours, allowing us to walk in the knowledge of Whose we are and where we come from. It is a “correct sense of self.” It’s acknowledging that God is God and we are not. When we lose track of this, we begin to think of ourselves as deserving of greater glory and honor than others. This is counter to the way of Jesus, who never fought to prove His worth, sought to fulfill Himself, or pursued His own comfort (cf. Phil. 2:3-11). As Anderson puts it so well, “What Paul is describing is not simply a checklist of good human behaviors. Something about Jesus’ very existence—about the way He moved through the world as a human being—radically altered humanity.” In this sense, Jesus’ humility is not an ideal to be copied in our own strength, but a historical fact that is saving in the same way as His death and resurrection are saving. The more we are transfixed by who Jesus is, the less we will care about protecting our own glory. We will be able to appreciate God’s glory reflected in those around us rather than perceiving it as a threat to ourselves. 

Having established the roots of humility, the remainder of the book explores what it looks like to be transformed by humility. As Anderson puts it, “This is no quick fix. What we’re after is sustainable growth.” (Though I couldn’t help observing that she uses the word “suddenly” often in this book! Though I don’t think it was always being used in a temporal sense.)

Anderson devotes chapters to our physical bodies, our resources, our desires and gifting, suffering, and death. While I could pull wonderful excepts from any of these, there are two areas I want to comment on in a little more detail. First, when it comes to our emotional lives, we don’t overcome distress by focusing on our feelings, which only reinforces our angst; instead we remember that God is greater than our heart, that “we don’t have to obey our emotions because the only version of reality that matters is God’s.” He is the only one who really understands our hearts and sets us “free to see the world from a perspective larger than my own heart,” to continually refocus on the Object of our faith instead of our shifting subjectivity. After all, “When you play Holy Spirit in your own life, you’ll quickly become comfortable playing Holy Spirit in other people’s lives as well.” (Talk about convicting!) Anderson does not endorse stoicism, arguing that bringing our feelings before God frees us to enjoy the depth and variety he gifts us in our emotional lives. Perhaps this, more than any other chapter, contains the most fodder for another whole book. I would love to read further discussion of how humility liberates us from emotional turmoil, and I’m sure I’m not alone! It would also be great to see more interaction with Christian forebears who wrestled with these questions—to begin with, many Puritan pastors wrote extensively on the relationship between faith and the “affections.”

Secondly, humility trains our intellect, insight, and perspective. A humble person is teachable, aware of the limits of her own mind. It’s so easy to fall into the trap of defining ourselves by our grasp of the right answers—but if, instead, we are accepted by God on the basis of Jesus’ rightness (and righteousness), then we are safe. We can be okay with our inability to know everything—“your mind can be at ease. You don’t have to worry and fret and stay up late searching out every possible detail before you make a decision.” It’s not that arriving at the “right” answers is unimportant, but—here Anderson uses the rather brilliant metaphor of vine-ripening tomatoes—in humility, we can be less concerned with knowing the answers and more concerned with learning the answers.  Jesus did not want his disciples to have all the answers at once, and the same is true of us; he has set things up such that “the very process of learning binds us to Him in a way that simply knowing the answers cannot.” We may never know everything we yearn to know—but we know the One who does know. This may have been the most freeing and satisfying chapter for me. I love the idea of “[letting] knowledge ripen on the vine,” and this could have such interesting implications for discipleship and pedagogy!

Throughout, Anderson keeps with the “roots” theme by drawing on images and metaphors native to her Appalachian upbringing (she’s Pennsylvania-raised like me and currently lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains in which I spent a blessed season). I won’t dwell on this, except to say that it does work uncommonly well—each chapter is framed by a concept, story, or historical anecdote related to something like heirloom vegetables, herbal remedies, local honey, and berry foraging. These frames are sometimes brilliant and never strained, even when I wasn’t particularly excited about them for their own sake.

This is a lovely and challenging book I certainly recommend. I like that, for Anderson, humility isn’t solely a matter of mental habit—one can certainly pick up on bodily and social dimensions throughout the book. I would have liked to see some of this teased out more, since I am so prone to get stuck inside my internal world.

In that vein, one of the things I appreciated most is that this is a quietly churchly book. Woven throughout are illustrations drawn from the small country church pastored by Anderson’s husband. As much as I appreciated Anderson’s avoidance of “technique,” I wondered if more discussion of the concrete means of grace—the practices of corporate worship, the sacraments, and Scriptural study—could have bolstered her rightful emphasis on focusing on Jesus. How do these things work to ground us in Christ’s humility, even when we are subjectively ravaged by anxieties?

I admit, when I read, "Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest," I still feel a clench of anxiety, not peace. It rarely feels true, and I feel guilty that I somehow can't let it "work." But Hannah Anderson cuts through that knot of self very effectively, and I suspect her book will be working on me (ripening) for a long time. I hope it will do the same for others who long for rest.

I received an electronic copy of this book via Netgalley in exchange for my honest review.

A Happier, Non-Dissertation Post.

I know I said I wasn’t planning to do dissertation blogging this week, and I’ve gone back and forth as to whether I felt like blogging anything at all. This is an introspective time of year, and there is, if anything, too much introspection in my life these days. A little break from that has been nice. And I’m never much for New Year’s sentimentality.

However, 2015 was a good year in our household, and I wanted to mention a couple of those positive things which have had nothing to do with my dissertation.

First, we were thrilled to be able to do some traveling earlier in the year, making it to California not once, but twice—first to visit family at the start of the year (the first time we’d seen my in-laws in almost three years), and later to Berkeley so that Kevin could receive his M.A. from the Graduate Theological Union.  It was our first time back in five years. 

I have often thought back on the Berkeley years as being remarkably difficult, dislocated ones, and while I don’t doubt the accuracy of those memories, I was surprised how many positive associations I felt . . . Looking at the familiar vendors along Telegraph, eating at Bongo Burger ( . . .possibly more than once), finally making the steep hike into the Hills to see the Rose Garden—something I’d wanted to do when we lived there, but probably wasn’t in good enough shape to manage at the time, or confident enough to venture on my own. That was an oddly triumphant moment for me. 

I suppose many of these feelings had to do with coming back a little different and a little older. Certainly our life doesn’t look the way I imagined it would back then—we didn’t guess, for instance, that Kevin would be walking for an M.A. instead of a Ph.D. after making a dramatic career switch—but I don’t think I would trade any of the experiences.

The other major development, of course, was our house—speaking of things I didn’t expect. I had hoped for a home of our own someday, but the possibility was hardly on my radar screen a year ago. We began looking at homes shortly after returning from Berkeley in mid-May (very much on a whim, initially), ultimately placed three different offers, and had an offer accepted on June 29. Not even six weeks later, we moved into our very own little place. Thanks to our wonderful realtors, as well as the surprisingly happy-go-lucky attitude with which we approached the thing, we enjoyed the process more often than not. We had been content in our city apartment (though we’d frankly outgrown it), and the house-hunting was marked by a vague sense of wonder at finding ourselves grown-up enough for such a step. I think the combination of those things helped us feel fairly peaceful about whatever happened. Even now, it all feels a bit dreamlike to me. 

I don’t think the decision to buy this house was a strongly emotional one for either of us. I didn’t have a feeling of its being The Right House—but once we moved in, it has become that more and more. I’m still surprised how happy it has made me.

Both these things were great blessings for us, and I hope that both—time with family and continuing to set up our home—will be major themes of 2016 as well.

If you’ll pardon a last bit of introspection—I reflected recently that so often, I pray for a deeper walk with God and an assurance of his presence; and yet, when he allows things in my life that force me to depend on him moment by moment (such as attacks of anxiety I can’t really control, or laughably minor aches and pains, or nagging unknowns about the future), I immediately beg for them to be taken away. Kind of ruefully funny at times, but a certain mark of the Fall all the same. Not that it’s wrong in itself to ask for His rescue—but I hope I won’t be so quick to overlook the opportunities the Lord gives to deepen my delight in Him, and not in my circumstances. He is so very gracious to do that, and to give comfort through the fellowship of His people, as I’ve found many times through this blog in recent months. Thank you guys, again, for your part in that.

Book Review: Spurgeon's Sorrows: Realistic Hope for those who Suffer from Depression

Spurgeon’s Sorrows: Realistic Hope for those who Suffer from Depression by Zack Eswine
Christian Focus (2014); 144 pages

By its nature, depression is a difficult experience to put into words, even to oneself. No matter how much one longs for companionship in the dreary, grey slog, it can be especially hard to describe it to those who have not experienced it—or even to those who have experienced it quite differently—in a way that they can relate to. That’s why I was so impressed with Zack Eswine’s little book, Spurgeon’s Sorrows: Realistic Hope for those who Suffer from Depression. Eswine’s writing about depression is some of the most accessible—dare I say beautiful—that I have read.

The book is uniquely structured around the struggles of beloved nineteenth-century preacher Charles Spurgeon, who did not shy from speaking honestly about his depression. Spurgeon’s language about depression obviously doesn’t reflect modern psychological insights; but, on the other hand, there is a depth and frankness that our attempts to face this subject often lack. Finding such companionship in an earlier era of the church can be deeply encouraging to sufferers.

Eswine does not try to be comprehensive in his discussion, and certainly the book is no substitute for pastoral and other forms of professional counsel. But, weaving his own insights with generous excerpts from Spurgeon’s sermons, he packs a lot of wisdom into short chapters. The book is divided simply: Trying to Understand Depression, Learning to Help Those Who Suffer, and Learning Helps to Daily Cope with Depression. I want to offer a representative quote from each.

In the first section, Eswine discusses melancholy temperament and spiritual depression alongside more clinically recognized forms of circumstantial and biological depression. While one could raise good questions about the connections among these, I found his approach sensitive and very helpful. This certainly rang a bell:

Painful circumstances or a disposition of gloom within our chemistry can put on their muddy boots and stand thick, full weighted and heavy upon our tired chests [. . .] These kinds of circumstances and bodily chemistry can steal the gifts of divine love too, as if all of God’s love letters and picture albums are burning up in a fire just outside the door, a fire which we are helpless to stop.

Part Two asks, “How can we entrust our sorrows to the larger story of God?” Aimed particularly at caregivers, these chapters commend a biblical scope and vocabulary for talking about depression. This is far from simplistic, and accounts for the ways that we unwittingly cause harm with words and attitudes about others’ suffering.

When we grow numb toward god-talkers whose hope isn’t realistic or who know nothing of what we experience, we needn’t bypass Jesus. On the contrary, when we search for someone, anyone, to know what it means to walk in our shoes, Jesus emerges as the preeminent and truest companion for our afflictions. Realistic hope is a Jesus-saturated thing. Those who suffer depression have an ally, a hero, a companion-redeemer, advocating for the mentally harassed.

Finally, Part 3 offers simple, practical steps sufferers can take to strengthen themselves in the daily walk. This includes learning how to rest on God’s promises even when we can’t feel their truth or imagine their fulfillment. Eswine touches on a variety of other helps like medication, humor, and scheduling around one’s limited energy. I wished he had written more about different forms of counseling that are available, and that he had discussed the role of worship, the means of grace, and the larger Body of Christ in the depressed person’s healing. Still, this section was genuinely useful, venturing outside the box of standard depression-helps.

Sorrow teaches us to resist trite views of what maturity in Jesus looks like [...] It is the presence of Jesus and not the absence of glee that designates the situation and provides our hope. Spurgeon says it this way: “Depression of spirit is no index of declining grace; the very loss of joy and the absence of assurance may be accompanied by the greatest advancement of the spiritual life . . . we do not want rain all the days of the week, and all the weeks of the year; but if the rain comes sometimes, it makes the fields fertile, and fills the waterbrooks.”

I don’t think there is a single, must-read book that speaks to every person who suffers from depression, as everyone's experience is so different; but I hope many Christians will read, learn from, and treasure the hope celebrated in this book. It is a tenderly written book from the heart of one who knows that "the sorrowing have a Savior."

The publisher provided me with an electronic review copy of this book, and I was under no obligation to give a favorable review.

When God feels distant and you're not sure you have faith...

Gisbertus Voetius in Spiritual Desertion, first published 1646:

"[O]ne's faith is definitely not gone as a result of the . . . assaults of temptation when one's conscience fails to feel and taste the sweetness of God's grace and of justification—for which it nevertheless yearns and which it continually pursues with much sighing. On the contrary, faith is like a smoldering piece of charcoal covered with ashes . . . The case is that in this state of numbness faith itself is not so much diminished as concealed and obscured, as concerns its functions, when the black cloud of depression or spiritual abandonment interposes itself between the two. One's faith, in that condition, has retreated into some corner of the heart and stays there . . . Faith and assurance are then still found as it pertains to the root, the ground, the state, and the possession of it . . . but not as it pertains to the outflow and influence of the manifestation and assurance, the emotions, the consolation, the joy and serenity, as it was experienced earlier."

Emphasis mine.
Now this is one reason I love reading older works.
They tend to remind me that I'm not a special snowflake with unique spiritual struggles. Also, they contain precious pastoral truths that our age is often slower to recognize. The communion of saints is a beautiful thing.

Johannes Hoornbeeck, in the same work:

"Apart from the general necessity of worship, in the situation in which the soul now is [feelings of spiritual desertion], the person has a greater need for worship than ever in order to return to the earlier joy that God will again grant through a diligent practice of worship . . . And the worship that one practices in the midst of spiritual abandonment and dryness is rooted more deeply and is more disciplined than that which is experienced under the precious feeling of God's grace; it is proof that the person has come far in the denying of self and in the pure love of God and of worship—proof that what counts is God and not self."

 How painfully and beautifully counter-cultural is this?

A Quotation I Wanted to Share

It is a devastatingly painful thing to be a weak Christian in the American evangelical church today. So much emphasis is put on . . . victory that there isn’t much room left for those God is holding on to with a strong arm, but who may know little of the joy of full assurance of faith and the satisfaction of growth in grace and obedience—at least in this life. . . They limp through life barely able to remember the truth or connect the mighty doctrines of the faith to their struggles in a way that would calm their fears and quiet their hearts. . .They cling to God desperately, but without ever feeling an assurance of his presence or an ability to rest in the love that surrounds them. . .I am convinced that these precious saints are among those Christ died for and are in their own way heroes of the faith, clinging to God in spite of the weakness of their faltering faith. They are the bruised reeds that we must not break and the smoldering wicks that our triumphalism would so easily extinguish. . .Can you imagine the surprise and delight on their faces to find themselves in heaven after all? On earth they could barely hope that the promises of eternal life were true and that God had actually saved them, and they never felt the joy of it during their lifetime. But once they get to heaven it will all change, and I imagine that they will perhaps spend the first millennium or two in heaven surprised and delighted simply to be there.

Barbara R. Duguid, Extravagant Grace: God’s Glory Displayed in Our Weakness, pp. 150–152.

Oh, friends, if you recognize yourself as one of these “bruised reeds,” I hope you will draw some comfort from these words. He created your soul and wired your mind with unimaginable specificity; He has sovereignly allotted the strength of faith you will have, the things that will cut you to the heart or batter your conscience, the emotions you can’t even explain to yourself. This isn’t the last word about what He might accomplish in your life through sanctification, but it is always true that His grace is sufficient for your most particular weaknesses.