by Karris Golden

Every week, I go through a moment of dread before I drop my envelope in the offering plate. "Is it enough?" I ask myself — not enough for God, but enough to satisfy what I think others think I should be able to give. Instead of wondering about my contribution’s worthiness in the eyes of God, I consider whether the person who opens the envelopes later makes judgments about me based on the size of my gift.

In reality, the intention behind my gift is all that should matter. What is my hope for the good this money can do? What good will come from it? These considerations drive my giving, and my intentions are good. But the public act of placing the gift in the offering plate leaves me consumed by how my contribution will reflect on me.

The root of my anxiety is fear of vulnerability; I don’t want to relinquish control of how this act reflects on me. Giving unconditionally and unselfishly is characterized by great vulnerability. That’s why Jesus confounded and angered many of his contemporaries.

Not only did he give everything freely — from knowledge to himself — he scoffed at those who demanded an explanation of his motives. When asked why he did something, he rarely gave direct answers; he told stories. His explanation was his act, his story was his example — and the faithful understood it.

When I consider my reaction to the offering plate and Jesus’ example, it becomes clear to me that I am not "pure in heart." While my heart is filled with love, good intentions, and a desire to give, there is also a part that harbors fear. Fear of appearing weak, inadequate, foolish, greedy, selfish, or even arrogant. The list goes on. The same concern about how others will perceive my offering gift comes out in other areas of my life. I often pause before taking action: Is it too aggressive to ask for a raise? Does this person think I sound silly? What will everyone think if I take the big brownie? The voice asking those questions warns me that if I can’t control how others perceive me, "perfection" will remain elusive.

What people think
We all care about what other people think of us. Part of growing older is learning to avoid the impulse to control what others think of us. As the mother of a preschooler, I am painfully aware that it’s impossible to maintain such control. Sometimes I just have to go to work with jelly smeared on the front of my blouse. Then I must resist the urge to explain the stain to anyone who will listen.

Do you feel the urge to explain your mistakes or faults to others — even complete strangers? Do you believe that not explaining yourself or your actions bears the risk that someone will form an opinion about you without your input? If that idea makes your skin crawl, perhaps you have difficulty with vulnerability. Accepting that others will form opinions about us—sometimes untrue, often unchangeable — is the first step toward being pure in heart.

I began learning this important lesson when I was introduced to a technique in a writers’ workshop. Each writer’s work is distributed to every member of the group. They then take the work home to analyze it. When the workshop reconvenes, the writer reads her work aloud to the group. As the writer remains silent, the rest of the group discusses the piece    — what works and what doesn’t. The writer is not allowed to defend her work in any way, even to explain the intended meaning of a word, phrase, or sentence. She can only listen and ask questions of clarification at the end.

The workshop is a tough process. Mature writers find a way to learn from the group’s criticisms. If a writer seeks to please the workshop participants, the group will call her on her dishonesty. The workshop is about being willing to be vulnerable. If she can open up and listen, she’ll find a way to develop her purest work.

Taking chances
I want to be pure in heart. This requires me to evaluate truthfully what motivates my actions. The writer’s workshop taught me that much of my behavior was based on a need to please others and gain approval. It also showed me that God’s impression of my actions was secondary to me. It was time to ask myself why I cared so much about the former and so little about the latter.

My exploration of this — my secret sinful behavior — makes me believe that many of us have similar issues. We hide some of who we are and present to the world the person we want others to believe us to be. But in being vulnerable, we take our chances. If we are misunderstood, we must remind ourselves that God gets it.

Perhaps you sign up to be lector at worship and rehearse over and over again to get that perfect, precise pronunciation. Or you spend hours making flawless cookies for the church bake sale and pawn the lumpy, asymmetrical "seconds" off on your family. Anything less than the best would reflect poorly on you, right? Or would it? Do others really spend that much time judging us, or are they busy replaying their own daily top 10 most embarrassing moments?

Yes, we should do our best, especially when it comes to our faith practices. But are we doing our best, or are we striving to make others believe we’re perfect? Where is God in all this? Wouldn’t God be happy with a "flawed" cookie? Wouldn’t it taste the same? Why is it that we can remind ourselves of God’s forgiving nature but can’t give our sisters and brothers the same benefit of the doubt?

Take King David. He was God’s golden boy, a popular king. He enjoyed being liked. He seemed pretty close to perfect to most.

His flaw was that he fell for a married woman. How could he continue to be publicly perfect and still get the girl? David thought the answer was to conceal the issue by putting Bathsheba’s husband in harm’s way. Read the story in 2 Samuel, chapters 11 and 12.

At last, David realized he had to make things right with God. Perhaps he prayed the words of Psalm 51, verse 10: "Create in me a clean heart, O God; and put a new and right spirit within me."

We falter. We fail. We can ask God to renew us. To be renewed, we must lay ourselves bare before God.

Losing control
I admit I must remind myself to seek to please God first. I must actively remind myself to do what God expects and not worry about the expectations of others. I have to be willing to do what I believe God wants — even if it leaves me exposed and vulnerable.

This requires daily diligence. I am becoming. I am actively working to become a Christian, a Lutheran, and a fuller, better version of myself. I am becoming a wife, mother, daughter, sister. This journey would be boring if I were already finished. How dull I would be if the person I will become were limited to my imagination.

Poet Theodore Roethke said, "Those who are willing to be vulnerable move among mysteries."

What a reward it would be to be pure in heart. Yet becoming vulnerable is difficult. It goes against our human nature. Our aversion to it begins at a young age, when we fear looking stupid or making mistakes in front of others.

But it is through vulnerability that we learn. Synonyms are exposed, wide open, naked, susceptible, and sensitive. Not bad words, but they carry a lot of baggage. Few of us would use such words to describe ourselves. When we hear vulnerable, we associate it with weak, helpless, at risk, and defenseless. To be pure in heart is to disregard those connotations. We can move to a place where we act, speak, and live from our hearts. I have not reached a point where I do this gladly, but I can do it with great hope.

I have hope, because to be vulnerable is to live in the light wants — even if it leaves me exposed and vulnerable. This requires daily diligence. I am becoming. I am actively working to become a Christian, a Lutheran, and a fuller, better version of myself. I am becoming a wife, mother, daughter, sister. This journey would be boring if I were already finished. How dull I would be if the person I will become were limited to my imagination.

Poet Theodore Roethke said, "Those who are willing to be vulnerable move among mysteries."

What a reward it would be to be pure in heart. Yet becoming vulnerable is difficult. It goes against our human nature. Our aversion to it begins at a young age, when we fear looking stupid or making mistakes in front of others.

But it is through vulnerability that we learn. Synonyms are exposed, wide open, naked, susceptible, and sensitive. Not bad words, but they carry a lot of baggage. Few of us would use such words to describe ourselves. When we hear vulnerable, we associate it with weak, helpless, at risk, and defenseless. To be pure in heart is to disregard those connotations. We can move to a place where we act, speak, and live from our hearts. I have not reached a point where I do this gladly, but I can do it with great hope.

I have hope, because to be vulnerable is to live in the light of Jesus Christ. I have the light of Jesus Christ inside me. This is my mantra, and it is true. How difficult it would have been for me to type those words 10 years ago; how vulnerable I would have felt. I say my mantra to myself when fear of vulnerability threatens to consume me. I say it aloud on days when I don’t particularly believe it. On my journey, I strive to become worthy of such a gift.

We all possess this gift, the light of Christ. We can train ourselves to listen to God’s call to open ourselves. In doing so, we accept that we are hopping into God’s arms to be carried. We’re not in control. We’re giving in, trusting that God knows the way, even if it is not the way we would have chosen.

Is there something you hold back from because you fear the ridicule of others? Is this fear keeping you from realizing a dream? Helping others? Risking fully? To fulfill the promise of the sixth Beatitude, we can embrace vulnerability and with God’s help become free of self-serving motivations.

Karris Golden writes for Lutheran Woman Today and other ELCA publications. She lives in Waterloo, Iowa, and is a member of Trinity Lutheran church. She is assistant director of communication and marketing at Wartburg College in Waverly, Iowa, an ELCA institution. You can read her article "What is the sound of your faith" at www.boldcafe.org/0407/hottopic.hml