I can’t begin to tell you the number of times I have started to write this series of blog posts on my computer, on random scraps of paper, in the note section of my phone or just in my head. The need to speak has been like a burning fire in my soul.
And yet time and again, I threw water on that fire.
From the very beginning of my blogging journey, this subject felt hugely important to me and intimately connected to my heart for leading people into spaces of freedom. And yet it felt scary. It felt risky.
The most extensive writing started 9 months ago, at my last private retreat at the Trappist monastery near my home, just before the Coronavirus took over our lives and much of my writing space. During that time, I began reading a book by Andy Crouch called Strong and Weak. In it he talks about what it means to “flourish.” I love the word “flourish.” It is what I see as the end goal I am striving toward with Freed to Soar. It is that freedom to live into the unique purposes God has for our lives with joy and confidence.
Not surprisingly, to me at least, the contention of the book is that true flourishing, true “strength,” comes through vulnerability, through “weakness.” This is something I have believed for a long time, recognizing that the road to true, abundant, flourishing life can only be paved with vulnerability—through truthfully letting people in to the actual, real stuff that is in our hearts.
But something Crouch said early in his book struck me and struck me hard. It was an aspect of vulnerability I knew was there, but I didn’t recognize was a critical distinguisher of life-changing vulnerability:
“The vulnerability that leads to flourishing requires risk, which is the possibility of loss—the chance that when we act, we will lose something we value…. Vulnerable at root means woundable…. True vulnerability involves risking something of real and even irreplaceable value. And like authority, true vulnerability involves a story—a history that shapes why we are choosing to risk and a future that makes the risk worthwhile but also holds the potential of loss coming to pass.” (Crouch pp. 41-42)”
Shortly after reading this, I decided to go for a walk on a trail beyond the monastery grounds. The monastery hosts a trailhead to the Arabia Mountain National Heritage Area which boasts over 30 miles of scenic trails. I had never walked this trail, but I knew it was well marked and would be a beautiful place to connect with God. My plan was to walk for 30 minutes, and then turn around and come back, leaving little chance of this directionally challenged explorer getting lost.
As the walk began, I had great peace. The weather was perfect, nature was soothing, and I was enjoying my much-needed introvert time. But as I went deeper and deeper into the woods, further and further from people, from the safety and security of those monastery grounds, seeds of fear started creeping in. As 5 minutes and then 10 minutes and then 15 went by without seeing another human being, the “what if’s” started filling me head. And what began as peaceful and safe turned increasingly risky in my mind. I started to realize how quickly and easy I could lose something valuable. This was the feeling of real vulnerability.
A few minutes short of my intended 30-minute turn around, I reversed directions and walked back in the direction of safety; the direction of the known. And with every minute that passed the knot in my stomach started to loosen a little bit more. And as I prayed, I knew God gave me that experience and those feelings for a reason. He wanted me to feel true vulnerability. And as I walked, I asked myself this question:
If I were to write about one thing that felt most vulnerable, most risky, most likely to truly cost me, what would it be?
And within seconds I knew the answer. It was clear as day. The scariest thing I could possibly write about was this: POLITICS.
In the posts to come I will share more of my personal history with politics, but the cliff notes version is this: for me, politics have never been hugely important. I was an Independent whose normal habit was to decide the morning of an election or as late as on the way to the polls who I would vote for. But, I was also an Independent whose mind and heart God had been changing, challenging and convicting on a regular basis, often with great force over the past 4 years. And where am I today?
Today, as I sit with God, as I read my Bible, as I look at what is happening in our nation and our world, there is no longer a sense of indifference. There is a compulsion to speak and to act.
The fire has been undeniable; but so has the fear. As I would sit and think about what it would look like, what it would feel like, what it would cost to speak those things out loud, I was overwhelmed by how risky, how dangerous, how scary it would be. Would I lose my readers? Would I lose my friends? Could I handle the ugly things I knew people would say to and about me? Could I bear it all?
What’s more? This was pre-Corona; this was pre-Racial Unrest; this was pre-Everything becoming even more politicized and everyone becoming even more divided, unrestrained and frankly unkind toward and villainizing of one another. Then it was scary. Today, it is terrifying.
If I am honest, I have a history of holding back. There have been many topics that could be seen as political and divisive that I have shied away from despite my strong theological convictions—stuff like gender and like race. I put it under the guise of “I need to earn the right to be heard” or “I need to build a following so my words can have a greater impact.” But the truth was, I was a wimp. I was scared.
But in the last few years and especially, during this time of isolation, God has been sending me a few of the same messages over and over again. He has spoken through Scripture; He has spoken through books; He has spoken through the words of others; He has spoken through images; He has spoken through quiet whispers in my soul. And the message is the same everywhere:
“I am doing a new thing in you. It is going to be painful and costly. And yet you must speak; you must be brave.”
In January I had a “posting plan” for this blog that ran through the summer. It was neat. It was tidy. It was controlled. But then Covid hit. And what should have become a thing that brought us together as a nation turned into the strongest relational divider our nation has seen during my lifetime. And then George Floyd was murdered. And what should have been that horrible event that caused a national cry of “enough is enough” became yet another place of deep division.
And in that moment, I had a choice:
I could stick to my calendar and all the warm fuzzies of consistency and the sense of control and order it gave me; or I could speak into these situations in a way that could wound me.
I chose the latter. It was a new thing; it was a scary thing; it was a thing I should have done LONG ago. It was the brave thing I needed to do. And it has been costly. I have started to taste the real fruit of vulnerability. I have lost people. I have felt deep pain. I have been wounded. And yet, through it all, I knew that there was never a moment in history where that risk was more important to take, as real as the losses would be.
I have been waiting to feel strong enough to speak about our current political situation. I haven’t arrived at any place of great strength and confidence and I realize that for me this just isn’t a reasonable destination I can expect to reach. My heart has been deeply wounded. My heart is fragile. I know the backlash I will receive from saying the things I plan to say will be like whips to my soul. But there is no other time. I can’t wait to speak. I need to do it “weak.” I will risk my heart being broken even more because it matters that much to me.
I write to release the current that is running through my veins. I write because I want to sleep again. I write because the Holy Spirit compels me. I write so I will not look back and wonder if I missed an opportunity to be part of a word God wanted to speak to His people. I write because I don’t feel there has been any other election in my lifetime that has mattered as much as this one does. I recognize the possibility that the words I share in this space will not change a single mind. Of course, I write them, hoping that they will.