Vulnerability is scary. That’s how you know it’s not just a gesture. When it’s real, vulnerability always feels uncomfortable because it entails risk, uncertainty, and emotional exposure.
Remember in the original Star Wars film when Obi-Wan Kenobi looks over, sees Luke, ceases to fight, and holds his sword before his face in a defenseless position only to be summarily struck down by Darth Vader? That’s vulnerability. You can’t eliminate the possibility that you might get hurt.
Vulnerability is hard, especially for men, because, as Brené Brown points out, one of our biggest shame triggers is being seen as weak or feeling weak. As she named in one of the most-watched TED Talks of all time, we have collectively bought into a myth. We are convinced, deep in our bones, that vulnerability is weakness and therefore to be avoided at all costs.
And so we do. Not realizing what we are losing in the bargain.
What is Vulnerability?
Like shame, vulnerability is hard to define because, like shame, it’s something embodied. It’s more felt than words can capture.
Yet, we can define vulnerability as the awareness of our weaknesses, limitations, and failures, and the willingness to abide the uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure of letting ourselves be seen (adapted from Thom Needham and Brené Brown).
Vulnerability is related to resilience – the ability to sit in, bear with, and not run from uncomfortable, distressing feelings.
Vulnerability goes beyond a sincere desire to be honest or transparent. You can be earnest, even disclosing about yourself, and still not be vulnerable. Some of the most disclosing people I know turn out to be not all that vulnerable, and some of the most vulnerable may not appear all that disclosing, precisely because they are discerning enough to draw clear boundaries.
One of my teachers, Joe Novenson, once gave a word picture of what happens in a marriage. Imagine someone climbing a ladder and peering over a high wall. On the other side of that wall stands an impressive looking knight, clad in shining armor, covered from head to toe. Even his feet are shod with the scaley metal that makes walking freely difficult.
The knight looks large. Imposing. He wears a helmet that has rows of vertical slits across the eye-bridge so the knight can breathe and see. His shield is up; his sword is at hand. Ready.
If you look closer though, through the slits in the mask, you can glimpse this tiny creature, with hands so small he’s gripping the bars, holding himself up, peering out with darting eyes.
Gradually, piece by piece, the little man inside may take a portion of his armor off, tentatively, watching the person on the other side of the wall closely, waiting to see what they will do. What will happen when they see the anxious, terrified person behind the mask? Will the other stay when they begin to see what you’re really like under your armor?
Novenson said, “That’s marriage.” But that’s not only an image for growing in intimacy in marriage. It’s also a picture of vulnerability.
Vulnerability is the emotion that follows the risk of removing your armor, abiding the uncertainty and awkwardness of what the person in front of you will now do.
Competing Desires
Our fear of being rejected is primal. By primal, I mean it goes all the way back to that primordial human story. “I heard Your voice in the garden, and I was afraid because I was naked; and I hid myself” (Genesis 3:10).
We have these twin competing desires in our soul. We have a desire to be fully seen and we have a desire to be fully loved. We want to be known but we are afraid of being hurt. These desires crash into each other because we can’t quite shake the suspicion that we cannot have both, that we must choose.
We can either be seen OR we can be loved. Because if you really love me, that must mean you don’t really see me. Because if you really saw me, then you couldn’t possibly love me.
We carry this suspicion because we know more intimately than anyone the things we carry. Much as we may try to deny it, shame is universal. It stains all of us. We don’t like to talk about it, but we need to bring our shame into the light because our fear of vulnerability is bound up with it.
Brown says, “Shame is that intensely painful feeling or experience of believing we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love, belonging, and connection.” It’s often said: Guilt is what I’ve done; Shame is who I am. Guilt is I’ve done something bad; Shame is I am bad. Shame is that felt sense of not enough.
That’s why vulnerability is so terrifying and why only the brave can be vulnerable. Far from being a sign of weakness, vulnerability calls for an uncommon courage. The courage to risk, to abide the uncertainty of letting ourselves be seen.
You could even say that there is no courage without vulnerability. I often tell my kids, “Brave doesn’t mean you’re not afraid. If you weren’t afraid, you wouldn’t need to be brave. Brave is when you are afraid, but you move forward anyway.” You open yourself up to the possibility of feeling disappointed for having tried and failed.
Vulnerability is _________________.
Asking for help.
Admitting you were wrong.
Asking for forgiveness and not knowing if it will be given.
Acknowledging that you are afraid. Or angry. Or sad.
Being the first to apologize, with no defense, no explanation.
Trying again to have a child after your second miscarriage.
Showing your face in church after your DUI was posted in the local newspaper.
Trying out for a team that, odds are, you won’t make.
Applying for yet another job that, odds are, you may not get.
Waiting for the doctor to call with your test results.
For our hunch that vulnerability is weakness, do any of those seem like profiles in weakness?
Imagine two people in a conflict. Vulnerability is the resilience to avoid the temptation to lash out and defend yourself (fight) or withdraw and run away (flight). It’s the warrior who has his sword but keeps it sheathed. It takes more strength to stay present, to lay down your weapons. To make yourself vulnerable.
Opening yourself up to getting hurt. Taking the risk of experiencing disappointment.
The image of the knight resonates because each of us has our own versions of armor we put on to look impressive and protect ourselves from pain.
The Armor
There’s the armor of pursuing excellence. This is tricky because we’re supposed to do our best, right? Most of us have heard that perfectionism is unattainable and unhealthy. It’s easy to baptize our motives as, “Just pursuing excellence!” But that can easily become a recipe for trying to soothe ourselves through our performance or through the applause of others. We work hard, telling ourselves we are doing it for the right reasons, but we are really running away from our distressing emotions.
There’s also the armor of cynicism, or its cousin, sarcasm. The irony is that these personas are often likeable, charming and cheerful. But just underneath the surface is a tender pain from deep disappointments. You’ve been let down (by people, by life) so deeply that you’ve adopted a posture of no longer hoping for much. Better to live in expectation of disappointment than to let your heart hope, only to be devastated afresh. Another letdown would just be too painful. So, we armor up with cynicism or sarcasm, protecting ourselves from real vulnerability.
Or, there’s the armor of perpetual distraction, whether it takes the form of being crazy busy, always in a hurry. Or, staying tethered to our technology, our screens, especially our phones. The internet is the most prevalent pain-relief medication in the world. We reach for our phones to keep our hearts from feeling, the word is, vulnerable.
To mention one more (and you can add your own examples) there’s the armor of keeping everyone at a distance, keeping up appearances, not letting others in. This especially applies to church leaders, as much as people may say they want to “really get to know you,” the expectations people place on leaders (fair and unfair) can make vulnerability feel like a risk not worth taking. Will they still respect me when they see the frail, frightened person behind the mask?
The Cost of Not Risking Vulnerability
Wearing all of this armor comes at a high cost. In protecting ourselves from feeling the things we fear might hurt or even incapacitate us, we are cutting ourselves off from life, from living, from joy.
Vulnerability is scary and feels hard. But what’s scarier is the price we pay for not letting others in. That’s why we take the risk – vulnerability is the pathway to feeling fully alive.
It’s the pathway to healing our shame;
It’s the necessary ingredient in any intimacy worth having;
It’s the price of being known;
It’s the price of letting yourself feel and realizing it didn’t kill you.
The paradox of vulnerability is that when we see it in others, it draws us to them like no strength or accomplishment or credential of theirs ever could. The very thing we fear in ourselves is the very thing that most attracts us to others. We constantly lead with our strengths, which tend to push people away. We hide our weaknesses, but those tend to draw people in closer.
There’s been a lot written about vulnerability in the last several years. But the gospel gives us unparalleled resources to live undefended lives that are no longer marked by fear.
When Jesus says, “Blessed are the meek,” (Matthew 5:4) and invites us to “turn the other cheek as well” (Matthew 5:39). When Jesus tells us not to be afraid but to have faith, (Mark 4:40, Luke 12:32) Jesus is calling us to follow him in a life of vulnerability.
Dallas Willard once said, “Jesus brings us the assurance that the universe is a perfectly safe place for us to be.”
How could that be when there are so many soul-crushing stories around us? When we have our own experience of setting down our sword, only to be deeply cut? When we have risked hope, only to be sorely let down?
That risk is real. You can’t engineer the uncertainty and discomfort out of vulnerability. It just is. So, why take this risk? Why bear the uncertainty?
You have to take another risk and trust that the shame we talked about earlier, the shame we all carry, that it can only be healed by taking a risk in community.
For Christmas my wife and kids got me one of those ice tubs for cold plunges in frigid temperatures. (I know, you’re thinking, that was a gift?) Leaving aside the medical benefits, if you take the plunge you experience a completely unexpected feeling of satisfaction on the other side.
It’s not so great that you are rushing to do it again, but it’s strong enough to be undeniable. Just palpable enough that you’re willing to go back in. Probably. Maybe.
Have you ever had that experience in a small, safe community? Like lowering yourself into an ice bath, letting yourself be seen calls for what feels like heroic courage.
But then to be met with compassion, with a sense of shared common humanity, with faces of understanding – these are so consoling that you’re willing to take the plunge again.
Jesus Says, Let Your Heart Take Courage
How does Jesus give us the courage to be vulnerable, to the point that Dallas Willard would dare to say this world is a perfectly safe place to be?
Because Jesus is the only human in the universe who does see us clearly, more clearly than anyone, more clearly than we see ourselves. The cross tells us that Jesus, and Jesus alone, can reconcile these competing desires in our soul to be fully known and fully loved. Because on the cross, Jesus looked down into the very heart of who we are. And Jesus stayed.
And then calls us to stand before him in prayer, exposed, opening our heart before His heart.
Jesus, the real man, gives us the fortitude to let others see us, in all our weaknesses and frailties and failures. If the KING of the universe accepts me, in light of everything, if Jesus declares me worthy of love and belonging, then why do I fear the verdicts of anyone else?
For Further Reading
No one in the English-speaking world has done more to mainstream talking about the power of vulnerability than Brené Brown. Start with her TED talk, then pick up Daring Greatly or Rising Strong. If you want a more overtly Christian perspective on how living an undefended life can help combat shame, consider Curt Thompson’s The Soul of Shame or Brant Hansen’s provocative Unoffendable.