The Courage to be Vulnerable

Inviting Others into the Great Unknown

Photo by Moon Bhuyan on Unsplash

It seems it’s not the time or age to be vulnerable. With such strong winds of change in the air, it seems like maybe, we should batten the hatches and hunker down into our silos and weather the storm out.

The brutal voices; the mean in spirit messages; the bullying; the demeaning ways we talk these days— really— maybe to protect one’s soul is better than the choice to be vulnerable. I don’t think so. Here’s why…

I find myself wondering why I still feel the need to be so vulnerable—even here on Substack. After all, I’ve spent a life time confessing my broken story, my inadequacies and even my struggle to be celebrated on my birthday (Thank you for your blessings). Why then, do I feel an inner nudge to keep going out to the outer line of my understanding on faith, life, aging, relationships, nature and more to say even more—to dredge up the remaining dark soil—to dredge it all to find clarity and peace?

I am greatly helped here by David Whyte (Author, poet and mentor) who writes, “The only choice we have as we mature is how we inhabit our vulnerability, how we become larger and more courageous and more compassionate through our intimacy with disappearance, or choice is to inhabit vulnerability as generous citizens of loss, robustly and fully, or conversely, as misers and complainers, reluctant and fearful, always at the gates of existence, but never bravely and completely attempting to enter, never wanting to risk ourselves, never walking fully through the door.” (Consolations).

Goodness… would someone please outline Whyte’s words so that we may more fully grasp them; understand them and practice them?

Inhabit vulnerability…

Our intimacy with disappearance…

Generous citizens of loss…

Never walking full through the door…

Seriously, when I read things like this, I read them in Lectio style…slowly, intentionally, repeated many times, needing to repeat, even outloud the phrases, the drops of gold and blood that it takes to say such things…. This way, I am hoping that the truth of such words might go cellular in me—in my body and soul and bring light to the dark; peace to the discord; and shalom to all who listen or read.

One part of Whyte’s words I am beginning to understand the most is “how we become larger and more courageous and more compassionate through our intimacy with disappearance…”

How we do this is through the practice of vulnerability. Perhaps, this is a spiritual discipline most needed to practice in a time such as this. I’m sure most of us know the spiritual disciplines of prayer, reading and etc. But these days, we need creative disciplines to navigate the world in which we live right now.

We become courageous to become and stay vulnerable because some of us learn in life that in order to stay soft, green and tender, the way is made by vulnerability—not by becoming bitter, brittle and cynical. It seems a choice for me to choose vulnerability. I know bitter people. I am around brittle people. I recognize cynicism. But those seem more like dead ends and emotional cul-de-sacs than a way forward and through.

I become vulnerable in my attempt to learn, accept and offer myself. My vulnerable words are offered as gold that I am mining out—as lowering the bucket into the deep and dark well and to find water—something that might quench this massive thirst of mine. I hope that in this bucket, there is water for you as well. I really do. I do not think in this uncertain age in which we are living that there is a scarcity of water. Surely, water is there for those of us who confess our thirst. I think that as I age, I see an ocean of vulnerability that is needed to explore. I want to dive in, more and more.

To be vulnerable is to choose the deep end of the pool in which we swim. The shallow end is a beginning. But, it really is over crowded in the shallows and heavily trafficed these days. In the deep end, we lose our footing and have to swim lest we drown.

Steven Charleston is a Native American. He is a Bishop in the Episcopal church. I read a blessing he offers every day in my time of quiet and solitude. Just this morning, is his most current blessing:

My ancestors believed, if you were following a sacred path, then as you got older in body, you became younger in spirit. You would not be judgmental, but open to people as they are. You would not be anxious or angry, but loving and imaginative. Your spirit would transform to the wonder of innocence just as your wisdom opened to the stars.

-Steven Charleston

Maybe all you may “get” of this particular Substack is Charleston’s words. There are enough to cut out and paste to our bathroom mirror so that we might never forget. To become younger in spirit is a choice and a practice. Every time I am around or with older people than me, I see the fruit of this choice.

Vulnerability is trusting the imagination of the soul—the imagination of God—the imagination of Creation. It is choosing to believe in the on-going, unfolding, goodness of Creation. Here, we plant a stake in the ground. Of this, we can be sure.

This kind of vulnerability is why, I am so drawn to the person of Jesus. What we see in reading his four biographies is his intentional vulnerability and his intentional choice to be with vulnerable women and men. Even the cross is the most extravagant picture of naked vulnerability that we have to support our faith. Exposed. Bleeding. Wounded. Suffering. Dying. Intimate. A faith without a cross is not powerful or inviting. I am not an agnostic about Jesus. And I see my own vulnerability is a way to do the same—to live in a downward mobility rather than always trying to move up and to the right. The cross reminds me to be vulnerable…that vulnerability really is the way.

Vulnerability is a pathway I choose to stay young in spirit. Vulnerability is a way of learning how to find the cesspools of judgement that remain in my soul and to be free from them. Vulnerability is a medicinal method to remain loving and to explore my innocence again.

I see the lessons of vulnerability most these days in the beauty of raw nature. The trees, birds and flowers that I write so much about these days are great and wise teachers.

There is great wisdom here in the words of Wendell Berry and these are words I have memorized:

“It may be that when we no longer know what to do,

we have come to our real work

and when we no longer know which way to go,

we have begun our real journey."

My real work is to be vulnerable these days. And in my work, I choose to keep telling you and anyone who cares to ask me, about my uncertainty; my new “not knowing” of certain things. If you read my earlier post on Becoming an Agnostic about certain things, I got more responses privately than are posted on Substack. I wonder why that is? Did I strike a vulnerable chord with some readers who resonated with me but might have not had the courage to put their name to the response or to respond at all? The one word that kept appearing in the texts and emails about becoming an agnostic on some things— about that particular post were people thanking me for my courage to put my agnosticism about the church, in particular into words.

Being vulnerable about wondering which way to go; what you might REALLY believe these days; which things we can jettisoned; which things we can unpack, unlearn and un-do in our stories is all a big part of choosing vulnerablity over safety—of continuing to lower the bucket into the well when you are at the end of the rope.

My friend Chuck DeGroat, counselor, author and seminary professor, says it so well:

“I was right. I had the entire Westminster Shorter Catechism memorized, and the group examining me for ordination stood spontaneously after one brilliant answer to sing the Doxology.

I was right (or so I thought) but I felt all alone. I was only just beginning to become aware of the depth of my inner divide back then. Almost certainly I would’ve self-righteously hurled my untended baggage at others under the banner of “the Gospel.”

What would form me more in the years to come were not the answers but the questions, the failures, the losses. A more deeply integrated theology and a more secure God, capable of holding my doubts and disillusionment, would emerge from the dust and dying of ego.

In these days of division where we’re once again faced with the toxic prospects of political warfare and exhausting ecclesial chess matches with each other, I’m hoping humility might characterize our discourse. I pray we’ll check our certainty-addicted egos at the door in order to better “act justly and love mercy and walk humbly with God” (Micah 6:8). That we’d cherish what we believe, but perhaps even more notice how we hold what we believe.”

To be vulnerable it to acknowledge and confess our “inner divide.” It is in this confession that we find the solace that we are most looking for; most wanting and most needing. We never find it in power or strength. Only vulnerability offers us what we most want and treasure in the deepest part of our lives.

I am learning to cherish vulnerability—especially as I see it and recognize it in those I am with and in those I read and listen to these days.

One of the vulnerable people I read and listen to these days is Kate Bowler. Kate has a podcast, authored books and teaches at Duke University. I am sharing her “blessing” with you here because it is just so vulnerable—so deep and so needed. It is a blessing for all of us who have changed—who choose vulnerability—who keep shedding snake skins and clothes that no longer fit and who choose always to become more of who we really are. I hope it is the blessing you need right now.

I’m sending this post to all Subscriber so we can experiment with vulnerability and change and uncertainty in the days ahead. Only God know. That is for sure.

a blessing for when you’re different now

by Kate Bowler

Blessed are you, dear one, when the world around you has changed.

Everything is different now,
your body, your age, your relationships, your job, your faith.

The things that once brought you joy.
The way you existed in the world.
The people you love and trust and rely on.

Things have changed and it would be silly to imagine you haven’t changed with them.
You are not who you once were.

Bless that old self,
they did such a good job with what they knew.
They made you who you were,
all the mistakes and heartbreak and naiveté and courage.

And blessed are who you are now,
you who aren’t pretending things are the same,
who continue to grow and stretch and show up to your life as it really is:
wholehearted, vulnerable, maybe a little afraid.
So blessed are we, the changed.