Another lifetime ago, or so it seems, I was a ballet dancer.

This fun fact comes in handy for ice breakers and team building activities, but I try to keep conversations about my dancing years on the surface. Truth-be-told, pain filled those years. I used ballet as an escape. I used ballet as a way to abuse my body. I used ballet to disconnect my heart and my head from the truth of my belovedness.

During a particularly demanding run of Sleeping Beauty, I danced the solo role of one of Aurora’s fairies. The dance, simultaneously dainty and languid, showed off my feet and my fingers in a way that I really liked. One day during rehearsal, I made a small choice that I considered minor. I slightly changed the position of my arm — barely just a little. I remember seeing another ballerina extend her arm in a similar way when she performed this same dance, and I thought it looked so beautiful. But that barely-there alteration resulted in the ballet director dramatically halting the pianist and berating me for daring to change the choreography. For her, this alteration directly challenged her authority. Because, when it came down to it, I’d signed a contract and, thus, my job was just “dancer.” I was required to perform the steps according to the choreography that was coordinated with the music.

That was the day I decided I didn’t love ballet anymore.

It took me several decades to reconcile my broken relationship between ballet and my body. Surprisingly, studying theology helped this reconciliation more than anything else. You see, now I am a mother. A wife. A caregiver. I’m training to be a hospital chaplain. I teach the Bible and study theology. Out of all of the truths I’ve learned inside and outside of seminary, my biggest, most important revelation has been: the way we view God will ultimately affect how we view everything else. One example of this is how I’ve viewed God as a berating master choreographer. My duty, then, as a believer demanded that I “perform the choreography.” Discipleship felt like one grand performance. My job as a faithful follower consisted of striving to execute my steps perfectly. In time, I approached holiness, sanctification, obedience, and faithfulness through this lens of perfection. These qualities weren’t something that I depended on the Holy Spirit to direct. Instead, I worked towards those things on my own and, y’all . . . it didn’t work.

I abused my body, convincing myself that arduous work counted as a sacrifice. Theologically, I told myself I couldn’t pursue things like joy and beauty because “I was dying to myself.” I didn’t believe that my voice had meaning or that I had any real agency. My priority, my main purpose, merely consisted of donning my costume and playing my character. I did this at church, too. I kept my mouth shut, put a smile on my face, and pretended in the pews. I pretended I wasn’t in pain. I pretended I wasn’t lonely. I pretended lots of things. But mostly, I lived in a state of constant terror, worried that one wrong move might set off the ill-tempered choreographer and that my misstep — no matter how small — would result in public shame. In my brain, God was like my former choreographer. And I feared the idea that God might rebuke me for daring to, in any way, deviate outside of the role religion handed me.

But studying theology helped me realize that God is less like the director or the ticket box salesperson. God is less like the owner of the theater or the highest-paying donor. God is more like the divine dance. He is inviting us to participate in a dance party rather than a performance. God isn’t worried about us ruining the choreography or losing our footing. He just wants to enjoy dancing with us. God is inviting us to try new steps, take risks, and trust in His kindness. He wants us to invite more people to the party. God is right there on the dance floor with us, showing us what it looks like to participate in the dynamic of His grace and goodness.

In the world of theological studies (and even in everyday life), many of us are curious about the particulars — the semantics and the mechanics. Proper form and technique. Orthodoxy and doctrine. And there’s a place for all of that, sure. But God isn’t screaming at us to get our act together, work harder, or comply. He is not sitting in the director chair with legs crossed, a scowl on His face. God is leading us, smiling with us, resting with us, and teaching us what it’s like to enjoy moving together.

I encourage you to ask yourself questions like How do I view God? and Why? Because when we wonder about God, He loves to reveal who He is. God loves to replace the lies we tell ourselves with an invitation to draw closer, empowering us to depend fully on His divine grace. And as you slowly, gently, carefully, replace those lies with truth, I hope you heal knowing that God loves you, God is with you, and God is good.

Mostly, I hope you enjoy the dance.