On Vulnerability and Ministry

It's ten thirty at night.

It's ten thirty at night, at the end of a long week, when I should be in bed. All day, something has been niggling at the back of my mind--an unsettled feeling that I just can't shake. The mild, almost imperceptible sense of anxiety, of being off-balance, started with an email I sent earlier today--a perfectly normal email, which I've been over a hundred times in my mind, an email that in no way merits any feelings of discomfort. It was seriously just another email--one of probably hundreds I've sent this week.

Why is it, then, that it's at ten thirty at night when I should be in bed that the flash of insight comes to me and it finally dawns on me what this unsettledness has been about all day? I was, in fact, just getting into bed when it occurred to me what was really going on. Suffice it to say, I'm no longer in bed. 

You see, the email I sent was connected to a meeting I went to earlier this week. A meeting in which I shared pretty openly about a situation that occurred months ago now that was, at the time, pretty traumatic for me. A meeting in which, for a few minutes, I allowed myself to wear my emotions on my sleeve--not a move that I make regularly or easily. I'm generally a pretty composed person. I usually keep my emotions fairly tightly in check. I prefer it that way.

And it wasn't until I got into bed tonight, and picked up the excellent book that I've been reading over the past couple of days--The Vulnerable Pastor by Mandy Smith--that it finally clicked. It's not about the email at all, really. 

I have a vulnerability hangover, if that can be a thing. 

That familiar feeling of vague unease is not about an email, but about the side effects of sharing a part of my experience that has apparently left me feeling exposed and vulnerable. I was convicted that talking about my experience was the right, the necessary thing to do. And I still am.

But two days later, it seems that the side effects are catching up with me. Suddenly, I can't say normal things to the people I met with the other day, because I feel an insecurity I didn't feel before. Couple that with another meeting today that involved a certain amount of stepping into an uncertain situation and being brave, and by the end of the day I'd had enough.

I don't want to be brave anymore. And making oneself vulnerable, or acknowledging one's weakness, IS brave, no doubt about it. It would be far easier, I think, to hide behind strengths, real or exaggerated. I'd give anything right about now to wrap myself up in competence and intelligence and an "I've got this" attitude, and to stuff the overwhelmed and tired and uncertain parts of me deep down where they can't be seen by others.

But 2 Corinthians 12:9 says, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness."

God doesn't need me to wrap myself in competence. Ministry, after all, is about God's goodness and grace, not first of all about my competence. Which is a good thing for me, and something I'm regularly grateful for. Because I don't need to get it right every time. Because it's not about my ability to love perfectly, or to articulate grace compellingly. It's about inviting people to experience God's love and grace for themselves, and then knowing when to step out of the way. 

But maybe vulnerability also takes practice. Like with exercise, it's a muscle that when stretched can be sore afterward. Like with learning an instrument, it takes time to become proficient, and there are many stumbles over rhythms and imperfectly pitched notes along the way.

And maybe the momentary discomfort of vulnerability is worth it in the end. Life, after all, isn't without pain.  So, I'm not ready to give up on vulnerability yet. Sure, I'll pick different reading material tonight. There is a time to rest weary muscles, to respect these signals from the heart and mind that they've been stretched enough for now, to choose to be gentle with oneself. 

But, in the end, we're all vulnerable, and as a pastor I would do nobody any favours by pretending that I have it all together. Because none of us do. And God loves us immeasurably, even in our imperfection. That's good news that needs to be modelled more often.