Unashamed of Weakness
I remember a story when I was a little girl and I attempted to cross a street by myself. I couldn’t have been any older than first or second grade. Young enough that now as I think about it I wonder why in the world I was crossing a street by myself, but it’s another topic to think about what kids did in the 80s that you would never let them do now. Back to my six year old self crossing the street. I got about halfway across (it was just a small two lane road) and froze. And even now 30 some years later I remember that feeling. Aware of all the people in the cars looking at me. Afraid that I had done something wrong. Wanting to hide and trying to put myself in the middle of the double yellow line so I could just stay there and let all the cars go by. Small, fragile, fearful.
I continue to know that feeling now as an adult. Thankfully it doesn’t happen when I cross roads anymore. I no longer need kind women to come and escort me to the side. But there continue to be moments and seasons in life that reveal my smallness and leave me standing fragile and vulnerable. It’s surprising to me how it feels remarkably like being that little girl standing on her tip toes to fit in between the double yellow lines. As if standing right smack dab in the middle somehow made me disappear, hid me. I want to hide. I long to be covered. I feel like everybody sees me. Like all my weak spots are showing.
That feeling is complex and there are many angles Scripture begins to speak into it. Perhaps from the angle of my choices to hide and the things I choose to cover myself with. Or maybe focusing on the eyes of others and the fear of man that stirs in my heart in that moment. Even the weak spots that feel exposed are nuanced. Certainly my sin is woven in and through them and the glories of Christ’s death and resurrection are the direction to go in that. But today I want to narrow in on a single aspect, the exposure of humanity. Weakness that exists simply because you are what you are – human, made from dust, and the shame we can experience when it is exposed.
I’ll give you an example from my own life. I just bought my first home and there are many things about homeownership that I have no clue how to do. I have no clue why my hot water heater makes the noises it does. I have no clue when I’m supposed to start planting things in the Spring. I can’t tell you how many YouTube videos I’ve watched to learn how to use my drill. Certainly these aren’t things to be held against me yet, inevitably, when I stare perplexed at my dripping faucet and my neighbor sees me, I feel embarrassed. I want to hide that I don’t know how to fix a leaky faucet. There’s a piece of me that feels exposed, seen in my weakness, and ashamed of it.
Often times this feeling is connected to our limitations, when we see the end of ourselves – the end of ability, the end of our own knowledge, the end of our capacity. And when shame begins to drive the narrative in those moments you hear yourself saying things like “I should be…” or feeling like you’re not good enough because…, less than because… Again, there are multiple ways Scripture speaks to that experience but one that is particularly gentle and helps me to step back into Scripture’s framework comes from Hebrews 2:10-11. It was fitting for Christ, for whom and by whom all things exist, to become like us in our flesh and blood. He was not ashamed to be like us in this. Consider that. The King of Heaven took on human limits and is not ashamed to be like us in them. He knew the limits of needing sleep, having a body that needed rest. The King of Heaven who had the ability to be everywhere chose to be confined somewhere in a human body. He wasn’t embarrassed that he couldn’t be on two hillsides at once. He wasn’t ashamed that he needed a nap. And he’s not ashamed of me when my own humanity is highlighted either.
His choice to be like us in our flesh and blood goes even further than simply not being ashamed of me in my humanity. He associates himself with us. It makes me think of those ridiculous sweatshirts a couple might wear that say “I’m with him. Or I’m with her”. An open declaration of being connected to us in our humanity. I’m like them. It’s the ultimate bestowal of dignity on humanity. That’s extraordinary. And it ought to change the moments I see my own frailty so clearly. I don’t need to be ashamed of my humanity. I don’t need to hide it. I don’t need it to be covered.
It’s a lovely moment when you choose to live in the reality of your frailty. When you know Christ united to you in it. When you experience the strength of the Father in whose shadow you stand. Shame tells you to hide and cover. Shame tells you the best option is to end the moment that’s so uncomfortable. Shame tells me to put on a confident smile in front of my neighbor and pretend I know what I’m doing. To quick get back inside before it becomes apparent that I don’t. But consider this other option. What if I simply acknowledged that I’m limited? And chuckle at the idea of Christ being united to me in my lack of home maintenance knowledge. What if rather than hiding, in that silly moment standing in front of the dripping faucet, my heart pondered the care and provision of my good Father?