Magma, Overturned
Magma, Overturned
Laura Reece Hogan
On Contradictory States of Suffering & Renewal
Standing behind the wind-lashed, yellow caution tape near the summit eruption of the volcano Kilauea, I watch dramatic plumes of steam and ash rising through the still blue sky, keenly aware of the contradiction between the simmering magma and the halcyon day. Though the actual eruption of lava from the Halema‘uma‘u western vent oozing out onto the crater floor is mostly obscured from view, the violent potentiality lying just beneath the surface is palpable.
My family and I are visiting Hawai‘i Volcanoes National Park; a scene of volcano craters and lava flows, past and present. Miles of long-hardened lava line Chain of Craters Road, and trails such as “Devastation” are comprised of lava glass and stark lava fields, with a few daring lava-pioneer plants gracing the landscape. Yes, the devastation is evident and overpowering.
Perhaps the potent sense of molten rock seething in Kilauea’s lava lake is heightened by this time we are living in, when I, like everyone else, experience the world in paroxysms: pandemic, environmental crises, war, gun violence, political chasms, and on and on. Of course, this sense of communal cataclysm also connects with our individual experience. Just in my own little sphere over the last years, the calamities keep coming: the loss of jobs and financial security, relentless wildfires and drought, cancer diagnoses, the ravages of Parkinson’s and other illnesses, the shock of suicide attempts, the pain of divorces, and sudden deaths. Catastrophe and loss abound, whether we experience it personally, through a loved one, or in our larger community. Right now, it’s all too easy to feel caught in the chaos, in the violent eruptions, catapulting lava glass and molten rock, and terrifying lava flows.
Perhaps the most difficult thing about all this upheaval, whether collective or personal, is how swiftly it can take over the whole landscape of our minds and hearts. Loss and uncertainty can darken our thoughts with fear or even crack our faith. How easy it is to lose touch with things of hope that coexist with things of turmoil, which only increases the sense of isolation and pandemonium.
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In 2018, an eruption of Kilauea altered the island of Hawaii permanently. From May to August, massive lava flows forced the closure of communities and destroyed over 700 homes, displacing more than 2,000 people. Powerful earthquakes, including a magnitude 6.9 quake, rocked the summit and, at times, the whole island. Roads were fractured, swathes of landscape were swallowed up in lava and flame. In merely two months, lava buried 13.7 square miles of land and over 30 miles of road. Reminders of the 2018 devastation pervade Hawai‘i Volcanoes National Park, including the now-closed, condemned museum, which was severely damaged by earthquakes.
Norris Niman
Standing in the aftermath of that devastating event, I can’t resist the impulse to search for some mark of grace. Small pink flowers grow in bunches in the lava glass, a few hardy green plants sprout from lava rock, and the occasional ohia lehua tree boasts magnificent scarlet blooms. But looking at the natural beauty that can eventually return after ruin makes me intensely aware of the barren desolation that must come first. It makes me intensely aware of the protracted time it takes for tiny seeds to find their way into lava rock crevices, send down sturdy roots, and slowly make a new home in obsidian lava rock. What I seek is some element of grace, some sign of God’s action, closer in time to the chaos of a mountain on fire. But what sign of positivity could occur simultaneously with ash, lava flows, and destruction?
The Hawaiian language has a word associated with the action of the volcano: “hulihia.” It means overturned; a complete change, overthrow; turned upside down. The idea is that the mountain is overturned by fire—and yet notice the idea of “complete change.” Inherent in the chaos of overturning is also change or newness. This word is traditionally associated with Pele, the Hawaiian goddess of the volcano, who is the goddess of destruction and creation. The “creation” part of that descriptor has nothing to do with the new vegetation that eventually follows lava flows; Pele’s sister Hi‘iakaikapoliopele is the goddess who appears at some later point and strews the landscape with new plants and flowers. No, the meaning is clear—going hand in hand with the destruction wrought by the volcano is the creation generated by the volcano. This is exactly what happened in the 2018 eruption—lava spilling beyond the edge of the island added an astounding 825 acres of new land to Hawaii. New land created by a destructive, violent event.
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In Scripture, land is associated with gifts bestowed by God. New land, such as the Promised Land of Exodus, bears the gift of a new life of freedom and belonging to God. Such land inherently contains other gifts: the land promised will be “flowing with milk and honey” (Ex. 3:8), overspilling with beauty and abundance. While the journey to the land may be arduous and filled with pressures, hunger, and unexpected desert serpents, God is present. And though arrival at the land may involve intense battle, God continues to be present, strengthening, encouraging, and promising to deliver to you “every place where you set your foot” (Josh. 1:3). God makes a gift of new life and identity—and at the same time asks us to participate in this radical overturning, which may involve distress and struggle.
Such overturning can happen in both our outward and inward lives. Either way, the forward progress and gift of “new land” can be hard to perceive, especially during the upheaval. Even as loss strips away parts of our identities and lives, there is a corresponding movement of gain (Phil. 3:7–8). The lava is at once destructive molten rock and the elemental material that builds something new. These two simultaneous, competing realities stretch our faith with paradox, not unlike the paradox of the Cross of Christ—what is death and destruction is, at the same time, new life and salvation. Destruction and creation are a simultaneous experience. Moreover, they are the opening of a new path for us.
Salvation history brims with examples of God making a way forward for his people, often linked with landscape. For example, God “makes a way in the sea, a path in the mighty waters” (Isa. 43:16, ESV) to lead his people out of Egypt to freedom and the Promised Land. The Isaiah passage goes on to announce new divine way-making:
See, I am doing something new!
Now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?
In the wilderness I make a way, in the wasteland, rivers
(Isa. 43:19, NABRE).
God opens a way through physical and metaphorical territories, terraforms exterior and interior, land to save us. He “put[s] water in the wilderness and rivers in the wasteland for [his] chosen people to drink” (Isa. 43:20 NAB), a sip of the coming promise fulfilled in Jesus. In myriad examples throughout salvation history, he opens an avenue, yet his people must choose the way and walk forward in it, enduring whatever struggle comes. This is surely his salvific work in us right now, both collectively and individually. He is opening unexpected and unlikely pathways, creating surprising and verdant territory (Isa. 44:4).
Amazingly, this God who radically opens the way forward for us also accompanies us. He promises to be with us every step of the way (Ex. 3:12; Isa. 43:5; Josh. 1:3–5), even to the end: “I am with you always, to the very end of the age” (Matt. 28:20). Here lies the shimmering beauty at the core of every struggle—we are in constant relationship with God. God is present with us, no matter how we feel in the moment, no matter what we are going through. He will not leave us or forsake us (Deut. 31:6).
God’s constant presence, felt or unfelt by us, assures a certain kind of loving efficacy—“in all things God works for the good of those who love him” (Rom. 8:28). This is especially true amid overturning events. The infinite God is far beyond our finite human grasp; he acts outside of our understanding and expectation. Though it may sometimes feel otherwise, the power of eruptions and earthquakes in our lives do not surpass his power. God uses everything to transform, open possibilities, add acreage, and grant exponential growth. What we may experience first as sheer chaos, we often later perceive was simultaneously an opportunity for progress and expansion.
It’s precisely in those raw, frightening moments of blasting magma that we are called to faith. We are asked to see more than the destruction of homes, the cracking of roads, the terror of lava. We are asked to trust; we are asked to have a spirit of anticipation about the good, the “something new,” he has promised. The relentless lava might be uncomfortable or scary, and it might involve destruction and coming face-to-face with our own vulnerability and our own helplessness to control things, especially things that are crucially important to us. Yet this is exactly the moment to turn our eyes to the God who creates something more expansive for us, putting into place something that didn’t exist before—newborn territory. And yes, on this fresh, bright land there will come blossoms.
Laura Reece Hogan
Poet & Author
Laura is the author of Litany of Flights: Poems (Paraclete Press) and has been published in The Christian Century and America Magazine
Photography by Norris Niman
