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214 ˜ A Work of Hospitality, 1982–2002
Stranger at the Table, by Hannah Loring-Davis
J a n u a r y 2 0 0 1
Editor’s note: The following adapts sermons preached at Guilford College Friends
Meeting and at the annual retreat for the Catholic Workers of Southern California.
It is truly a gift to be invited to share a simple reflection on my life and on
my walk toward discipleship. To share this with others who are on the journey
fills me with a powerful sense of the Spirit of God.
Over the past three and a half years, while I have been away at college, one
of my major struggles has been to learn how to become my own person, separate
from my parents and my home, without becoming removed from what they
have taught me, and from the gift of life that they have shared with me. It’s a
hard thing.
I have realized over the past few years that I am called into a life similar in
a lot of ways to what my parents do. I am an activist—I have learned this passion
and way of life from family and friends, mentors and teachers. But the
tricky part of this for me is that I have to break into a social and vocational circle
where I am known as Ed and Murphy’s daughter. Granted, it’s nice to have
a little leg up, riding on a good reputation that I haven’t had to create for myself.
But who doesn’t want to be known as their own person In many ways, I
guess it’s just a matter of time, part of growing up.
I go to a small Quaker college in North Carolina. During my time at Guilford,
I have become more and more interested in Quaker tradition, especially
given their emphasis on peace and nonviolence. Quakers don’t tend to do a lot
of preaching—they wait for divine inspiration, “the Quaker call,” to bring
words or song out of silence. You might guess that being the child of two Presbyterian
ministers admittedly makes feeling “the Quaker call” a little difficult.
We Calvinists just like to hear ourselves talk—whether God is calling us to do
so or not. But I tried and tried not to be my parents’ child as I prepared for this
day. However, especially when it comes to the use of the English language, I am
my father’s child—and I have not been able to escape the Protestant homiletical
tradition of a reflection with too much to say and not enough time in which to
say it. Last night, on our way to the car after dinner, my dad wrapped his arm
around me and said, “Now, Hannah, I sure hope you have three points to make
tomorrow.” And how else, I ask, would I prepare Even the lectures I got as a
child had three points, often they were titled, and they usually had a quiz at
the end.
The first seventeen years of my life, I lived at the Open Door Community.