Chagrined
When all you want is an invisibility cloak . . .
By Anni Ponder
“Chagrin: A keen feeling of mental unease caused by failure, disappointment, or a disconcerting event.”
Welp, hmm.
I did a thing last week. Not a horrible, outright awful thing, mind you, but something that could have unwelcome effects. And something which I think shows my lack of sound judgement and perhaps immaturity.
It was rather public, and although I’m by no means a well-known figure, when I reflect upon what I said, I want to hide.
I’ll tell you the details in a minute, but first I want to share how I’ve been processing this—shall we say “blunder”—and where it’s taken me. Perhaps you can relate.
The morning after the blunder, I awoke in a state of total unrest. It was the sort of What have I done?! line of thinking that makes it very difficult to enjoy the small pleasures of the morning (for me, that’s a quiet sit with Mama and Papa God and Jesus plus a cup of coffee). I had a hard time focusing. So I did some deep breathing and fell into my rhythm and it seemed to be OK.
Then, a couple of days later I had a chance to review my blunder in front of my husband, and that’s when the spiral of shame sucked me in and I started to panic.
You have ruined your chances.
After he heard the blundery part, he left for a run and I was all by myself. The shame began to speak: How COULD you? Don’t you know how this will sound? You’ll be discredited. No one will want to know more about Jesus or Mama God or any of the rest of it because you have ruined your chances. You are finished, and you’ve only just begun.
I’m telling you, the voice of shame is cruel and unrelenting.
My eyes filled with tears. I told Jesus I needed a hug right this minute, a very tight hug where I would be enveloped in His arms and no one could see me. I needed to disappear inside His embrace.
Suddenly, an image came to mind. It’s this gorgeous story that Jesus told about a wayward son who needs an embrace like that. You can read about it in Luke chapter 15 if you want—it’s the third parable in a series that illustrates the incredible love of God who always wants us, seeks us out, and embraces us.
My favorite moment of the story is when the son, who has dishonored his family and squandered his wealth, is asking his dad to take him back as a servant. The father takes hold of him, kisses him, puts his own ring on his finger, and covers him with his robe.
He’s completely enveloped. His shame doesn’t show. It’s like he’s donned an invisibility cloak, and the only thing anyone can see is his grateful, tear-stained face and the radiance of his father’s delight that his son has returned home.
Next, the father throws a giant party. That’s my second favorite part. The celebration after the shame. The merriment and the bliss after all the embarrassment (oh, and then the older brother enters the scene with a whole lot of resentment—another theme for another day). There’s dancing, there’s feasting, they’ve killed the fattened tofu. I’m telling you, this is Jesus’ best story.
OK, so there’s a lot here. I could just stay in this metaphor for hours. But let me tell you what it did for me.
I felt, in one sense or another, Jesus’ loving arms around me. I noticed the voice of shame dimming, like someone was turning the volume dial down to 0. I could breathe.
And then I remembered something: the indefinable Spirit, the One I lovingly call Mama, is able to take all sorts of mishaps and blunders and turn them into artwork. She is not limited by my own limitations. She is not hindered by my hindrances.
So I gave it all to Her, with the prayer that even my blunder will be useful to others, and that anyone who hears what I said will be drawn closer to God’s heart, regardless of how they feel about me.
How absolutely freeing. Kinda makes me want to dance.
OK. Now I’ll tell you what I did.
I have a long history of using colorful language. It goes back to the ninth grade when I wanted to impress my friends—sometime maybe I’ll tell you the story of all that. Suffice it to say, I chose to start employing a strong vocabulary and have had to wonder ever since if I’m really happy about that.
Sometimes I am. In certain situations, I’ve found using a well-placed four-letter word actually puts others at ease, especially if they don’t identify as Christian and are wondering if I’m going to be too “Bible-y” for them.
Other times, when I’m talking with certain friends who also occasionally swear, it’s useful to punctuate a point here and there with a strong word. Often it’s humorous, but once in a while, it can be the only way to truly express the depth of emotion we’re sharing.
However.
Not everyone agrees, and many folks think it’s actually a sin to use foul language (and if the word “sin” is a trigger for you, I hope you’ll stick around for a future blog on that loaded word). Many people, especially from within the Christian world, have such a strong distaste for swearing that they won’t even be around it. And then there are scriptural promptings to keep our language clean.
For those reasons, I don’t normally swear around anyone until I know they’re comfortable with it.
But the other day, I was a guest on a friend’s podcast, and I suddenly decided to drop an f-bomb. Why, I’m not sure. I was really excited, and maybe feeling a little showy. Perhaps there’s an element of bravado I’ll need to examine with my therapist. Also, as my husband likes to point out, sometimes I’m pretty quick to show how I’m not like “those other” Christians whose holier-than-thou attitude I despise (eesh, did you see how I just “othered” those folks!?).
And so I continued on with the interview, peppering my comments with a few more R-rated words. The talk went on for about 90 minutes and we covered a lot of ground, and for the most part I’m pretty happy with the themes we explored. But listening to it now, I realize there are many folks in my life I wouldn’t want to share this with. There are some who would probably be disappointed in me; others would be downright distraught and maybe want to cut off connection from me, or worse, send me heartfelt handwritten letters suggesting I’m not doing a good job of representing Christ (I only wish that last one were hypothetical).
Now maybe you’re not at all offended by a few obscenities, in which case you might be wondering what the big deal is. Perhaps you’re one of the folks who feels right at home around that sort of language. If that’s the case, I think you and I will probably get along just fine. Thanks for being here.
However, if you prefer cleaner, more uplifting talk and I have offended you, I’d like to say I’m sorry and I hope you won’t hold this against me. The thing is, I’m not done learning and growing, and I guess I learn best by trial and error most of the time. I realize this could be the end of some folks’ interest in my work, and if that’s you, we’re cool. I know my stuff isn’t for everyone. But if you can imagine sticking around in spite of my blunder, I’d love to keep journeying together. Maybe we will learn from one another.
Phew. Being honest is hard, but totally worth it. I don’t want to stay wrapped in an invisibility cloak any longer. I’m ready for the after party.
