Finding my voice (or, was I causing demonic confusion?)

I remember sitting in a large office, an authoritative and charismatic figure seated opposite, with clouded foggy thoughts swirling around my head as I struggled to formulate the words I needed, the words I wanted. I wanted to be able to advocate for difference, for diverse opinions, for the right to be heard, for the inclusion of those who didn’t see things the same way. But in that moment, with my belonging at stake, I bumbled my way through, grasping for some way to give articulation to my experience without being seen as too opinionated, too problematic, too disloyal. 

I’m a peacemaker by nature. I love to keep people happy, for everyone to think that I’m one of them so that I’ll fit in. Some of this is by way of natural personality, but some of it stems from deep insecurities that are soothed by a sense of belonging and approval. So I’ve learned to manage my language, to watch my words, to nod and smile, to accommodate and listen and make room.

At its best, this gives me the ability to see things from multiple angles, to consider alternative viewpoints and diverse experiences. It helps me to see nuance and the grey that resides between black and white. But at its worst, I bend toward those who hold the power over my inclusion or exclusion. I allow my real sense of self to disappear beneath the waves so that others might not see what I really feel and think. At its worst I allow manipulation and oppression to go unnamed, for fear of someone thinking I’m not on their team.

So I sat in his office and he read me scriptural texts about how I was causing demonic confusion, and he likened my expression of difference to the pus that comes to the surface when a boil has been lanced. And I nodded and smiled and said thank you, burying my feelings of isolation and difference somewhere deep beneath the surface.

Several years later I was submitting the final chapter of my PhD thesis to my supervisors for feedback before submission to the examiners. Their feedback on the previous chapters had always been positive, but this chapter was the climax of the whole piece. It was here that I would draw together the insights from the previous chapters and express my own thoughts and conclusions. So I met with my supervisors and there was a long pause, and then came the response. “Well, Michael - it’s not too bad, but it needs some work.” Which might not sound catastrophic to you, but this is the New Zealand way of saying “this is a bit rubbish.”

So what was the problem? Well, it started with the fact that I said the word “might” 125 times in the final chapter. Combine that with the 67 times I said “perhaps” and the 54 times I said “maybe”. .

“I’m not sure you believe what you’re saying”, they said. “You sound half-hearted, like you don’t want to commit.”

And they were right. I was avoiding commitment to any kind of opinion that could be critiqued or disagreed with. I didn’t want my voice to emerge for fear that it would open me up to unwanted judgement. I used modifiers like “perhaps” as a way to escape being seen. And I realised it wasn’t just in the final chapter, this was a common thread all the way through. So I began the task of going through my entire thesis - all 100,000 words - and locating all of the times I used these modifiers, deciding if I really wanted to say the thing I was saying, and if I did I replaced it with more decisive language. 

The curious thing was how personally impacting this process was for me. For an entire week I was immersed in my own ambivalence and insecurity; face-to-face with my own deep desire to keep everyone happy. And as I changed my language and owned my decisions, I felt something changing within myself. I felt a strange sort of confidence emerge that hadn’t been allowed any room to breathe in the past. 

This was not just an opportunity to modify my thesis, it was an opportunity to reflect on my life. To think about the way that “might” and “perhaps” were not just features of my academic writing, but of my way of being in the world. Don’t rock the boat, don’t speak up, don’t look or sound different, don’t express views that aren’t orthodox or accepted. Just bury that stuff deep down, nod, smile, lean in and become a chameleon. That’s the way to belong; or at least this was the lie I had been living.

So in recent years I’ve become much more interested in finding a different way of being; of finding my voice, and owning my difference. And this has gone hand-in-hand with a growing sense of spirituality and faith that affirms difference rather than sameness. Belonging, it seems, is far more meaningful when it is connected to acceptance as we are, rather that conversion as “sameness”. Sameness is the religion of empire. Sameness is the thing that keeps people in their place, playing their parts, and keeping the system efficient and prosperous. But it is also deeply dehumanising, stifling the voices of those who don’t have the power to decide who belongs and who does not. 

And the more attention I pay to the scriptures of my own religious tradition, the more I see a story that takes us toward inclusion of difference rather than conversion to sameness. The central story of the Old Testament is about a remarkable escape of numerous Hebrew slaves from a powerful empire, while the New Testament is centred on a small group of people who follow a prophet largely rejected by his own people and executed as a criminal by the State. Stories of those who would dare to be different in the midst of empires who demanded they were silenced.

So finding my voice is not just some kind of self-help message; for me it is deeply spiritual. It is connected to what the divine Spirit is doing in the world, undoing the systems that keep people silenced and afraid, and opening up new space for embrace as we are. By learning to find my own voice, I am encouraged to listen to the voices of others. By accepting my own difference, I am invited to affirm and accept the difference I see in others. By learning to be comfortable in my own skin, I learn to draw out and embrace the authentic selves of those around me.

I still feel like a beginner on this journey. There are still times that I withdraw and hold myself back. It’s a lifetime habit that takes a long time to break, and I can honour the fact that this way of coping was self-protective. My body and brain were doing what they could to protect me in times when I felt like my place was under threat. But I’m learning that I don’t have to stay in this place, that there is a different kind of life to be lived. One that might land you deep in the sh-ft from time-to-time, but as it turns out, that is where the life is anyway!