Zacchaeus must have had a great view of Christ from that tree, but it wasn't the right view. It was a view that Zacchaeus controlled. To see Jesus, to really get a good look at him, we have to come face to face with him. It is the times when I come to Christ vulnerable that he really shows himself to me.
Because I know that God sees everything, I often pride myself in my own transparency before God. But transparency isn't vulnerability. I do a pretty good job of protecting myself in relationships. I'm open enough that I can get by without having to need anything from anyone. I would be humiliated by such weakness. But I'm finding that's a form of pride--and not even a deformed version of pride, just regular old pride.
It was recently pointed out to me that the word vulnerable comes from the Latin word for 'wound.' Therefore, to be vulnerable means to be capable of being wounded. So the trees I climb (missions experiences, conferences and retreats, books and relationships with the right people) and the tree Zacchaeus climbed, expose the real (and often hidden) need and desire to see God. And really, it's just another attempt to try and save ourselves.
. . .
All this foreshadows the cross, really. I try to see Jesus in so many ways, but it's only when I come face to face with him that I'm transformed. The things I try to climb up to see Christ are false crosses that I make for myself, hoping they'll save me. Jesus calls me down. From his cross, I learn to see his love for me. At his table he gives me the eyes to see his love for the world."
~pgs. 43-45, Simple Spirituality by Christopher Heuertz
"But transparency isn't vulnerability." Ah, yes... it isn't. Pretty sure I've tried to run my life not wanting to need anything from any of my friendships.
I don't want to inconvenience people is how I rationalize it. At the same time, however, I just want to be strong, independent, and completely self-sufficient. I want others to depend on me--not the other way around. But like Heuertz says, that's simply pride. Pride, in the flesh.
Later that night, I read more into the book and came across a related passage. In the chapter about submission:
"One evening, Phileena [his wife] and I were having dinner at a friend's home. They have a big dog that seems gentle, but really scares me. This dog always tries to get my attention, and that particular night she walked right up to me, laid down at my feet, rolled halfway over on her back, and bared her hairy chest upward toward me.
I wasn't sure what to do. My friend told me to scratch her chest. Right. As if I'd fall for that trick. Let's see, how about I just put my hand right down there by her chin so she can bite it right off! Hmmm . . . I'll pass.
But my friend insisted, reassuring me that the dog was submitting to me, baring its most tender body part as a sign that she was vulnerable--woundable.
Suddenly the concept of submission made sense.
Weak in the Knees
I would say that I'm a fairly transparent person. Ask me just about anything you want and I typically have no problem opening up the tender parts of my heart. I am also very forthcoming with my feelings when I can get in touch with them. It's no surprise that I make lots of mistakes and usually don't have any trouble acknowledging my errors and making amends for them. But transparency isn't vulnerability.
Dogs are, essentially, always transparent. Except for those shameful occasions when people dress their dogs in sweaters, dogs are always naked as the day they were born. You always see them in toto, so to speak. Moreover, they communicate at a primal level: when they're happy, they wag their tail; when they're hungry, they drool; when they're angry, they growl. Dogs are transparent to the core. Vulnerability, by contrast, is an act of a dog's will. A dog makes a cognitive progression from their baseline of transparency to baring themselves to another. For me, being vulnerable is much more difficult than being transparent. I have a hard time exposing the parts of me that can be wounded. Sure, I can share my feelings with someone, but it's tough for me to trust people with my feelings. It's not easy for me to put my needs out there and give someone a chance to reject them. And so what I usually do is work toward transparency as a distraction from my lack of vulnerability.
There's no submission in that. Submission is giving up oneself to the power of another; transparency doesn't require submission because it sets the agenda of what I want to share. Transparency isn't an act of submission so much as it is a preemptive strike--a self-protecting attempt to keep people at a safe distance. Transparency in this way becomes an attempt to protect and control. Submission is a celebration not of insipid acquiescence but of confident surrender. Submission is an opportunity to affirm our deep trust in God by allowing God to be in control as we resist the urge to assert ourselves as God. I've come to learn that becoming vulnerable is submitting to others the deeper parts of my life.
Submission goes beyond vulnerability and becomes an expression of love. An invitation to intimacy. A release of control. In his book Intimacy, Henri Nouwen writes, "Love asks for a total disarmament."
"Can we ever meet a fellow [human] without any protection? Reveal ourselves to [them] in our total vulnerability? Are man and woman able to exclude the power in their relationship and become totally available for each other? When the soldier sits down to eat he lays down his weapons, because eating means peace and rest. When he stretches out his body to sleep he is more vulnerable than ever. Table and bed are the two places of intimacy where love can manifest itself in weakness. In love men and women take off all the forms of power, embracing each other in total disarmament. The nakedness of their body is only a symbol of total vulnerability and availability."
This is true in my relationship with God. God wants total disarmament from me. My prayers, by contrast, are usually full of requests and confessions. I admit my mistakes and instead of asking for more grace, I typically ask for the ability not to make the same mistake again. [I totally do that. Dang...] Rather than throwing myself on my real need for forgiveness, I try to reassure God that I'll do better next time. It's more about what I can do to please God than it is about what God has done to meet my needs. But for me to admit my need means that I'm dependent on and vulnerable to God. It strikes at the illusion of my self-sufficiency."
~pgs. 102-104, Simple Spirituality by Christopher Heuertz
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