Good Girl Paralysis

What is mine to do? #2: Act Justly, Love Mercy, Walk Humbly

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

I’ve always hated the phrase “you can’t please everyone.”

Probably because I grew up feeling that my survival was dependent on always pleasing everyone. I was a good girl, as I’m sure many of you also were trained to be—not only by my parent’s standards, but by society’s standards too. Yet I’ve always had a bit of a rebel streak too—the part of me that thrilled at riding with my Dad on his motorcycle. The part that ran by moonlight as a preteen. The part that dressed according to whimsy as a teenager—uncaring of what others thought.

But it was a small part, and very early in my adult life I told that part to hush and be compliant—there was too much to lose.

GOOD GIRL PARALYSIS

When I first started pursuing my writing as vocation/calling/career and not just as a fun little thing I’d do “once I’ve finished the housework” (you can blame my deep buy-in to hard complementarian theology for that one), I was in a writers group where they spoke about how hard it is for perfectionists to publish. My mind is home to a vicious inner critic, and when I stir in the religious trauma anxiety of needing to be perceived as “good” in order to feel “good,” I am often left with a potent case of what I’ll call good girl paralysis.

It probably goes without saying that my latest book release has come with its fair share of challenges—especially as I’ve come out as bisexual, spoken more specifically about my church trauma, and been more open about my left-leaning politics. Like many of you, I have faced the disorientation of being taught all my life to expect persecution, but never having expected that most of the hatred would come from other Christians. Christians who are seemingly desperate to not be held accountable for how their actions have harmed, and continue to harm, the marginalized in our communities. These people whom Jesus dearly loves.

Like I mentioned in the poem I posted earlier this week, I want to say something—many somethings. But so much of the world is burning and I don’t know which fire to point at first—or if there is one right in front of me that I should use all my finite might to mitigate instead.

My least favorite thing about myself is my finitude. I have limited time and energy, both physical and emotional, and the needs are all consuming. That’s why the phrase from Emily P. Freeman has been such a grounding comfort to me; “What is mine to do?” It’s been a guiding light in times like these.

And when I think of it that way, it feels easier to choose the boots-on-the-ground caring for neighbor, than spending my energy battling rage bait on the internet. Or hate mail in my inbox. The vitriol is everywhere, and not all the trolls realize they are haunting the bridges that, for the love of all that is holy, could be built between us.

Sometimes I wish I could take my well meaning friends’ advice and just stop caring, but I can’t. And I know that though it might feel easier for a day, this is not the way. I will always be someone who cares—even as it is sometimes the thing that paralyzes me in my work, it is also the reason I do it at all.

Focus of Care

I take comfort in the fact that it wasn’t that Jesus just “didn’t care” about the religious leaders whom he irritated and terrified to the point of his own execution—that’s not what helped him accomplish his very controversial goals. But his care manifested in specific ways that were very provocative and shocking. It was the focus of his care that was controversial—the way he uplifted women, the poor, the sick, and the minorities—in the face of religious structures consumed with regaining power, and keeping what little they already possessed.

I’m continually inspired by the way he chose to not let fear of misunderstanding of his person or his mission, determine what he was to do next. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the Imago Dei beauty of those whom he was upsetting, but that his mission demanded he care more about the well-being of the least of these, than about the sensibilities of his detractors.

And so he loved the least of these loud in front of the religious, in front of the rock-throwing crowd, or in front of the disciples by a well outside a Samaritan village—his purpose not to shock, but to liberate.

A SHIFT & A SIFTING

I’ve sensed the sifting happening in the church in America for years now—(and by “church” I mean, people who claim to follow Jesus of Nazareth.) The Gospel of Liberation was replaced long ago with the false gospels of safety in power, wealth, and hierarchy. And our current moment is nothing more than the rotten fruit of a country that claimed to build itself on faith, but in reality built itself on white supremacy, genocide, and slavery. Those of us who care about the evils of the past (and present) days, and who would like to avoid repeating them in the future, are being labeled as “woke” (as though it were an insult) and guilty of the “sin of empathy” (as though that were a thing.) There are more Theobros quoting a Gospel of toxic-masculinity than I would ever care to count, and what is more disturbing, is how many people who claim to follow Christ, are hanging on to their every word. But Jesus too was accused of healing the sick by the power of Satan—so I guess we’re in good company.

When I read these vitriolic messages that are so incredibly antithetical to the Gospel Jesus preached, I keep hearing in my head, the saddest words a professing christian could ever hear; “I never knew you.” (Matt 7:23) Jesus tells us that not everyone who professes to act of his behalf, actually knows who he is—but only the one who does the will of his Father. “Act justly, love Mercy, walk humbly…” (Micah 6:8)

This is good news for me, because it’s a needed reminder that just because someone slaps Jesus’s name on something does not make it Christian. Just because someone name drops Jesus does not make them his disciple. (And it’s not for me to judge that either, that is between them and him—but I will pick up the rotten fruit hurled at me and mine, and I will throw it in the garbage can all the same.)

ACT JUSTLY. LOVE MERCY. WALK HUMBLY.

Ever since I was young I have had the deep ability to feel other’s feelings deeply. I weep when they weep. And I rejoice when they rejoice. I can intuit so much that its honestly kind of spooky sometimes, and strangers find themselves telling me their saddest life stories, always finishing with “I’ve never told anyone that before.” It’s simply who I am as a highly sensitive and empathetic person, and it took me until I became an adult to claim it as the super power it has always been. A handful of years ago a pastor I deeply loved commended it as the spiritual gift of “mercy”, and overnight, this thing I had struggled against my entire life became a gift.

This “sin of empathy” talk has been a burr in my saddle since I first heard it, but I haven’t said much about it, because to me it is so insanely ridiculous to act as though the ability to care about another human and compassionately engage with their experiences of the world, which may be radically different from yours would be a SIN.

I think there is wisdom in knowing which fights to pick. Which battle grounds are yours to step on. But I also want to make it crystal clear where I stand to those who might be tempted to waffle on this, so here it goes—

Decrying a “sin of empathy” is just further proof that people who want to hate, can and will continue to use the Bible to do it.

And as enraged as it makes me, if I want to walk in the ways of Jesus, I cannot fall into this trap, no matter how good it feels to just be angry for once instead of just plain heartbroken.

I must be careful with where I give my care—with what I allow to take up the precious space in my heart, and my mind. (You must too.) I have learned the hard way that compassion fatigue is also a thing, and I am no stranger to burnout.

For you it might look different; we must all choose carefully our presences and absences—ponder with God about what is ours to do. For me that looks like keeping my heart free from hate-mail rage, from the over consumption of bad news, from allowing myself to believe for even one second that the darkness might win. It is springtime here, with all it blizzards and 50 degree days following, and I am taking time to sit in the sun when I can. This is not selfishness. I must guard my heart, and protect my peace, so that I can continue to be a place of life and safety for the flesh and blood people right in front of me, as well as for myself.

A Seasonal Life

We are planting seeds at our family farm in the Palmer Divide. The Baby Arugula, Kale, and Spinach are already emerging in our hoop house. Soon we’ll construct caterpillar tunnels for our 700 strawberry plants, and our market trailer is almost finished and ready for a full season of bringing fresh pesticide and herbicide free vegetables to the people.

Meanwhile, I’m putting the finishing touches on my novella just weeks after my second poetry book’s release, and I’m sensing in myself the need for a season of slowing down on my internet output. I have new fiction projects I’m excited to put my attention towards, and life on the farm always takes a lot out of me, even as it fills me with purpose and joy.

So you may see fewer posts from me on Substack for the next few months. (I’m still planning to post once a month in the “What is mine to do?” series—but for the months of April-June, I want to free myself to be more present to my not immediately shareable work in a way I can’t be when I’m posting weekly.) If you are a Paid Subscriber (THANK YOU!) Your payments will be paused for the next couple months and resume once I’m back to my paid posts in July. There is ONE MORE PAID POEM (about choosing the focus of our care and attention) scheduled to come out Tuesday of next week, so don’t miss that if you haven’t become a Paid Subscriber yet. If you can’t afford it, just DM me here on Substack, or email me at gracekelleywrites AT gmail and I’ll comp you, no questions asked. I’m also planning to do a video recording of me reading some poems here before the end of March, so be looking out for that as well.

In the meantime, I hope that you take courage from this, and keep doing whatever it is that Jesus is asking YOU to do. I hope you decry aloud the gospel of fear and scarcity, and preach instead that there is room at Jesus’ table for all of us. I pray you remember despite the darkness, that there is a way forwards—and it takes justice to find peace, and it takes naming what aches to find the way towards healing. The pain doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong; it means you’re doing it with your whole beautifully aching heart, and that is a good thing.

I leave you with the words of Jesus:

In this world you will have trouble—but take heart! I have overcome the world. (John 16:33)