Shame is born in us before we know what shame is.
I have a very competitive child. Always running to win something. Always trying to beat someone. And the truth is, this kid is good. He usually does win something and usually will beat someone. But about once or twice a year, he’ll flake. He pushes himself so hard, that sometimes he’ll just check out. He’ll pretend he’s sick or hurt. I don’t think he’s being intentionally deceptive. I think rather that he’s embarrassed about being worn out. But to admit you’re worn out means that you’re weak and beatable. Yet, if you’re sick or hurt, then that’s outside of your ability to control. There’s no shame in that. But if you’re weak, you can be beat and then embarrassed. So, he uses an excuse that seem legitimate. But, really, he was just tired. But if your’e tired, you’re beatable. And if your’e beatable, you’re weak. He doesn’t know to call it shame, but that’s exactly what he’s running from.
This child, who isn’t able to articulate what is going on inside him, knows instinctively what shame is. And he will do what is necessary to avoid it.
In Advent 2, we read Isaiah 40, “Comfort, Comfort, O my people, says your God.” That’s a nice passage, right? No. It’s not. If it is just a nice passage, then we fail to see what this word is attempting to accomplish. The Lord, in Isaiah, says, “You’re weak. You’re beaten. You’re ashamed. I see it all. I see you trying to cover it up and ignore it. I see you down playing it. But your’e a mess. You can’t run from it. It’s like you’re wrapped in disgusting rag. I see it all.”
Shame is creeping all over you, for you are a failure. It is an inescapable part of being a human. You fail. You fail at being a wife or husband. You fail at being a parent. You fail at being a Christian. You can say, “Well, I tried!” I’m sure you have. But that doesn’t actually remove the shame. That’s the adult way of pretending you’re sick, so you don’t have to go to school. The shame remains, for you have failed. Saying you “tried” is an attempt to make the failure seem acceptable, so that you can sleep at night. And it will only work for so long.
For the more sensitive among us (those not as good at jamming the shame in a little jar and stuffing it on some shelf in the back of our minds), they are always near to slipping into a depression. And you can’t talk them out of it by saying, “Hey. Shake it off. Things aren’t so bad.” Aren’t they? Look around you. You are surrounded by failure and shame.
And so, if the Lord says to you, “Comfort, comfort, O my people,” then you cling to those words with every fiber of your being. You run to them with tears in your eyes. That alone is the word that can wipe away the shame.
There is a word out against me–my own failures constantly accusing me. They are not an exaggeration. My failure is true. And there is no higher word in this world that can silence them. Who can tell me it’s ok? Who? Who can tell me that things really are fine? If I believe anyone, it’s because I wanted to or needed to, not because it’s true. It’s because I needed to be lied to, so that I could endure the shame. But words of comfort from anyone in this world remain hollow, since no one is any better than me. I need a word that is higher. I need someone above all this who could trump my accusing shame.
“Comfort, comfort, O my people, says your God!” That is not just a nice thing. That is life. That is freedom. That is me closing my eyes and saying, “It really is ok. He said it is. And his word is above all other words. It’s ok. I’m ok. He said so.”
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