I cried in class last month, blinking furiously, not out of embarrassment but because I couldn’t see the page full of notes in front of me, and I didn’t want to miss a word.

Nearly ten years ago, I applied to seminary. My phone’s camera roll still holds the moment forever frozen in time: an acceptance letter held in trembling hands, glassy eyes, and my smile a mile wide.

The dream was paused before it officially began due to finances. But every Tuesday I drive across town to the divinity school on my old college campus, walk through a maze of hallways I still know by heart, and take copious notes in one of the Lay Academy classes. Although there’s no credit given toward a degree, it’s a wonderful opportunity to learn.

This year, when I read the fall course options, I knew I’d move my entire workweek around if necessary so that I could return to the classroom again. For two hours every Tuesday, two dozen men and women scribble notes, ask questions, and occasionally struggle to see through tears as we learn about Women in the Ancient Church, specifically the 2nd-5th centuries.

This might be the nerdiest sentence of my life, but I teared up when I grabbed a fresh notebook and new highlighters for the first day of class. My throat was tight with emotion as I walked across the campus that is forever near and dear to my heart, a place that has changed so much this last decade and yet will always, in some ways, be home.

But I wiped actual tears in room N101 as we read the prison diaries of Christian women who were martyred.

Every entry was descriptive and clear – the women knew exactly what was coming their way in a matter of days – but each one included the word hope and each was written with joy. I was both sobered and strengthened by their words centuries later.

I had never heard their names before, but they were there – the women were there – and their legacy of faith and belief points to one Name alone.

The following week, I stood with six other women, all of us spanning several generations, as we read from a transcript of second-century court proceedings. A decade has passed since I held a seminary acceptance letter in shaking hands, but the paper now in my hands trembled as we gave voice to the testimonies of seven Christian women on trial together. It was, in a way, an acceptance letter passed through the centuries, as one by one we declared the words of the women who went before us, each one refusing to deny the Name of Jesus Christ.

The air was thick, our eyes wide, and the room completely quiet except for a whispered “wow” that slipped into the silence as we returned to our seats. In the weeks since, with tension rising and anxiety soaring as we near Election Day in the United States, I’ve unexpectedly found myself returning to the words of the early Christians. Surely, in their humanity, they felt worry and anxiety over what the coming days would hold. And yet their words drip with peace, gratitude, hope, and deep joy.

The outcome of tomorrow’s election results will have a significant impact, affecting flesh and blood lives for generations, and I do not in any way mean to minimize this truth. But there is another truth running deeper, echoing from words spoken centuries ago: the Kingdom will not be shaken.

There have been difficult days before and there will be others ahead, no matter what tomorrow holds (or the next day, or the next, or the next). Jesus told us this would be the case, but He left a promise for us among the pain:

“I have told you these things, so that in Me you may have [perfect] peace. In the world you have tribulation and distress and suffering, but be courageous [be confident, be undaunted, be filled with joy]; I have overcome the world.”
John 16:33 AMP

The story is still being written, but we already know the end.

We the people are fractured and divided, but we the children of the Kingdom are forever secure.

Presidents and policies will pass away, but there is a Kingdom that remains, and so we have every reason to be filled with hope. Not a flimsy hope that comes and goes, but one that holds because we are forever held by the One who, even now, is seated on the throne.

May we rest in that truth and may we seek the flourishing of the place where we live (Jeremiah 29:7). In the words of Dr. Lucretia Carter Berry, “May we be people of peace, with voices of hope, doing the hard work of love.”

Our actions matter. Our words in both conversations and comment boxes will leave a legacy. After all, here we are in 2024 and the Christian women of the second century are still speaking, a truth that holds through the ages: the Kingdom will not be shaken.

May we listen with kindness, love well, and live with hope and deep joy. May we remember: The story is still being written, but we already know the end.

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