Today's Battle in the Pews

I'm not an expert on shame by any means, but I'm also not a stranger to it. Few of us are. As I recently learned from someone much more knowledgeable than I, even Charles Darwin identified shame as a distinctly human emotion, something that runs much deeper than the blood vessels in our cheeks or the tingle of our consciences. Deeper than embarrassment or guilt, and nearly as old as humanity itself.

We don't talk about it enough. About shame itself, I mean—as if the very concept, like the burdens it represents, must be stuffed in the closet away from all eyes. Just as shame drove Adam and Eve to flee from the very Father who could cleanse them of it, shame drives us to hide in broad daylight. To bury our insecurities, smile through our struggles, and sometimes, on bad days, to just give in and sink.

I was sinking today. In church, of all places. A shame attack out of nowhere.

Or... maybe not out of nowhere.

I know myself pretty well at this point. As I should—I've spent a great deal of this past year exploring all the nooks and crannies of my psyche and rooting out the weeds I should have asked God to pull long ago. In that process, I learned that most of the struggles I've had over the past few years have been symptoms, not roots. That root was shame. A deep-burrowing network of it with many heads above the surface. Knowing that armed me to start plucking weeds, and I've seen God's gardening prowess at its finest over the last few months as He has freed me from old patterns and opened my eyes to His goodness in new ways.

But that root of shame is stubborn. Some days, it sprouts new heads. And I've discovered that nothing stirs up shame in me like the kindness of those God has placed in my life.

For context: this weekend marked a downpour of blessings, with reminders of God's goodness at every turn. Preparing to move to Korea next month, I've had a few stressors on my mind, and God's people have floored me with their overwhelming support, prayers, and help. My gratitude is immeasurable... but Satan is a master of taking beautiful things and warping them into weapons against us. It's the reason I find it so hard to accept generosity: not because I'm ungrateful, but because I feel so very unworthy and can't imagine why anyone would put themselves out for me.

Apologies to anyone and everyone who has ever tried to give me a gift and found my response lacking. I promise, I am working on it. And thank heavens, God is working on me.

But back to the story.

This morning, when I should have been praising God for all the kindness He has poured out through my brothers and sisters, I found myself sinking in a mire of lies. Ankle-deep at first—You don't deserve this —then knee-deep—These people don't even know you—waist-deep—If these brothers and sisters knew you better, they'd never be so kind.

Before I knew it, I was gulping for air. Curled up in the pew, spilling tears over my Bible, clawing through the Psalms for a lifeline. Shame. I knew it, saw it, named it. Attacks are to be expected, and as I said, I'm not a stranger to them. The instinct to give in and sink under waves of shame was there, tempting—we humans do like to wallow—but I knew that wasn't the answer and didn't want to give the Enemy that satisfaction. Truth, I needed truth. But what verse? What passage? Sinking, sinking, sinking...

Even as I sit here typing, tears aren't far away. Not because of how I felt in that moment, but because of what happened next.

The final worship set was filling the sanctuary with the heartfelt praise of God's holy people. Beautiful, powerful, a humble offering and a mighty one all at once. But it was the final song that shook me to the very roots of my stubborn shame. And that was when I realized that the antidote for shame doesn't require a PhD or sixty years of life experience: I learned it in Sunday School at five years old.

Maybe you've heard it?

Yes, Jesus loves me.

Yes, Jesus loves me.

Yes, Jesus loves me.

The Bible tells me so.

Those words fell from the sky like a lifeline, and there I was, rescued. Not because I understand why Jesus would give His life for me, not because I'm worthy of His love, but because I believe Him when He says that I am saved, cleansed, beautiful, wanted, holy, empowered, and adopted into His family. Shame cannot coexist with a Truth that wonderful. Not in my relationship with Christ or with anyone else, for that matter. As I stood in the rainbow of sunlight through stained glass, I found my feet on solid ground again—still dropping tears like monsoon season (obviously), but tears of pure worship this time.

And maybe that's the counterattack. Not dwelling on our unworthiness before God, but exalting Him for loving, choosing, and rescuing us anyway. The former is a self-indulgence. The latter is life-saving.

Yes, Jesus loves you.

Yes, Jesus loves you.

Yes, Jesus loves you.

So shame can just get lost.