Spiritual Survival Guide
4: Shame
Soak yourself in that verse. This is what gives me an unshake- able foundation for the joy that I now feel. This is what keeps shame from creeping back in. Because I belong where it mat- ters. I belong to the God who’s breaking in everywhere with his “just because” love. Knowing that makes me grateful for what has been. And it makes me expectant for what will be. And now it’s like God’s gift of joy is sticking to everything the way that shame used to. Lightness now, instead of heaviness, whatever the circumstances. The fourth and final experience of the ongoing healing of my own shame has to do with constantly claiming my identity—who I am, deep down. It has to do with me being honest and truthful about both my old, shameful self, and being hopeful and confident about my new, joyful self in Christ. I remember reading how the great church reformer Martin Lu- ther used to wake up each morning and tell himself, first thing, “I am baptized.” Luther knew that he needed to be reminded, on a daily basis, who he was and whose he was. He needed to keep hearing that he belongs where it matters. I need to do the same thing—to reaffirm that “I am accepted.” Here’s why. Although the beast, the voice, and the feeling of shame has qui- eted down for me, it’s not gone. It lurks. It waits in hiding. It still gets in some zingers and tries to hook me back into the old way of living. For example, the voice of shame will say, “Fred, you’re so weak!” And the voice of grace helps me say, “Yeah, that’s right. You got me. I am weak. I’m as fragile as a cheap clay jar. But weak as I am, I’m also God’s chosen vessel. Because I carry the treasure of the Holy Spirit inside this weakness. Because Christ wants to be with me and in me. And that makes all the differ-
ence. So shut up, shame.”
And then the voice of shame will accuse me: “Fred, come on. Be honest. You don’t have what it takes. You talk a great game, but you’ll never keep it up.” And the voice of grace helps me say, “That’s right. It’s true. I can’t do this. Not on my own, I can’t. But powerless as I am, I’m not alone. I have Christ. And I have oth- ers who’ll pick me up and carry me when I need it. I don’t have to—and I don’t want to—do life on my own. Not anymore. I’m part of the body of Christ. And that makes all the difference. So, shut up, shame.” At that, the voice of shame usually retreats for a while—until my next major screw-up. And then it comes roaring back, with this knowing look, saying, “See! I knew it. Only a matter of time. You’re just a life-long screw-up, a prodigal, and now a phony and hypo- crite to boot! That’s the real you! How dare you call yourself a child of God! And a pastor? Give me a break!” The voice of God’s grace is helping me to say, “That’s right. I am a prodigal. And a rebel and a phony.” And just like the prodigal son, I do find myself saying, “Father, I’ve sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son. Treat me as something less.” But then I hear the voice of the Father himself, both ignoring and overriding everything I can possibly say about my own worthi- ness or unworthiness. And what the Father is saying is, “Bring out the best robe. Put on the ring. Fire up the stove. Because this son of mine is alive again. This son of mine is home again, right where he belongs. And now, it’s party time. Just because.”
“This son of mine!” You hear that, shame? In your face.
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