The Danger of Spoken Stories

Things seemed to have grown a bit quite in regards to all the sexual assault allegations and the MeToo movement.  So the logically thing might be for me to do so as well. But I can't. As the news outlets and social media feeds moved on, consumed with the latest bit of kryptonite and/or drowning in the madness that can be the holiday season, I keep thinking about the MeToo movement, the solidarity I felt knowing I wasn't alone and that someone would believer me.  I kept thinking about the many women who came forward to speak against the men who had assumed rights over other people's bodies, particularly women's bodies.  I kept thinking about all the people (mostly men) who were upset that know they had to be conscious of respecting the bodies of the women in their lives.  And I especially kept thinking of an article I had read in which the woman author argued the MeToo movement and the sharing and telling of stories was dangerous. 

My mind was rather persistent in returning again and again to the concept of stories spoken out loud being dangerous.

I have heard an old, old story or two, of how a people were enslaved in Egypt. The story told me how the people cried out for deliverance and that God heard their cries.  The story told me that a prophet and leader was chosen by God to lead the people out of Egypt.  This prophet went to Pharaoh and told him to let the people go.  The prophet told Pharaoh time and time again of the power of God and of what would happen to the Egyptian people.  The Pharaoh did not believe their stories.

And yet, God still showed up.  God freed the people with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm.

A while later, the same people were in the wilderness, fleeing from Egypt. They were afraid, and bitter, and hungry.  The prophet told them that God was with them, that God was leading them some where better, that they should not return to Egypt.  The people didn't believe his words and his stories.

And yet, God still showed up.  God came in a pillar of fire.  God brought them water and manna and quail.

A little while later, a young shepherd boy armed with stones and a sling stood in front of a mighty and skilled warrior armed with a shield and a sword and a spear and armor.  The large, mighty warrior laughed at and threatened the boy.  The boy told the mighty warrior that his armor, his weapons, and his army were no match for the LORD God.  The boy told the might warrior that the battle belonged to the LORD and that the mighty warrior and his army would fall.  No one there believed this boy's words and stories, not his own army, or the mighty warrior, or the mighty warrior's army.

And yet, God still showed up.  God smote the might warrior through the stone the boy slung.

Much later, another prophet named Amos went to the people of Israel.  Amos told them they needed to change their ways.  Amos told them God had said to stop exploiting the poor, and to take care of the foreigner, the widow, and the orphan.  They did not believe his words or his stories.

And yet, God still showed up.

And after that time, as the people were separated from each other and from the homes, they thought that God had abandoned and forsaken them.  Their Scriptures told them how much God loved them and was with them, but they did not believe it.

And yet, God still showed up, right where they were at and right where they didn't expect or believe God to show up.

Again and again, words and stories of God were spoken.  Again and again, God still showed up regardless of whether or how much the people believed.

And now, standing in the wake of Christmas Day, still a bit damp from swimming in wrapping paper, cookies, shiny ornaments, and swarms of eager, last minute shoppers, the Christmas story is newly fresh in my mind.  Looking at the manger, I cannot help but agree that the stories told by women can be dangerous.

You see, I heard a few more stories. A long, long time ago, in this very galaxy, in this very solar system, and on this very earth, a young woman was told she would give birth to a son. What made this particular instance peculiar was not simply that it was an angel telling her this and was not simply because this male baby would be the incarnation of God made flesh, but because this woman was a virgin who was engaged.  Her body did not belong to herself.  Her body had belonged to the patriarch of her family but was currently under the dominion of her soon-to-be husband.

At some point, Mary told her story to Joseph.  She told him about the angel and the baby growing inside her belly.  She told him about how she had consented to the Creator who had sovereignty over all the created order, including herself and including her womb.  I'm not sure how exactly the conversation went, but what I do know was that Joseph didn't believe her.  He was going to end the agreement for their relationship quietly, either to delay the punishment for her "unfaithfulness" which was death or to hide his own feelings and shame.

Even though Joseph didn't believe her story, God still showed up.  God sent angels and God sent Jesus the Messiah, born in the flesh.

And a little later after that, after Jesus was crucified, dead, and buried, some women went to his tomb.  To anoint and care for the dead body of the one they cared for.  When they got there, the body was gone and two angels were telling the women that Jesus had risen from the dead.  Mary Magdalene encountered a man in the garden and eventually saw it was Jesus the Messiah.  She ran to tell the other disciples.  She told them Jesus had risen from the dead.  They didn't believe her.  They ran to the tomb and found it empty as she and the other women had said, but they did not believe her story and her words that Jesus had risen from the dead.

And yet, God still showed up.  Jesus appeared to them again and again for the next forty days until his ascension into heaven.  Jesus touched them, talked with them, walked with them, and cooked food to eat with them.

Stories are powerful, and stories that are spoken out loud are even more so.  I believe that because my entire Holy Book is based on stories that were spoken again and again, and those words changed people.  Not because of the person who spoke them but because of the God who was revealed and made present within and through them.  And while stories of the bodies of black and white women, Native American and Latinx women, old and young women, able and disabled women, may not be the same grade as Genesis or Amos or Luke, but these stories are still dangerous because God still show up and wreck havoc on our assumptions and our hearts of stone.  Because God was present in these stories when people violated the sacredness of other persons' bodies, and even if you or I don't believe their stories God will show up.

Love in What You Leave

The coffee shop was filled with the expected Saturday afternoon buzz.  It was April 30th. My mother's birthday, and it was lovely and temperate. The windows were open, allowing the unfiltered sounds of the city to pour in with the breeze. 

Some caffeine seeking cliental walked in and out, ordering their espressos and iced lattes and some snatched up any available real-estate they could. I had arrived early to insure we had a spot.  The only available one was a small round table, close to the register.  I set my hot tea down after trying (and failing) to sip it without burning my mouth and the table teetered ever so slightly, squeaking loudly in protest to my liquid burden.

He had arrived ten minutes ago, ordered his drink, and joined me.  I braced the table, trying to muffle its protestation.  Immediately he had begun to talk about....I can't even remember.  This was the café in which we first met which is why I had picked it.  As a theatre artist I enjoyed the poetic symmetry it established.  As he talked, I wondered if he noticed or would notice, since he heralded himself a great theatre artist.  Since it wasn't really about him, I doubted he would. 

Stopping himself, he asked himself what he was talking about and why, and then asked what I wanted to talk about.

I pulled a deep breath in, gathering as much strength from the sweet, warm spring air as I could and looked him straight in the eyes.  I let my heart peek out from behind the walls I had built in order to protect it from him. 

I said that we were done "seeing" each other, or whatever term ambiguous term we were using. 

I said that I had loved him.

He opened his mouth to begin what he would do - tell me I was wrong and manipulate my emotions with his words to eventually make this all my fault. Make me look and feel stupid. Small. Weak. Unwanted.

I cut him off, my tone slicing through his words.  I said this was my truth and he could not tell me what it was I felt. 

I said I did love him, but that if this is what love looks like, I want no part of it anymore.  I said he no longer gets to touch me. He no longer gets to use me. He no longer gets to make me feel little and insignificant.

He told me he wanted to be friends.  He told me he cared about me.  He told me that he wouldn't have come here at all if he didn't care about me.

Guilt began to rise from my heart up into the back of my throat like bile.

I swallowed.

I said if he really cared about me, he would have ended it with me when he wanted to see other people rather than cheating on me.  I said if he cared, he wouldn't be trying to make me feel guilty.  I said if he cared he wouldn't have been such an asshole.  And I said that I didn't want to see what friendship looked like if this was how he did relationships.

But I couldn't stop there.  For months I rooted through myself looking for the weeds he planted in me.

I found the one that said being in an unhealthy relationship was better than nothing, and I told it that it was wrong. And pulled.

I found the one built on loneliness, that cultivating the lies that I was alone, isolated, and no one understood me.  The one that told me the best way to fix it was to ignore it. I told it no, and pulled.

I found one with that said I was worthless and unlovable, one that was able to grow deep roots from all the years of memories from other people doing and telling me the same. I told it no, that it was bullshit. And pulled.

I found the one that told me it was all my fault, and that I deserved this.  And I told it to shut the fuck up.

Thing is, this garden which flourished under his care was not originally planted by him.  It had been tilled and tended for years of people saying directly or indirectly that my worth as woman was tied up and summed to a romantic relationship.  What he encouraged to grow were seeds dropped from the words of people assuring me that God's faithfulness to me would be evident in me having a someone.  And each person who would nod their heads in agreement that singleness is a gift but then want no part of it, who wanted to cure my singleness with their grandsons, made me feel like I was worthless and unlovable.  This garden was able to grow because we as a Church spend so much time telling women to be in relationships rather than telling them how God loves them, just as they are.  We don't face the actual pain of their loneliness, their additions, their insecurities, and their failures.  We would rather don't teach our girls and women to love themselves with the love that God has for them, which beckons us to leave our Egypts behind.  I'm not trying to place blame on one person or one group of persons - the responsibility for our neglect is all of our to bear and wrestle with.

It was hard.  I thought many times it would break me. There were moments when I almost went back because having something (even something unhealthy and destructive) seemed better than having to learn to love myself.  But with time, tons of tears, and a wonderful therapist, I was able to leave them behind. 

And any time they grow back, I pull them up again and leave them, some easier than others.  You see, I leave these things, this relationship and even harmful friendships, because no matter how deep these lies get planted in me have grown, deeper still was God's love for me.  And I am only able to leave not because of my own strength or because I innately understand my value but rather because of God's steadfast love for me.  A love that wants me to leave Egypt, to leave behind the things that weigh me down and the lies that keep me enslaved.  A love that wants me to find healing and wholeness in ways that may hurt but that are truth-filled and healthy.

Beloved sisters who are reading this and struggling, you are worth being loved.  It is not your fault. You are not alone. You don't have to be perfect and you don't have to pretend to be perfect.  You are loved, and I pray that you trust in God enough to start loving yourself by leaving the garbage behind.