The Power And Pitfall Of Vulnerability

I sat in a Christian counseling class clenching my jaw as that viral Brené Brown TED Talk on vulnerability played before my eyes—yet again. 

I was a Bible college freshman, and vulnerability must have been the word of the year. Weekly chapel services, small group meetings, lunch room discussions, and late night conversations all circled this topic of becoming more vulnerable. It seemed no matter where I turned, someone told me to embrace vulnerability.

I hated vulnerability. Why would I want to display my weaknesses? Why would I want people to know my secrets and struggles? Even more—why broadcast my story to people who I’ve barely known or don’t know at all? Later that year when I began writing publicly, the message bellowed in that world too. Be vulnerable with your audience to gain their trust! the blogging gurus declared. Readers want to see that you’re a human just like them with real struggles and problems! Within a few months, I caught myself gritting my teeth at the very mention of the v-word.

Despite my dislike for vulnerability, I eventually learned my need for it. God calls us to encourage one another to do good deeds (Heb. 10:24) and restore those who have fallen into sin (Gal. 6:1). Fulfilling this calling is impossible without honest, vulnerable relationships. How can you keep one another accountable if you don’t know what they are struggling with? How can you encourage someone to do good works if you don’t know their gifts? How can you support and uplift someone in a time of difficulty if you don’t know they are suffering?

I hated vulnerability because I’d rather push through life on my own. Put my head down, wipe the sweat and tears from my face, and plow forward alone. I sought independence, because it was the only way to keep my pride before others. If they knew what laid in my closet, they’d mock me, disown me. No one could see the shadows and grim behind my façade.

Yet God created the church to love and support each other. Consider all of the “one another” passages in the New Testament, such as the one in Galatians about bearing one another’s burdens. As Glenna Marshall writes, “we can’t bear burdens in the church if we don’t know what those burdens are.” Alan Noble likewise reflects on how real, close community requires vulnerability. “If we were truly living in communities that included obligations to one another, we would eventually have to say something to somebody when we are depressed or anxious or addicted or whatever. The environment would make vulnerability a necessity, not an option” (p. 102).

When we are vulnerable with our fellow believers, we give them the gift of fulfilling the commands of Scripture to serve their siblings in Christ. They can lift us up with encouragement, whether by guiding us out of sin, carrying us through a fiery trial, shining a light on the way God has gifted us, or reminding us of the truths that had grown dull to our ears. Then one day it will be our turn to do the same for them (2 Cor. 1:3–7). We need this kind of vulnerability for the church to operate as God intended.

I had to learn this through breakdowns, burnout, and blundering my way through the early days of motherhood. God taught me through these seasons that in order to lay down by the still waters he led me to, I had to rely on my family in Christ. Vulnerability, despite how weak it makes us feel, is powerful as it shows people the love of Jesus (John 13:35) and puts his strength on display for the onlooking world (2 Cor. 12:9–11). 

Yet despite this power of vulnerability, sin can morph it into a pitfall.  

Pride is sneaky, and it likes to slither into all that we do and think—including vulnerability. Rather than sharing our past or current sins to proclaim our mighty Saviour or lean on the people of God, we share them so that the jaws in the room will drop open. Rather than telling our story to point people to the hope of the gospel, we tell a story that will draw eyes on us or gain us the affirmation of pity we desire. We share vulnerably to be confirmed that we were wronged and receive sympathy. 

Noble notes how in our Western context, vulnerability isn’t a necessity like it was in years past when communities relied heavily on one another to survive, and that in turn can greatly change the way we approach it. “In the modern world, public vulnerability is always a choice, and therefore it takes on an overwhelmingly performative quality” (102). While this isn’t always the case (and we shouldn’t make assumptions about one another), our current context makes it much easier to use vulnerability in this way. He continues, “The result is that our moments of vulnerability are often carefully cultivated and prepared for public consumption to maximize attention and develop our image … When we’re vulnerable with our suffering, it tends to be a calculated, self-conscious public performance” (102–103).

There’s a reason why we can easily share our heartaches, diagnoses, and pain with our Instagram following rather than the one person sitting on our couch: one we use to craft our image before others and gain affirmation while blocking and deleting any negativity; with the other, we must face a real, human reaction that we can’t control or predict. In one, we’ll be affirmed by affectionate followers, and the other might force us to consider our own sins and disbelief in the matter.

Yes we can share about the darkness of sin in our stories or the despair of the night, but when doing so in such a public manner before a great stand of witnesses, our goal should be to turn people’s gazes back to our Sovereign God. Wisdom calls to consider why we are sharing certain details of our story, and what purpose they will serve.

The difference between vulnerability online and vulnerability with close, local friends, family, and mentors is that people online can never support us the way those who know us do. Our online followings are unable to provide the same kind of poignant and necessary encouragement or exhortation we may need because they do not know us fully. They follow us to laugh at our memes and see our precious babies; they aren’t there to support us. Yet the real relationships God places in our lives are able to be the guiding light or crutch we need to make it through the wilderness. That’s why our vulnerability online holds a much different purpose.

Online vulnerability is an opportunity not to receive affirmation or consolation, but glorify God by displaying his strength, goodness, and love through our weaknesses. It’s an opportunity to encourage another limping believer that there is light beyond the shadows. 

Meanwhile, local vulnerability equips the church to better embody Christ to us. This kind of vulnerability may weigh us with shame and anxiety, but God will both provide and be glorified when we reach out for the help we need rather than plowing forward on our own. There’s a reason this kind of vulnerability is harder, but this local vulnerability will never compare to what we seek and receive in any online community or social platform.

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