Love as Power, Vulnerability as Strength

A Christmas Reminder.


I have a confession to make.

The first part will be a shock to absolutely no one who knows me: I wear my heart on my sleeve. I have a “Muppety,” emotion-filled face that always shows how I’m feeling. I cry often out not only sadness, but anger, frustration, or the sheer joy of a cute dog. I laugh (or perhaps guffaw), in loud bursts that confuse my students. My whole face telegraphs exactly how I’m feeling at any given moment.

This means I’m not great in traditional negotiation or a debate. While I can internalize and take time to process more negative emotions, like anger, I have a horrible poker face. My cards are always face-up, on the table, and I’m looking at you like, “So, what do you think?”

Here’s the confession though: I think I like that about myself.

This used to be a trait that I hated. My emotional vulnerability meant that I often gave up power in a situation. It was a disaster when I was trying to “play it cool” with boys. My emotions were not quiet nor subtle, but it seemed like I felt things with this shout-it-to-from-the-rooftops kind of gusto that was sometimes delightful, but often led to heartarche.

So the question used to be: how do I “tame” these big feelings? Can I get rid of them? How can I be less vulnerable in situations, and at least hold my cards a little closer to my chest?

If you know me, you also know that I’m a huge fan of James Martin, SJ. His writing has helped me rediscover parts of my faith and my relationship with God I thought I had lost.

Recently, Father Martin was on OnBeing (one of my favorite podcasts!) discussing Ignatian Spirituality. Given how close the podcast was to Christmas, both the host and Fr. Martin began discussing the “taming” of the Christmas story. How it’s become sanitized, how it’s easy to accept this cute baby.

The story, though, as both parties point out, is really a shocking sort of Christianity, and calls for faith just as much as the Resurrection does. Just as, perhaps, fantastical as the story of Christ’s Resurrection is the notion that a deity would come down not simply as a human (something seen in a number of faiths or stories), but as a baby. Yes, the Virgin Birth is also shocking and called into question, but we also have to ask: do we accept the notion that this baby wasn’t just born to a Virgin, but is the human incarnate of God? And not a strong human man, but as a completely helpless, vulnerable, adorable, whiny, occasionally-disgusting infant? It’s pretty shocking (and perhaps occasionally hilarious).

I’ve been pushed by my own spiritual mentor growing up to consider the Baby Jesus this way. That part of the beauty of Christmas is not just the presentation of a judge-free and unassuming God (something many would say is the antithesis of how they view religion), but as one who loves us unabashedly and without question.

When I thought more about this, though, I realized it takes great strength to let yourself into someone’s life in such a vulnerable way. To love without restriction and without condition is hard. It’s hard to ignore the temptation to ensure we get something in return, or that we can pull back if things don’t work out. It’s hard to jump in with both feet and say, “Here I am, what do you think?” While the answer might be nice, it could also be one of rejection or pain. Since life often has rejection and pain, it’s also hard to get up off the mat and decide to try it again the next day.

This understanding of the Christmas story not only shows God’s great love for us— he was willing to become as helpless as a child for us— but also His strength. It is because he is not merely our God through suffering, through a complete and joyful sort of optimism and faith that He can show up in a manger, in a time where the world he was entering was in disarray, and say, “Here I am!” with the joy that only birth can bring. Even when He knows He will be knocked down and rejected, that people will say everything He is is wrong, He still has the strength to come not as the Father and authoritarian, but with the exuberance and big, open, unabashed love of a kid.

That love is, in addition, also a great strength. With that vulnerability comes great power to look pain, distress, cynicism in the face and say, “You think that can make me stop loving? You think you’re bigger than my love? Nothing is bigger than my love.”

So, as I wrap up a tumultuous year, I’m trying to ask myself: where can I love something or someone in spite of myself? The end of 2014 has seen so much pain and loss. There is tragedy and mourning, and rage will follow. I don’t condemn any of that. I feel it too. There is so much pain in the world that needs to be healed, injustice to be ended.

Still, this Christmas, I refuse to be jaded. I’m trying, at least, to continue looking at the world, at that pain, and say, “Hey. Here I am. You can be mean and spiteful, and I’ll call that out. But nothing will make me not seek joy and goodness in others. Nothing you do is going to make me love less.

So, what do you think?”