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In which I’ve got a song to sing

Tell a better story || Sarah Bessey

Sometimes, I’m just so tired of All the Reacting. Every one is always reacting to every one else’s work, and right now, I want to create. I want to create my own work, not react to or critique someone else’s work. I want to build something beautiful and true, I want to call things that are not, as they should be.

I’m over reacting or evangelistic debate commenting or weighing in or unfruitful arguing. I can’t lose sleep when someone is wrong or mean on the Internet. I’ve fallen quiet, even withdrawn a bit lately, because I can’t absorb it all without withering.

I would rather create than react.

So I’m not interested in being sweet and inoffensive, I’m not interested in playing church or sorority girls with anyone. I’m not interested in confusing conformity with unity.

And I’m also not interested in being the Go-To Feminist or Post-Evangelical or Mama-Bear for every weird and terrible response and open-letter (actually, I’m just over open-letters, period). I’m not called to hold every person who’s wrong on the Internet to accountability. That’s not me. I’m thankful for those who do this important work – I read them, and I learn. But I cherish my status as an outsider to the mainstream striving arenas and debates.

I need to tell a better story, a beautiful story, an unconditional love-filled truthful story.  I’m not a preacher or a teacher, and I’m realising that I am not a good “react-er” either - wait a tick, is that even a word? I don’t think it is, unless the word “nuclear” is in front of it, which may be apropos for the tone of some rhetoric.  Reacting sucks the life out of me.

Instead of big arguments and point-by-point apologetics, instead of reacting to slights, imagined or legitimate, political or religious or relational, I long to get on with my Father’s business, to live into freedom in my real walking-around life, and I pray there’s an invitation in there somewhere. 

I left behind that old gate-keeper pontificating performance-hamster-wheel of religion a long time ago. Despite invitations, I’m not going back to the The Table to keep fighting for legitimacy or permission. Let them fight. I’ve got a life to live and a song to sing.

I long to offer real gritty grace that enters into the mess and complexity while valuing people and choosing tough love – not fake grace that masquerades as apologism or silence. I long to worship. I long to live prophetically, somehow, into a reality of Jubilee and Kingdom Come – and I have babies to raise, and a husband to love, a house to keep, bills to pay.

So I’d rather write a better and real story than a point-by-point defense, and I long to really see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. I want to live out an embodiment of the Love I’ve experienced and know. I can’t live – let alone write – a better story if I’m being swept up in a million comments and expectations and Twitter mock-fests and Facebook debates and frustrations and whirlwinds of offense.

I can’t create, if I’m constantly busy reacting.  Some of my best work - on-screen and off – comes when I’m listening more than I’m talking, when I’m creating instead of reacting, when I’m choosing to offer grace instead of epic sarcasm, when I swallow a few words, walk away, and come back again, later, to try all over again to make a little space for God, here in the light of day, outside where I belong.

 

This post is an edited version of an old post. I’ve forgotten how to write again so needed this reminder.

 

Continue Reading · faith, fearless, Jesus Feminist, journey, writing · 37

In which this is the home that is shaping me

APRIL-HOME

We made several significant moves when I was a kid, back in the days before Facebook, before email, and long before kids were allowed to use the phone for long-distance phone calls. In those days, when you moved, you moved.

And I liked it. I liked reinventing myself, even as a kid. I liked being able to start over as the person I knew I was becoming, instead of having to plod along, before witnesses, as the person that I wasn’t yet. When I moved to the States for university, I shook the dust of Calgary from my feet, I never looked back. And again and again and again, I remained the new girl, the new-in-town one, the expert box-packer, the one without a past verified or known except by my own admissions. My solution for discomfort: let’s move. I used a “love of change” as a cover for “fear of being known.” Plus, we might as well add in some good old-fashioned evangelical baggage which celebrates the one-who-goes more than the one-who-stays, too.

My husband, Brian, is the homesteader to my pioneer. Even though we kept moving throughout the early years of our marriage, for jobs and seminary and family, he longed for a sense of home, generations deep. Now, we’re on the edge of the continent together, and this place isn’t technically “home” for either one of us. But our roots are going down anyway and I find myself, for once, crazily, longing to stay and grow old here.

The recovery of a sense of place, and the sacredness of staying, has become a pillar in my spiritual formation, particularly in the past eight years or so.

Read the rest over at SheLoves Magazine.

P.S. I’ll be attending the SheLoves Conference in Surrey, B.C. this coming weekend. I’ll be the one crying in the front row because, well, that’s what I do when I’m gathered up with women who love Jesus and justice and laughing together. Hope to see you there.

SheLoves

 

Continue Reading · community, faith, fearless, SheLoves · 3

In which I will stand with survivors

[trigger warning: rape and sexual abuse]

Source: flickr.com via Sarah on Pinterest

 

Rape and sexual abuse has been in the news quite a lot lately. The horrific torture, gang rape, and murder of Jyoti in India, as well as the recent attack on a Swiss tourist. There is the fall-out and legal battle emerging over alleged cover-up of alleged sexual assaults at Sovereign Grace Ministries.  The ongoing legal battles of many missionary kids who suffered abuse in their boarding schools in southeast Asia. Locally, we have heard in the past couple of years absolutely staggering news about sexual assaults of teenage girls and subsequent uploading of the images to Facebook, as well as the vicious bullying and subsequent suicide of a young high schooler.  And then there is the rape trial in Steubenville, Ohio which has exposed a disgusting culture of rape and entitlement.

(These are the stories I think about when people tell me that feminism isn’t really needed any longer. Oh, really?)

This week, several friends and online acquaintances of mine are engaged in some redemptive truth-telling and courageous vulnerability about rape, abuse, and the Church’s response to both.

I don’t have much to offer these discussions myself. So I am learning here. I am praying. I am angry and grieving. And I am listening.

But I want to give room on my little platform here to call attention  to the voices and stories of survivors.

You are men and women of valour. And I’m standing with you.

 

In the meantime, friends and readers, please take a bit of time for survivors this week. Start here:

Steubenville High School football players found guilty of raping 16-year-old girl (<—- This is a MUST-read.)

Rachel Held Evans’ week-long series called Into the Light: A Series on Abuse and the Church

Spiritual Abuse Survivor Week hosted by Hannah of Wine and Marble, Shaney Irene, and Joy of Joy In This Journey.

The Scar of Sexual Abuse and The Sexy Wife I Can’t Be by Mary DeMuth

How Not to Respond to Abuse Allegations by Rachel Held Evans

Why We’re Not Staying Silent Anymore by Elora Nicole (and all week long, Elora is sharing anonymous stories of survivors on her blog. I pray we can surround these brave survivors with our support.)

Edited to add: My friend Tamara Rice is also part of a group seeking justice through G.R.A.C.E. for abuse suffered while on the mission field. Her article here called Where is the victory? is very powerful.

 

 

Continue Reading · faith, fearless, women · 19

In which I will not be silenced

Lavender skies above me, I drove straight to the wilds, a visit to my birthright cathedral, in the fading of the day. I don’t process well in crowds or conversations: I need silence, room to think, an open road. So I drove down our back roads and into the mountains, out and west, and the sky turned indigo while I blasted music and cried and wrestled my life into a Jesus-shape all over again.

I dug a new grave for my sarcasm and wicked anger, my self-defense and my own weak reputation, my “rights” and my pride, my comebacks and retaliations, then my need to be liked and understood and appreciated and approved. I prayed through every wound, every slight, every cruelty, every name-calling, every judgement, every hurt, and I released over and over again, they know not what they do.

And I chose to make peace all over again. I chose ferocious gentleness. I chose kindness. I chose Love.  Under the light, I stood on the side of the road with my head back, alone in the wilderness, and I stretched out my arms and prayed for daily courage and senseless love. I asked for grace to forgive.  I wept into the rocks at my relief of the Gospel and the grace and mercy and goodness of my Jesus.

Where else could I go, Lord? You have the words of eternal life. 

A flock of birds exploded out of a nearby tree, I watched them dark against the purple sky as they scattered and soared out. The pine trees stood scraggly and imperfect. Worn out and bare wind-breakers, these evergreens made more beautiful by their rugged stubborn imperfections, bare spots and knots, determined. I need the sight of their upright determined and imperfect worship, I need the cold air at my throat, and I need wisdom. Disrupting and truth-telling, grace-lavishing and loving is not for the faint of heart, and I am faint in my heart, often. Jesus, be near, teach me to look and live in these places and in this calling.

I stood there, and the Spirit breathed and comforted me, I felt like the ravens might suddenly visit me with a bit of bread, it was sacred by the side of the road. It might be a small thing to so many others, but for me, it was a turning point. I don’t really know why, but I left something by the side of the road this weekend, something that needed to be left behind. I’m travelling a bit more lightly, a bit of a limp to my gait, absolutely, wounded and healed all over again in a new place.

Nourished, lightened, relieved, and yet still tender in my bruising, I drove home in the darkness. I will not be silenced. The only song I’m ever singing, here, there, everywhere, is the freedom song of the beloved redeemed. I’m part of a chorus and our voices are rising: you are loved and you are free in Christ.

 

 

Continue Reading · faith, fearless, journey, Light · 41