My Articulate Heart | Finding My Identity, and Freedom in Christ

Being honest about our brokenness is not the same as surrendering it. In the previous reflection, we explored the courage it takes to be known. To come out of hiding. To allow someone trustworthy to see what we would rather keep hidden. To discover that being known does not necessarily end in rejection. Sometimes, it is the beginning of healing. But there is another danger we need to recognize. We can become vulnerable without actually becoming free. We can tell the truth about our wounds, explain our behaviours and share our struggles—and still hold tightly to the very things we say we want to change. In a strange way, vulnerability itself can become another hiding place. When telling the truth feels like enough There is something deeply liberating about finally saying: “This is what I struggle with.” The secret is no longer entirely secret. Someone knows. Someone listens. Someone doesn't walk away. The shame begins to lose some of its power. That is real. But there is a subtle da...

Radical vulnerability brings what is hidden into the light. But what happens next? There is another danger in vulnerability. We can become very good at understanding ourselves without actually surrendering ourselves. We can learn to name our wounds, explain our behaviours and tell our stories—and still hold tightly to the parts of our lives we do not want Christ to touch. We can become experts at saying, “This is why I am the way I am,” without ever asking the harder question: “What is God asking me to do about it?” That is where vulnerability must lead somewhere deeper. Obedience. When the light reveals something There is something beautiful about bringing what is hidden into the light. We tell the truth. We discover that we are not alone. We experience the relief of being known and still loved. But sometimes, once the truth has been revealed, we discover something uncomfortable. God is asking something of us. Perhaps the vulnerability reveals a relationship we need t...

There is something strange about the human heart. We long to be known, yet we are terrified of being known. We want someone to see us—not merely the version of ourselves we carefully present to the world, but the person underneath. Yet when someone comes close enough to see our wounds, failures, fears, addictions, insecurities and shame, something in us wants to hide. Perhaps this is one of the deepest wounds of the human condition: We want intimacy, but we fear exposure. And somewhere between the two, we learn to hide. Recently, I came across a powerful conversation on “radical vulnerability” in the context of addiction, healing and Christian life. Jon Seidl speaks openly about his own journey through addiction and the hidden wounds beneath it. One of the themes that emerges is that freedom cannot always begin with simply trying harder to change a behaviour. We have to become willing to look beneath the behaviour—to the hurt, fear, shame and disordered desires that may have bee...

How the devil turns our wounds into an identity—and how Mary leads us back to belonging There is something sinister about the way the devil works. He doesn't always need to make us openly reject God. Sometimes he does something far more subtle: he takes a wound we already carry and builds a lie around it. Then he repeats the lie until we stop hearing it as a lie. We begin hearing it as our own voice. You are unworthy. You are dirty. You are a hypocrite. You are an old creep pretending to be holy. Look at what goes on inside your head. What kind of Christian are you? You are a pervert. This is who you really are. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, something terrible happens. A lie becomes an identity. We stop saying, "I struggle with this." We begin saying, "This is me." We stop saying, "I have a wound." We begin saying, "Something is fundamentally wrong with me." And once shame becomes identity, the devil doesn...

How learning to behold another person may be one of the most radical forms of love We live surrounded by people, and yet so many of us feel unseen. We can be in crowded rooms, workplaces, churches, families and even friendships and still carry a quiet sense that nobody really knows us. Perhaps this is one of the great paradoxes of our time: we have never had more ways to connect, yet many of us have become increasingly disconnected from one another. Something has happened to the way we encounter people. We have become cautious. Suspicious. Distracted. Preoccupied with ourselves. We look at people, but do we really see them? And perhaps that is a question worth asking—not only about society, but about ourselves. When I look at another person, what do they experience? Do they feel evaluated? Ignored? Interrupted? Used as an audience? Or do they somehow experience: “I am glad you are here. I see you. You matter to me.” That may be one of the most beautiful things one human being can give ...

From Self-Protection to the Freedom to Truly See Another Person There is something I have been thinking about lately that is both uncomfortable and strangely hopeful: What if some of the conversations I thought were simply awkward, dry, or difficult were actually conversations in which I was trying to feel safe? What if my inability to keep a conversation alive was not simply a lack of social skill? What if, underneath it, there was insecurity? A fear of being insignificant. A fear of being judged. A need to appear competent, interesting, knowledgeable or important. A need, somehow, to feel bigger so that I would not have to feel small. And if that is true, then perhaps I need to look at conversation differently. Because conversation is not merely about knowing what to say. It is about being present to another human being. And perhaps trauma can interfere with that presence in ways we don't immediately recognize. When I am not safe inside When a person has experienced enough emotio...