Shame

 

My dad is old school. He still reads the newspaper cover to cover. Yesterday, he found an article that he wanted me to read: “The High Price of Money Shame.”

 

Someone who carries money shame is someone who feels that he/she is fundamentally flawed and unworthy because of his/her financial problems or successes. Persons can be ashamed of their debts, or they can be ashamed of their wealth. In a culture where money tends to be our worth, money shame is become increasingly more prevalent.

 

Shame moves beyond guilt. We feel guilt when we’ve DONE something bad or wrong. We feel shame when we believe that we ARE bad and wrong. Shame is a deep, dark feeling. Shame leads one to believe that he/she is unworthy of being loved and that he/she doesn’t deserve to be connected to others. Shame leads to isolation. Shame leads to feeling alone.

 

A few years ago, I realized that I struggle with shame. One night, in the middle of a dark night when I couldn’t sleep, I wrote a poem in response to this shame. I wrote in response to what I was feeling for myself and I wrote in response to what I was feeling for those around me. I was beginning to realize that shame was a damning force that many people were struggling against…and I’m realizing now that shame is still a damning force that people are struggling against. After all, it made the paper yesterday. After all, I saw it in black and white.

 

I’m going to close this note with that poem now. May these words speak to you or to someone you know in a very real way. You are loved, friend. For who you are. Rich. Poor. Black. White. Gay. Straight. Minister. Lay person. Teacher. Business person. Male. Female. Struggling. In a place of peace. Whoever, wherever you are. You are loved. Period.

 

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I think that we each just want to be loved for who we are.

Period.

Not the idea of who we could be.

Or the roles in which we function.

Or the services, gifts, and talents that we offer.

But who we are.

Good, bad, ugly.

I think we each need to know that
we are honored and adored not by virtue of
performance and perfection but by the triumph of waking
up each day, breathing, and giving life a try.
When we are uncertain of our value, though.

When we question and doubt the inherent beauty of existence.

When we feel used, or reduced to function and performance,

or we fear failure and disappointment.
When we're forced into a mold that was not
ours to live, paralyzed by discomfort, lost.

When our spirits are not nurtured and allowed the freedom to soar—

to explore the world and discover the depths of creation,

the places where we fit,

the points at which we flourish—

we slowly begin to die:
our bodies exhausted, our hearts wounded, our minds numb,
our spirits suffocated and…

Then what?

I suppose we pick up the pieces and begin to live again.
I suppose we apologize for reducing people to ideas and roles and function,

for identifying individuals by what they do rather than who they are—

what they like, how they love, when they dream—

for not celebrating unique personality but honoring the status-quo.

I suppose we vow never to let anyone feel as if she is not loved for who she is. Period.
I suppose we fill the gaping hole called needy beast

with the unfathomable love of God, manifest both
in God's still small, unexplainable voice and the loud
voice of tangible community, and let that love transform
the very core of our being.

I suppose we allow ourselves to feel again,

to experience and release emotion, however raw and difficult,

however many tears it brings, and give it permission to

bridge the gap between knowledge and understanding.

We are all loved for who we are.

We are all created to be who we are.

But I think we each just need to be reminded of that fact

through words and deeds and actions and gifts and time—

that we each need to know that we are loved for who we are.

Period.

Over and over and over and over and over again.