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Shame and Grace
A Sermon Given
by The Reverend Mark V. Hayes
on August 29, 1999
at Cedar Lane Unitarian Universalist Church
Bethesda, Maryland
"Shame on you! You should be ashamed of yourself!" Have
you ever been the target of such a tirade? Perhaps when you've
been caught doing something less than admirable, like telling a
bald-faced lie, or cheating on a test, or stealing? I recall as a child
attending a track and field meet. I had to pee, but I was too timid
to ask anyone where to go. So I went down under the bleachers
and relieved myself. To my horror I heard a voice from above,
crying "Shame, shame, double shame; everybody knows your
name!" And I was ashamed. My head hung. My shoulders
drooped. I tried my best to turn invisible. If there had been a
convenient hole, I would eagerly have crawled into it. I felt naked
and exposed. Exposed to ridicule and scorn. I know many of you
could share similar stories. The experience of shame is part of the
human experience.
Painful as they are, feelings of shame can serve a valuable
social purpose. A recent book [For Shame, by James Twitchell]
argues for bringing a sense of shame back into our culture. The
author points to the lack of civility in our society and attributes it
to the virtual disappearance of behavior-regulating shame. He says,
"We have spent too much energy trying to 'get out from under
shame' and not enough trying to understand and recover its social
protections. Shame is the generator of much moral sense and the
ignition for much moral action."
I can accept that argument. The shame I felt as I marched back
to the grocery store to pay for a stolen candy bar kept me honest
for quite a while. But that's not the end of the story on shame.
For instance, consider the advertising industry. Advertisers
manipulate our feelings to influence spending habits. We buy
deodorant to avoid the shame of body odor. We buy hair color to
avoid the shame of growing old. We buy the right detergent to
avoid the shame of ring around the collar, and on and on and on.
Those examples point to a general feature of shame that
reduces its value as a social regulator. That is, many things can
generate shame: how we look, our family, our social status. Even
the attempt to conform with socially acceptable behavior can lead
to shame and embarrassment. President Calvin Coolidge reportedly
once invited friends from his hometown to dine at the White
House. The guests were worried about their table manners, and so
they decided to just do everything Coolidge did. This worked out
well until coffee was served. The president poured his coffee into
the saucer. The guests did the same. Coolidge added sugar and
cream. His guests did, too. Then Coolidge bent over and put his
saucer on the floor for the cat. I think those guests probably felt
pretty small.
Failures, large or small, are another common source of shame.
Have you ever forgotten your lines during a recitation? Or fallen
on your face during an important interview? Or flunked a test? I
recall vividly how helpless I felt as my son faltered and lost his
place in the middle of his piano recital. I could almost see the
shame welling up in him, until he courageously started over and
completed his piece. I don't see how many of these kinds of
shame inspire moral behavior.
Before moving on, let's distinguish between shame and guilt.
You or I may feel both guilt and shame when we do something
wrong. Guilt is about what we've done. Shame is about who we
are. Guilt is the feeling of doing something bad; shame is the
feeling of being unworthy. One expert describes it like this: "The
first stab of shame comes from sudden and unexpected exposure to
the critical eyes of another person. We stand revealed, painfully
diminished." Shame is a painful feeling of unworthiness, of
exposing our inadequate selves to view. This experience is as old
as the story of Adam and Eve and their shame over their nakedness
before God.
Shame sometimes takes on a life of its own. A few weeks ago,
while grocery shopping, I ached as I heard a young mother
screaming at her children. "Why are you so rotten? You're
disgusting!" Those kids did nothing horrible. They were just
being kids. Growing up, children who hear messages like that,
over and over, come to believe them. Their whole being takes on
a deep sense of unworthiness. Their shame is put on them by
others, exaggerating their faults, and producing shame-prone adults.
These people discount their good qualities. They can't take a
compliment. These people magnify their flaws. One small mistake
can ruin their whole day. These people take criticisms of their
actions as judgments of their selves. They believe that everyone
judges them as worthless as they judge themselves.
I see these qualities everywhere. Few of us have been spared
such tendencies, such self-doubts. I know I haven't. As a child,
I received love and respect from my parents. Yet, I still developed
a strong sense of shame that prevented me from engaging the
world and using my gifts and talents. I doubted my own worth.
So much so that I hid behind a wall of silence. Where did that
come from? Part of it had to do with my sensitivity to the taunting
and teasing of siblings and friends. And I recall several
embarrassing and humiliating incidents that fed those feelings.
One day in fifth grade, I sat in class daydreaming. The
telephone in the back of the classroom rang, and I kept on
daydreaming. Suddenly, my classmates were nudging me,
whispering, "Mark! Mark!" I jumped up, and since the last thing
I had noticed was the phone ringing, I thought, "Oh, I've got a
phone call. I wonder who it could be?" As I jumped up and went
to the phone to take my call, everyone laughed. Too late I realized
that they had tried to get my attention because the teacher had
called on me to answer a question. I went bright red and searched
intently for that elusive hole to crawl into.
When I was in high school, I always walked the two miles to
school. One day, as I set off, I encountered a pickup truck
blocking the sidewalk. As I approached, Tom, a casual
acquaintance, opened the passenger side door and jumped down to
the ground right in front of me. I thought to myself, "Oh, cool,
they're going to give me a ride to school." So I stepped past Tom,
jumped up into the pickup cab, and slid over to the middle of the
seat. I sat there for a moment. Something didn't seem quite right.
Tom looked puzzled. I felt my stomach sink and I meekly asked,
"Are you giving me a ride to school?" When he said "no" I got
out of there as quickly as possible, and started looking again for
that hole.
Those stories amuse me now. They did not amuse me when
they happened. I felt deeply ashamed. I withdrew further into
myself. Why did I feel so ashamed? I did nothing shameful. The
shame was already there. These episodes simply stirred it up. In
my mind, I did dig a hole to crawl into. And that hole grew
deeper with each painful experience. The insidious thing about my
shame was that I didn't even know it was there. I just thought that
was how I was. I was quiet, reserved. I kept to myself. I avoided
situations that stirred up my sense of unworthiness. I played it
safe. I coped with my shame, but at the cost of a lonely and
narrow life.
So there I am. Hiding in my hole. But it's lonely in there. It
feels empty, cold. Is it hopeless, or is there a way out of the hole?
Yes, there is a way. I offer you this morning a word of healing,
of hope, of liberation. The word is 'grace.' Grace is an unbidden,
undeserved gift. In the book, Shame and Grace [by Lewis
Smedes], from which I took my title, the author asserts that grace
heals shame. He says, "the experience of being accepted is the
beginning of healing for the feeling of being unacceptable." That
gift of acceptance is what he calls grace.
My experience confirms that assertion, although I understand
grace differently. The author sees grace as a gift directly from
God, who loves and accepts us despite our imperfection. The
recipient experiences a sense of total and unconditional acceptance.
I believe there are other sources of grace. I've experienced grace
primarily through other people. People who have reached out a
hand to help me out of my hole.
I first began attending a Unitarian Universalist Church over
eleven years ago. The talk of openness and acceptance there
appealed to me. I hesitated to stick my neck out, but people there
encouraged me to try new things. So I took a few small steps. I
joined a committee. I helped plan and put on a worship service.
Doing these things frightened me, but people applauded my efforts.
They encouraged me to press on. I joined more committees, did
more worship services, began greeting newcomers. Eventually I
answered the call to ministry and went off to seminary. And now,
here I am.
That congregation's gift to me was three-fold. First, they
accepted me as I was, treating me as a person of value. Second,
they encouraged me to stretch and grow. And third, they provided
a safe environment in which to do so. I discovered my worth
there. That transformed my life. Shame still reared its head
occasionally, for instance when I lost my place in the middle of a
reading, or failed to follow through on some committee
responsibility. But the positive regard I got for trying outweighed
those painful feelings. Over time the pain diminished. The healing
that began in that congregation sustained my hope for wholeness.
I felt liberated by the freedom to discover and use my talents. I'm
deeply grateful for that gift.
I mentioned earlier that I believe grace comes from many
sources: from God, the Cosmos, a religious community, or my best
friend Frank. Whatever its source, I think 'successful' experiences
of the grace of acceptance share at least three essential components.
First, I must be open to receive the gift. No one can force grace
on me. It's offered. I must accept it. I didn't have to go to
church. Once there, I didn't have to get out of my chair and do
anything. I wanted to get out of my hole. So I took the hands
they extended to me.
Second, the acceptance granted must be unconditional. The
affirmation of my essential worthiness begins to offset my own
doubts. I more easily believe in myself when I know that someone
else believes in me. Especially someone I trust and respect.
Third, the acceptance, while unconditional, must not be blind.
I do have flaws. I do make blunders. When you ignore or deny
them, I lose confidence in your judgment. And so I reject your
acceptance and reaffirm my unacceptability. True grace doesn't
gloss over my troubles and just make me feel good. But it does
help me sort out which flaws are legitimate and which I've
imagined or exaggerated. Grace speaks the truth in love.
In our reading this morning, John Taylor assured us that we're
wonderful. But he also acknowledges our failures and mistakes,
our fright and stumbling. He says that our ability to recognize
those shortcomings is a part of our wonder. We do shameful
things sometimes, and we should feel shame. But if we have faith
in our basic OK'ness, we can experience the pain of that shame and
move on. We can do better next time.
The grace I've experienced had another feature. It wasn't a
one-shot deal. It didn't sweep away all my self-doubts at once. It
didn't yank me out of my hole instantaneously. It did start me
moving in the right direction. Setbacks happened occasionally. I
slid part way back down into the hole. But the hands were always
there, guiding me back up into the light of day.
Some of you may have your own shame-induced holes. They
may be only slight ruts. Or they may be gaping trenches.
Whatever their size, I encourage you to open yourself to the
experience of grace. If a trusted friend insists that you're OK, try
to hear them. Try to hear John Taylor when he tells you you're
wonderful. Try to hear me when I tell you there's hope.
Finally, we all can be bestowers of grace. We can reach out a
helping hand to our friends and neighbors struggling up out of their
holes. If you see someone trying something new, celebrate that.
If you see someone stretching themselves, cheer them on. If you
see someone stumble, reach out a hand and encourage them to try
again. Shame digs its hole one shovelful at a time. We can fill it
back up the same way. Amen.
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