We want to worship and follow God, who in Christ made himself vulnerable, in becoming incarnate as a baby (as we soon celebrate) and later in allowing himself to be crucified. Perhaps this little aspect of God is the nearest to the human; we are truly vulnerable beings, maybe more so than we are aware of. And it is at the places where we are already most wounded, most tender, that we are most vulnerable to further hurt. Jesus aligned his will with his father’s, drank his cup of suffering, suffered his crucifixion. Confronted with our own cup, we, wholly understandably, would rather not follow him. In the Eucharist we celebrate Jesus’ brokenness, but so often we would rather hide our own, conceal the cross we may come to feel we carry alone.

But sometimes the weight of our own cross so oppresses us that we cannot but seek another to help bear it. We choose to reveal our deepest wounds, to make ourselves vulnerable, by confiding in somebody, be they friend or counselor. Usually, our tenderest places are those we expend most effort to shield; in confiding, we have to pull the shielding off. To attempt this is to choose to risk being knifed yet deeper. It is a choice requiring immense courage.

It may also include the profound surrender of letting be whatever feelings (say, of anger or bitterness or self-hatred) may flare up. Letting them be might mean allowing yourself to shout, or rage, or smash the crockery if you want to. How much do we accept our expression of these feelings? Do we allow that expression at all, or do we simply feel unable to? It can be exhausting to carry unintegrated anger; it may only find release in bitter cynicism or misanthropy, or in more subtly pushing people away. But this last sentence is all I can vouch for from experience. I can only draw away from this point and continue to reflect.

Choosing to make oneself vulnerable entails trying to make space to be. Where do we try to create that space? We need safe, enclosed spaces where we can “let the mask slip” with as little fear as possible. Doing just this, in such private spaces, has helped me greatly up the mountain path. But, still valuing this deeply, I wish to ask: how much space do we make for others to be vulnerable or sorrowful within our communities? How easy is it for us to accept their pain? If we find accepting our own woundedness or anger difficult, do we find accepting that of others even harder? (This could be within “community” on any scale, in any place, that you can think of). For instance: do we become uncomfortable when someone cries in front of a group of us? Are we uncomfortable crying in front of a group of others? Does our conditioning or past experience render us ashamed when vulnerable? And is that, if true, especially so for men? Much of what I have internalised would tell me yes; is your experience, or that of the men you know, the same? Think again of any kind of community with which you are involved: what views of manhood and vulnerability do they implicitly encourage or perpetuate? (Again, this is not a question solely addressed to men.) And: what distractions do we use to escape our woundedness, to avoid choosing vulnerability? This is not implicit condemnation: I have sought escape, and still do. But I wish to ask: do any of the communities of which you are part encourage this escape, or instead draw out your courage to enable you to face your wounds? Do we perceive Christian communities as welcoming to the wounded, as providing an open door if we choose to be vulnerable (or have no choice but to be)?

You will notice that I moved swiftly away from thinking about Christmas! I want to preserve the Christmas-to-the-cross link implied at the beginning, but also to think about Christmas as a time of vulnerability in itself. The stress of providing food, gifts, warmth for rarely-seen relatives may wear us down. Or perhaps being together as a family, having been apart from parents and siblings, may become too much. (I am fortunate enough to be trespassing beyond my experience here, just as I am when considering the homeless or other especially vulnerable groups, and those who work with them.) All the buying and the planning may leave us little room for celebration. And Christmas is a feast, surely. We are celebrating God’s incarnation in vulnerable form, and remembering that God is not self-protective, but generous. We lose God’s image if we are locked into defensiveness, selfishness and a struggle for survival (“A theology of vulnerability” in Prisons: a study in vulnerability). In our vulnerability we may recover God’s image; and that might imply that our own vulnerability (as well as God’s) is worth celebrating at Christmas. I want to end by affirming that such celebration is possible.

Having sought counselors, listening and books to meet me where I have been in the past, it has recently been my privilege to begin the process of confiding in friends. One of these times was especially celebratory. I happened to meet a friend I rarely see, and in Langwith dining room (of all places!) we talked. It was not just that we renewed an intermittent relationship, but also that we openly shared our stories of struggling through pain. We showed what gifts this struggle had brought, and were able to find joy in the gift of mutual vulnerability, acknowledging that our pain is by no means all neatly dealt with. Forgive me if, reading that, you cringed. But I want to affirm that celebrating in vulnerability, and even celebration of it, is possible. This does not make it easy or comfortable, nor is it to say that we will always be able to celebrate thus. But, nevertheless, it is, just sometimes, possible. Have a truly joyous Christmas.

Blair Hunwick