Author: Niki

Below is a post I started writing a month ago. I haven’t been sure if I should share it. It gives some insight into why I haven’t posted anything in just over four months. I think I will if only to show that Christianity isn’t all rainbows and unicorns. It isn’t all confidence and certainty. There are times when it gets really difficult. I wonder how many wrestle with their faith at some point. There were times over the past few months when I would pick up the Psalms and read David’s words. That guy went through some dark nights of the soul! He wrestled with doubt and questioned the reality of God’s goodness. In reading those words, I knew I wasn’t alone. So here it goes:

Lately, I have been wondering if Church is really worth the effort. I have wondered if Christianity is worth the effort. I have given more then two decades to the cause. It has been two decades of blood, sweat and tears. I put my hand to the fire and I have gotten burnt.

Pain is part of the process. You’re on a journey. Perhaps. Perhaps quitting is part of the process, part of my journey.

 I want to quit. Does that surprise you? Who admits to that? I feel like I have reached my spiritual bottom. I know we’re not really supposed to talk like this. Not publically anyway. Especially not in the Charismatic stream of Christianity to which I belong. Publically we speak of overcoming victory, joyful celebration, of confident hope, of unwavering faith, of family. God is good, all the time. All the time, God is good. It is only in our private meetings do we whisper our truth to one another. We are scared. We are confused. We are unsure. We are frustrated. We feel alone.

 It terrifies us to admit these things. We shout down our own fears with rehearsed phrases we’re not sure if we even believe anymore. Our admonitions ring in one another’s ears like clanging symbols.

 Maybe It’s because I am an INFJ,  but I cannot keep playing that game. I cannot pretend anymore.

 So I will speak my truth right now. I am not going to use cute phrases about vulnerability. I am not going to steal quotes from a book or sermon. I am not going to spiritualize, or neutralize. I am not going to feign answers that I don’t have.

 This is real life. Let the blood I spill speak to you.

I am disappointed. I am hurt. I am angry. I am disillusioned. I am broken.

 Does it frighten you to read those words? Would you rather I kept it to myself? Would it be better to wait until I’m on the other side of it, before I share anything? This is my experience right now. It’s not a cry for help. It is an awakening.

 Will I walk out on Church? I’m not sure. Will I quit Christianity? I don’t know.

People wrestle with their faith all the time. In the middle of that wrestling match, it can feel like you’re alone out there, in the wilderness. Other people seem so certain in what they believe. So confident in how things will work out.

It is hard to show up when you think it’s just you. One lost soul in the crowd of swollen confidence.

People might downplay it as just a journey you’re going through. They may simply chalk it up to a mental condition. You could be judged to just need to “have more faith”. Or worst of all, they may try to give you answers that they don’t actually have.

 Sometimes we just need to sit with people, to hear them out. We don’t have to have all the answers. I know that I don’t.

Jesus once said that if you had faith the size of a tiny mustard seed you could make a mountain move. I guess that goes for hope as well. I think that faith and hope are intertwined. Some days you may only have hope the size of mustard seed. Some days that’s all it takes to hold on. To not quit. To not give up or give in.

Jacob wrestled with God all through the night. As the sun rose he walked away with a limp. It is in the wrestling that we are humbled. No longer proud children scoffing at other people’s doubt. We understand. We empathise. We know. We know the struggle. We know what it is to be broken. To be lost.

Never again will pride have the same allure.

Do I still contemplate quitting? Sometimes. But hope keeps me returning.

Vulnerability is scary. I understand. I can understand why people would want to delegate it to someone else. This is your job. You’re good at it. You do it.

I understand why people are so afraid to share their struggles with people while they are going through the actual struggle. There is a very real risk that people will relate to them based on their season, and not their identity.

It is so much easier to share about some painful event or season, once it has passed. It is much easier to read your story to someone else once you have your happy ever after. It is much safer that way. That way we can ‘do’ vulnerability without appearing weak. When you invite people into your story in the middle of the mess, you are making yourself vulnerable to their words and actions while you are in a more fragile state than you would usually be. Which is vulnerability by definition: making yourself vulnerable to wounding. It requires the appearance of weakness. Which is not always safe.

Don’t confuse your season or your actions with your identity. I have often been told that I bring process and vulnerability to the table. (“The table” … that’s for another post) So I have ended up taking it on as my identity. I made agreement that being the ‘bringer of vulnerability’ was my personal responsibility on behalf of the community. And that is a terrible burden for any individual to carry. I became tired and I became weary…and I became angry. I was ready to cash in my credentials and disappear into the sunset. Free from the crushing weight of community. But there is something that keeps me here… a whisper of hope perhaps. Perhaps a quiet realization that long ago someone said that the burden is supposed to be light. So I am letting go of that terrible weight of responsibility. I am responsible for my own vulnerability. As you are responsible for yours.

Fortunately there are people who call out my identity in the middle of the hard seasons. I am thankful for these people. They have the courage to speak prophetically into my life. They are the voices that cry out in my wilderness. They provide a flicker of light in the darkness. Enough light to begin to find my own way again. When you are in it, the dark night of the soul, can often feel like it stretches on forever. This is simply who you are now.

I want to tell people to stop saying that vulnerability/process is what I ‘bring’ to the fabled table. (In a much more colourful way than what I would write here) It is some thing that I can do. But it is not the only thing that I can do. You can do it too. Vulnerability is not for a select few. It is not a role that certain people are entrusted with. It is a human thing. You cannot get through life without having to exercise some bravery now and then. Don’t label others as the ‘brave ones’ to excuse yourself from the hard work of living. Vulnerability is a verb. In truth it is not actually something you bring to the table. It is the act of bringing yourself to the table. So, in fact, it is every person’s responsibility.

There are no experts in this game. We are all learners. We are all in different stages of our learning, which can sometimes be confused for expertise.

Vulnerability is not simply crying in public. I cry in public. Not because I am being brave, but because I am not very good at controlling it. The number of times people have told me of how they stood at a distance and ‘admired’ my courage. Of how good I am at vulnerability. What I needed in that moment was not their admiration, but their support. They didn’t realize that at that time I had a need. I was feeling exposed and alone. But they genuinely thought that they were ‘celebrating’ me. They thought they were encouraging me, but they were actually hurting me instead. They didn’t know. If I were an expert in vulnerability, I would have made my needs known. But I hadn’t told them. So they didn’t know.

That’s one of the things about vulnerability; you can’t celebrate it from behind the safety of your carefully constructed walls. Also can I just say that we don’t ‘do’ vulnerability by encouraging others to be vulnerable and then standing back at a distance and observing. I would not call that celebrating vulnerability. I would call that voyeurism.

We celebrate our vulnerability by standing with each other, as we both hold who we are in our hands, open and outstretched in front of us. Exposed, unprotected and unashamed. In community, true vulnerability is something that people share. It isn’t taught as much as it is lived. Together. We hold hands and step into it together.

Vulnerability can look like talking about your feelings, or asking for help. But it can also look like writing a blog or publishing a book, performing a piece of music, sharing your artwork, marketing your services or a product you have made, asking someone out for coffee, confronting someone who has hurt you, starting a business, going back to school, facing an illness, pursuing a friendship, and doing almost anything new.

Vulnerability looks like risk. Letting people see the real you is a risk.

It is a risk to let people see our greatness. What if we give them the best of who we are, and they are left wanting? We weren’t enough.

It is a risk to let people see our weakness. What if our wounds are exposed, and they define us by our injury? We become misunderstood.

Vulnerability is not easy. It can be hard. Hard and terrifying. But it is a job that belongs not to the few, but to everyone.