An anti-theft device for our hearts?
I normally don’t look inside parked cars.
But on my run this morning, a car was completely blocking a driveway. It was jarring to see it, even though the car very likely belonged to the owners of that house, who were intentionally blocking in their own driveway to gain an extra parking spot.
The point is, I glanced inside that car as I moved past it. And you won’t believe what I saw, unless you’re reading this in a time machine from 1994: The Club, an anti-theft product that looks like a club across the steering wheel.
To be fair, I did not get a close enough look to discern if it was an actual The Club or some other brand (a knock-off steering wheel club!). Either way, this illegally parked and not-expensive car had a pole locked across its steering wheel to deter car thieves. That’s all well and good, but the irony is that the 90s nostalgia of The Club is so strong that I was tempted to break into the trunk to see if there were any Polly Pockets, a Tamagotchi, or a Bop-it.
For the rest of my run, I thought about vulnerability. Part of the effectiveness of a product like The Club is that it’s a deterrent. It won’t physically stop an expert car thief (the internet tells me), but it makes the stealing process longer and more annoying, so it may turn away prospective burglars. I began to wonder about all the ways we lock ourselves up with metal bars and outdated-looking clubs, trying to protect ourselves from the harms of human relationship.
There is a real logic to our self-protection. When we have put ourselves out there in the past, whether in a church community or a romantic relationship or a career venture, and the end result was pain, it’s pretty natural to conclude, I’m not going down that path again. There’s a reason we call the intentional lowering of our defenses “being vulnerable”: it exposes us to potential harm. And yeah, there’s a good chance you shouldn’t go down the exactly same path that already hurt you. But shutting yourself away from all paths, movements, risks, and relationships is not the only alternative.
At Harbor, one of our guidelines that helps set the tone for our time together has to do with all this:
You choose your level of vulnerability. (We encourage you to share, but it is up to you.)
There are, in a sense, two different facets to this guideline:
We encourage you to be vulnerable…
…but it is totally up to you to decide how vulnerable you will be.
I will close with a brief reflection on each side of this coin.
We encourage you to be vulnerable.
Ultimately we believe that vulnerability, despite its risks, is worth it. Though we don’t often quote C.S. Lewis at Harbor, his classic formulation on this resonates with me: “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal.” But for those in a post-Lewis era, we could also just look to the picture of Jesus as God incarnate. Think of the vulnerability of putting on human flesh, of being born in a manger, of subjecting oneself to state violence and execution. To love at all is to be vulnerable.
It is up to you to choose your level of vulnerability.
All that being said, at Harbor our valuing vulnerability is only expressed as an encouragement. You should be the one to chart the course for how much of yourself you want to share, and when, and with whom. This, too, seems to align with Jesus’ way of relating. He asked like 8 million questions (just guessing on the number). Each one was a little invitation for another person to open up, to share a thought or feeling. Sometimes people entered into deep sessions of dialogue, debate, or storytelling; other times they walked away. Jesus seemed content to respect others’ autonomy about if and how much they would engage.
My hope is that this two-headed guideline will help us avoid the two opposite errors I have encountered many times in church spaces. One is a total lack of vulnerability, whether in a buttoned-up gathering for ritual or a smiley social club that does not allow for real trust and friendship. The other is a high expectation of vulnerability that pressures or coerces people to “go deep” or confess sins (don’t get me started on accountability groups).
And so here’s another way to express our two-pronged approach to vulnerability at Harbor:
There will be room for vulnerability. That vulnerability will not be forced.
