Sarah Bessey starts her book with the analogy of a rummage sale -- of laying out everything we've believed and inherited and carried with us, and deciding what should stay and what should go. So is what needs to happen when we reach that "out of sorts" place. And it doesn't just happen once.
Through her writing, Sarah has been a constant companion of mine for more than two years. I've fallen in love with what she writes and how she writes it. And most importantly, I trust her.
Whether it's a book or a service or a meme, it doesn't take much for something Christian to put me on my guard. I am overly critical and overly sensitive and overly scarred, so it's no surprise that I fold my arms across my chest more often than not, the words catching on something or bouncing off or just scratching the surface.
Not so with Sarah's words.
Out of Sorts is, in part, her own story. It's a tale of "happy-clappy churches" and "getting religion," of unanswered questions and ill-fitting places, of Jesus and burnout and sorrow and hope. But woven into and over and around it are deep, thought-provoking explorations of the issues themselves that most often unravel us: the Bible, the Church, signs and wonders, and suffering, to name a few.
Sarah's book isn't the first I've read to honestly (and excellently) explore the hard questions. Some spiritual memoirs throb with the very real pain of loneliness, lies, and wounds from those who meant well ... and those who didn't. Others dig deep into my skin, putting a finger on the very nerve of my own spiritual angst. Out of Sorts does both of these things, while also -- one might say first and foremost -- being a book of relentless hope.
And then there's the beauty. The gift of Sarah's writing -- in Out of Sorts as well as elsewhere -- isn't just in what she writes, but also in how she writes it. It is pictures and poetry and music wrapped up in prose. It is grace and peace. It is an invitation, and not just to those on the margins who are questioning everything. This book is for all who hunger and thirst, whether they be on the outside looking in, or the inside looking out, or somewhere in between.
Through her writing, Sarah has been a constant companion of mine for more than two years. I've fallen in love with what she writes and how she writes it. And most importantly, I trust her.
Whether it's a book or a service or a meme, it doesn't take much for something Christian to put me on my guard. I am overly critical and overly sensitive and overly scarred, so it's no surprise that I fold my arms across my chest more often than not, the words catching on something or bouncing off or just scratching the surface.
Not so with Sarah's words.
Out of Sorts is, in part, her own story. It's a tale of "happy-clappy churches" and "getting religion," of unanswered questions and ill-fitting places, of Jesus and burnout and sorrow and hope. But woven into and over and around it are deep, thought-provoking explorations of the issues themselves that most often unravel us: the Bible, the Church, signs and wonders, and suffering, to name a few.
Sarah's book isn't the first I've read to honestly (and excellently) explore the hard questions. Some spiritual memoirs throb with the very real pain of loneliness, lies, and wounds from those who meant well ... and those who didn't. Others dig deep into my skin, putting a finger on the very nerve of my own spiritual angst. Out of Sorts does both of these things, while also -- one might say first and foremost -- being a book of relentless hope.
And then there's the beauty. The gift of Sarah's writing -- in Out of Sorts as well as elsewhere -- isn't just in what she writes, but also in how she writes it. It is pictures and poetry and music wrapped up in prose. It is grace and peace. It is an invitation, and not just to those on the margins who are questioning everything. This book is for all who hunger and thirst, whether they be on the outside looking in, or the inside looking out, or somewhere in between.
