Whose Voice is That?

voice

Gentle Reader,

In my distress I called upon the LORD,
And cried out to my God;
He heard my voice from His temple,
And my cry came before Him, even to His ears.

– Psalm 18:6 (NKJV)

King David is one of the great authors of history. Not only is his poetry beautiful and honest, filled with every human emotion and experience imaginable, the voice in the words is unmistakably his own. A psalm of Asaph doesn’t read the same as a psalm of David. The poetry of Isaiah or Lamentations, while following the same rules of Hebrew construction and grammar, doesn’t sound like the poetry that came from the mind of the shepherd-turned-ruler. The voice of David teaches us how to cry out to God in an entirely unique way.

He makes no apologies, issues no caveats and hides behind no rhetorical devices. He knows that God knows what he is thinking, so when the words pour out of him, he sees no need for messing about. Though several of his songs are quite long, he gets to the point straightaway nearly every time – even if that point is, as in Psalm 51, begging for forgiveness and restoration following great sin.

Simply, David is just himself.

Much like Jesus, the promised Messiah who descends from his royal line, is just Himself.

There is real power in being who God made you to be. Not the kind of power that abuses and crushes others. Not the kind that clamors and scrambles for authority and position. This is the power of security, of knowing that you were designed for this place and this time, given a specific set of gifts and passions so that you can be about the business of glorifying and enjoying God. It is neither arrogant nor self-abasing. It is not consumed by anxiety and the need for self-defense. This is the power of resting in the Lord, in knowing that He is your shield and fortress.

This power is one that I have been without for too long. It is difficult to be a woman who primarily writes about theology, and occasionally politics, the two topics that most would love to ignore, without the cushion of cute kid stories or fun craft and meal ideas. I don’t fit into the generally accepted “Christian blogger lady” lane. And so, out of insecurity, I’ve often tried to smother my real voice – reflective and serious – in sarcasm sauce. My thinking has been: They may not like what I’m saying, but at least I might be able to make them laugh. While I do enjoy making people laugh, and see nothing wrong with doing so if it happens naturally, the forced attempt has been to the detriment of both my writing and sense of identity. I am neither a clown nor a cut-up.

Beyond this, I have tried to anticipate every objection. This usually comes in the form of, “yes, I know…” or “no, I don’t mean…” This, frankly, is exhausting, because, instead of focusing on the message and offering these words as an act of worship of God and encouragement or equipping to you, I wind up expending energy waging a battle that may not even happen. See? The anxiety, the need for self-defense. 

The worst thing – there are times when I’ve attempted to not “write smart.” This is something that I have struggled with my entire life; in my experience, people don’t like the smart girl, and who among us doesn’t want to be liked? The desire for connection and relationship is hardwired. Best to hide whatever unacceptable aspects you possess, and God-given intelligence and a drive to learn have both been unacceptable.

As I move forward in truth, I no longer want to do or engage in any of these things. I want to be like David, warts and all out there for everyone to see, driven to express himself out of love for the God he desperately longed to please. I want to be like Jesus, who, though sorely tempted as we all are, knew who He was and what He was about. I want to walk through this life with my eyes steady forward, quick to acknowledge and correct every misstep but always moving toward my King. 

That, I can only do as me. Trying to be anyone else effectively denies the rule of my King.

This, dear Lord, I have done. Forgive me and help me start anew.

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