In his book, In the Name of Jesus, priest, theologian, and writer Henri Nouwen tells a story about leaving the academic world to live in a community of people with intellectual disabilities. He wrote:
The first thing that struck me when I came to live [in that community] was that their liking or disliking of me had absolutely nothing to do with any of the many useful things I had done until then. Since nobody could read my books, the books could not impress anyone, and since most of them never went to school, my twenty years at Notre Dame, Yale, and Harvard did not provide a significant introduction…
…Not being able to use any of the skills that had proved so practical in the past was a real source of anxiety. I was suddenly faced with my naked self, open for affirmations and rejections, hugs and punches, smiles and tears, all dependent simply on how I was perceived at the moment. In a way, it seemed as though I was starting my life all over again. Relationships, connections, reputations could no longer be counted on.
This experience was and, in may ways, is still the most important experience of my new life, because it forced me to rediscover my true identity. These broke, wounded, and completely unpretentious people forced me to let go of my relevant self—the self that can do things, show things, prove things, build things—and forced me to reclaim that unadorned self in which I am completely vulnerable, open to receive and give love regardless of any accomplishments.
That bareness, that exposure, that inability to hide behind a thick layer of accomplishments or usefulness or whatever it is we tend to clothe ourselves with—it scares me.
I want to feel secure. I want to know that when the proverbial spotlight is on me, I don’t have broccoli on my teeth or a barbecue stain on my white t-shirt. I want people to think I’m helpful to have around or that what I have to say is smart and witty and thoughtful.
So I constantly evaluate myself accordingly. I overanalyze my accomplishments, my to-dos, even whether or not I talked too much or laughed too loudly at a party. I crave approval from social media and my family and friends, and if that approval doesn’t appear, then the insecurity does.
Yet what would it look like to be naked and unashamed, so to speak? To stand before our friends and family and the world and God with our “unadorned self” and know that no matter our scars and scrapes, our failures or even our fortunes, we are okay?
For me, motherhood has stripped me bare of my relevant self in so many ways. I've struggled to find my footing, to feel like my days are meaningful and purposeful when much of what I do is grocery shop (also, how are we out of food again?!) and change diapers. And while I believe all that ordinary work does truly matter, often my struggle has more to do with believing whether or not I matter.
We all want to matter, don't we? But even when in our heads we know we have a purpose and see we have a community who loves us and a God who created us, we still often try to prove our worth and manage our image. Because, like Nouwen also said, "[M]any of us suffer from deep-seated, low self-esteem and are walking around with the constant fear that someday someone will unmask the illusion and show that we are not as smart, as good, or as lovable as the world was made to believe.”
But friend, God is not fooled by any illusion about who you are. He doesn't need you to prove your relevant self to him. He knows you, loves you, and securely holds you in his hand, regardless of what you have to offer him. And so we can live and work and do what God's called us to do already secure in his love, not in an exhausting attempt to gain it.
Your unadorned, vulnerable self–and all the baggage that comes with it–will not keep God from loving you.
May we not let it keep us from accepting his love, either.
