A friend of mine passed along an article from Christian Century about the handshake ritual at church (that is, pastors shaking hands at the door on the way out). Though I often avoid the handshake ritual, I have felt the holiness of that moment: taking the time to say that something really touched me in a sermon or to mention something that is going on with us and to have someone look me in the eye and let me know that they care what I have to say. I can do that by email, but . . . if I had to guess, I’d say that being vulnerable in person is part of the reason why we aren’t supposed to forsake meeting together.
I was thinking about the holiness of vulnerability last night, after a meeting in which about 15 adults went around the room and shared how we were doing. I would have been glad to share with any one of them individually, but it is hard for me to share my heart in a group. The response, though, really bowled me over, with people literally applauding my good news (that’ll boost your spirits, let me tell you) and sticking around after the meeting to commiserate with some of the things I am worried about. There is something sacred about sitting around a table and trusting people with a corner of your life. I used to think that was something that was easy, something we were supposed to do immediately with other Christians. But now I see how hard and risky it is. Now I feel more able to appreciate people who openly share how they are feeling. It means more to me now that it’s not so forced.
Part of what makes our interactions so holy is that we don’t always know how much they mean. We go out for someone’s birthday, and it’s only afterwards that we find out that this birthday has been particularly hard because of things going on with her family. You find out months later that something you said in passing helped someone through a hard time. Someone looks you in the eye and tells you she was thinking about you. You find the words to tell your friend how much it means that she let you cry on the phone that one time. And that other time. And that time last week.
I don’t know how to do all of this very well. I am still someone who has a hard time saying the words that are closest to her heart. But I am paying attention.
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I know we don’t talk on the phone much, but man … do I ever remember every time we do, because it feels like most of the time it’s because you’re there for me when I need someone who cares but is detached from me to talk to. I don’t know if either the call we had in February or when you called me last January when my sister-in-law died stick out in your memory, but they do in mine … even though I couldn’t begin to tell you what either of us said. [Well, other than "Stand Stong". Hee.]
On vulnerability and group settings: My husband and I joined a church in Boston this March. We took a new member class as part of that, and in that class each person was asked to give their testimony. I am a law student; I speak in public all the time. But those five minutes where I told other Christians about what I believe and why I believe it, and how I came to believe it were the hardest I have ever spent in front of a group. There were about 20 people in the room, and I feel like I will always remember those people and know that I left part of myself with them that day.