by Jax Collins
Watch the sermon recording on YouTube here.
Have you ever heard of the term vulnerability hangover?
For those of you who haven’t, it’s a phrase that was popularized by Brené Brown a few years ago and it means, the “overwhelming feeling of uncomfortableness and regret after you share something personal with others.” That moment when you’ve opened your heart, when you’ve shared something true and tender. And afterward you think, “Oh no, what have I done?”
Did I say too much?
Did I reveal a little more of myself than I meant to?
Did I let this person really see me?
It’s that mixture of exposure and hope, of fear and connection, that comes when we dare to show a truer part of ourselves.
And it turns out that feeling is as ancient as the human heart. It is very much present in today’s Gospel.
I’m going to do a little bit of a call back to Marjorie’s beautiful sermon from last week because we spent some time with John the Baptist. And the difference in his posture is interesting. So what did Marjorie tell us last week about John?
- “Wild man of the new testament”
- “Eats grasshoppers and wild honey”
- “Wears camel hair and a leather belt”
- “This job is not socially acceptable, quiet or shy”
- “Unimpressed by social or religious leaders”
- “Burns bright, fierce and true”
- “An advent firework”
- “Wants to make hearts and minds ready for the messiah”
- “Wants to live in alignment with God’s justice”
- “Embodies the active discipline of hope”
- “Not just about waiting but preparing”
- “Clear: the one that comes after him is the one that brings fire”
But now, John finds himself in a vulnerable state…and reveals his vulnerabilities through his question, “Are you the one?”
John is asking:
“Did I get this wrong?”
“Did any of this matter?”
“Do you see me?”
This is a really different picture of John the Baptist than the one who was faithfully preparing the way. And now, the Gospel tells us that John sends this word with his disciples. This means, in good Advent spirit, he was doing a lot of sitting on his hands. John not only allowed himself to be vulnerable with Jesus but with his buddies by sending his biggest insecurities via messenger.
I mean can you imagine you’re working something out with one of your friends and instead of being about to get on the phone with them, you had to ask one of your other friends to tell them? That’s what I mean that vulnerability hangover was brewing.
Brene Brown, in her book Atlas of the Heart maps over 60 human experiences or emotions like vulnerability. She notes that vulnerability is often viewed in most cultures as being a sign of weakness which is kind of an odd tension because there is actually no courage without vulnerability. “Courage,” she says, “requires the willingness to lean into uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure… Vulnerability is not oversharing, it’s sharing with people who have earned the right to hear our stories and our experiences and it’s our greatest measure of courage.”
Ed Bacon, a retired Episcopal rector from Pasadena, California authored a book called 8 Habits of Love. In the last habit, “community,” Ed shares a story about a parishioner that worked up the “courage to tell.” Cathy decided to tell with about 50 people in her life that she was diagnosed with cancer. She knew that on the other side of these 50, vulnerable, emails was an embrace either physical or virtual that was going to be what her heart needed.
Sometimes what we share is hard, like Cathy. It is gut wrenching. And when we go to share it, we know it will be met with compassion and love because that makes sense to us. But, sometimes what we share is like John’s experience: scary, hesitant, maybe it feels a little embarrassing that we brought it up? Yet, there can be real beauty on the other side of courageous vulnerability.
And this is where Jesus’ response becomes so striking. Because Jesus doesn’t meet John’s vulnerable question with frustration or disappointment. He doesn’t say, “John… seriously? After everything?” He doesn’t shame him for questioning.
Instead, Jesus says something that feels a lot like a deep, steadying hand on the shoulder:
“Go and tell John what you hear and see.”
Go and tell him the truth that’s unfolding, just like what he prepared.
Go and tell him that the blind are seeing, and the lame are walking, and the poor are receiving good news.
Go and tell him that love is taking root in the world.
Go and tell him that his life — yes, even now, especially now — is part of God’s story.
And after John sends an affirmation and evidence of love to John. He turns to the crowd and says hey, this doesn’t change who or what John is about. His vulnerability doesn’t erase that. It doesn’t invalidate the work he has done.
That kind of response is what we all hope for when you’ve said the vulnerable thing out loud and you can feel that vulnerability hangover coming on.
When I was in divinity school, I took a class called writing creatively about religion. One of the prompts was called The Office of Love. The prompt was essentially to write about an experience when someone in our life showed up for us in a routine way that meant a lot to us. I went on to write a piece about a longtime friend of mine, Sam. I had just moved to Nashville where I did not know one person and I was so homesick. I was up late and crying crying crying in my basement room. And I was a grownup now, I was not going to call my parents because grownups don’t do that but I had to call someone. I had to be seen, I had to be known by someone. So I called Sam. And she answered. And she said, “hey, what’s wrong? I miss you too”
When someone sees you like that, when someone knows you– it can feel overwhelming. It can feel like you’ve been cracked open. Being seen is both a gift and a risk. Because once you’re seen, you can’t hide behind the safer versions of yourself anymore.
John was the “wild man of the New Testament,” the Advent firework, the prophet with dust on his feet and truth on his tongue. But in this moment, he is simply a human being longing to know he is not alone.
And Jesus says: “You’re not.”
And something inside of us recognizes that. We know what it’s like to hope that someone might meet our vulnerability with kindness instead of judgment. We know what it’s like to step out on the ledge of honesty and pray we won’t fall.
And we also know this: Love grows in the spaces where we dare to be known.
That’s where community becomes real: not in the polished moments, but in the trembling ones.
As many of you know, I’ve been working with the capital campaign team. And it’s had me asking questions like: Why do we give? Like why do we give all the things we do– our time, our presence, our friendships, our love?
And I’ll be honest, a more cynical part of me started wondering if everything in life is transactional. If we give in order to get. If generosity is secretly a kind of spiritual bartering system. If our relationships, even subconsciously, begin to tally what has been offered and what has been returned.
But when I hold that cynicism up next to today’s Gospel, something in me softens.
Because Jesus does not deal in transactions.
He deals in relationship.
He deals in presence.
He deals in seeing people, deeply and compassionately, and calling them into a fuller sense of belonging.
And so when we ask, “Why do we give?” maybe the answer is closer to what we see in this Gospel than anything else.
Maybe we give because we want to be part of something that sees us.
Maybe we give because we have been held in moments of our own vulnerability.
Maybe we give because this community has met us with courage and compassion when we dared to be known.
Maybe we give because giving is one of the ways we say: I see you, too. I see this community. I see what God is doing here. I want to be part of it.
Giving, when it’s real, when it’s faithful, is not a transaction.
It’s a relationship.
It’s a way of being in community.
It’s a way of participating in the unfolding story of love that Jesus points to when he says, “Go and tell John what you see.”
Because that is what stewardship is at its best: a shared witness to what we have seen God do, and a shared commitment to making more of that possible.
