I had just heard, written down, and whispered amen to these words, "Instead of the safest place to fall, the church has become one of the most dangerous places to mess up." Yes, I whispered. We must change this. We must be okay with messes. Jesus was all about messy people. I had just filled my sermon study with notes on admitting we are powerless, getting rid of toxic egos, and giving up the act of having it all together – because how can we be possibly have a healthy spirituality if we're all just pretending to be okay?
But then the spilled hot chocolate, the rush for paper towel, my two-year-old wandering away in the chaos, other parents watching – and my first instinct was to run and hide.
I can say, "Yes, you are messed up and welcome here and okay just as you are," but if I'm honest -- this is so much easier than admitting that I'm a mess, too. I really, really don't want to be the one with the mess.
As an adult, I've honed the skill of pretending, of holding it together, but then I had children. They will scream in a store, pass gas in an elevator, giggle as they refuse to listen, or declare "Oh, I hate this game!" when opening a gift from a great-grandparent. (I think my face is still red.) To be a parent is to feel like a failure over and over each day because now my imperfection and vulnerability has skin on it and walks around in the world. Also, my children force me to deal with my own impatience, my need for attention, and the insecurities I try to hide. There is something so raw and real about kids that is both terrifying and refreshing.
One of favorite parts of each day is reading to my boys in their bunk beds before bed. We have a strict routine – enforced by my oldest – that includes one book for his brother, a Bible story, and then a chapter or two in a book chosen by him. We have some great Children's Bibles, but the other day I picked up a Kid's Devotional from the shelf and thought we'd give it a try. I read aloud a short passage about "Walking in truth," which encouraged admitting when you're wrong, confessing sins, telling God thanks, and speaking truth to a friend. Then it said (this is word-for-word, people), "Walking in truth isn't hard."
Isn't hard?!
I resisted the urge to throw that book through the air – how can a passage on truth-telling lie like that? Not hard? I want my boys to know, and see, that walking in truth is very hard. Falling down and not just giving in to the temper tantrum is hard. Falling down and asking for help back up is hard. Falling down and admitting you're powerless and tired and broken is hard. Falling down and not crawling further into a hole of shame and guilt is hard.
But I also want my children to know – and for me to truly live in a way that shows – that in that posture that we're finally ready for the best work, that we're finally ready to be transformed.
There is another Children's Bible on our shelf that often has questions to discuss at the end of a chapter -- questions that sometimes involve asking the parents to tell stories of times they've messed up. Rather than assuring them it's easy to be good, it's amazing to see how my boys perk up and listen when I'm willing to share with them about the dumb stuff I've done and the mistakes I've made.
Brené Brown writes, "Even though the vulnerability of parenting is terrifying at times, we can't afford to armor ourselves against it or push it away – it's our richest, most fertile ground for teaching and cultivating connection, meaning, and love."
Alerted to the mess on the carpet, the custodian at the church who came to save us modeled grace. While he could have reacted with frustration or simply got to work cleaning up the mess, he stopped to talk; he smiled at me and my children, assured us this was no big deal, and said, "The church is supposed to be used and messy." His response took the shame out of the situation and replaced it with perspective and grace.
It's easy to sit in a pew and agree with the words of a sermon. It's easy to claim it's easy to tell the truth to others, to ourselves. But the work is so hard when you leave that sanctuary. And this time I didn't even have to walk out the church doors to get a chance to practice my vulnerability.
(By the way, my shoes are fine, too.)
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