So that’s me telling a story, in front of at least two hundred people. The spotlight was blinding. It felt like being alone and watched at the same time. In other words, vulnerable.

I had attended a Stoop Storytelling event two months prior in the same venue, The Senator; a large, old-school movie theater. That night, listening to stories, feeling the reciprocity between one storyteller and a room full of strangers, I thought, “this is its own kind of glorious church.” 

Storytelling is making a comeback because we are longing for real connection in our divided world. Reality TV doesn’t cut it because, as we all know, it isn’t real. It tries to manufacture and manipulate connection. Storytelling generates it. We are wired to resonate with the shared feelings underneath our varied experiences. Which is why being with friends and strangers listening to one person reveal who they are feels sacred.

If “church” did more storytelling and less telling people what to believe, well, I think churches would be packed. It’s how church got started in the first place.

I digress. Anyway, after seeing the Stoop event, I reached out to co-founder Laura Wexler to learn about her storytelling workshops (it’s a dream of mine to host a storytelling event at my church.) In the course of our conversation she asked if I’d like to share a story for their upcoming holiday-themed night which was three weeks away.  I said yes without any idea what story that would be.

Pretty quickly, I knew. I wanted to tell a story about struggling during the holidays. When what is happening in our life makes it feel anything but the most wonderful time of the year.

I have plenty of those experiences, we all do. But they are hard to talk about, which is why it is good for us to talk about them. It’s good to revisit those stories for our self and to share them with others, because it is healing. For ourselves and for those who need to hear it.

My story was around a moment of personal prayer during a Christmas Eve service I presided at several years ago. A day that would be my last Christmas, married. A day that would be our last Christmas as a family. A day that would mark the end of a series of days filled with pretending we were something we weren’t. Days counting down until the day in the new year, when I would have to start telling people, specifically the people at my church, that I would be getting divorced.

A week before the big night, us storytellers had a run-through. I literally ran through my story. We had seven minutes. I told it in four.

For my feedback, another storyteller suggested, “You need to be more vulnerable. Do you know what I mean?”

Do I? Ha! Yes, vulnerability is what I’m “certified” to teach! You’ve got to love the divine irony of the Universe. She is such a comedian.

Teachers teach what they love and need to learn and relearn. Just like preachers preach what they need to hear. When I teach, I remind participants many times what I need to remind myself. Vulnerability never goes away. It isn’t something we become aware of and then learn how to turn off. We are always vulnerable. And when we want to dare greatly, we are especially so.

So, in those moments we say, “Hi vulnerability! Welcome back.” We see it, befriend it, lean into it. We name what it is we are afraid of (i.e. being exposed, being seen as weak, being known for who we actually are, etc.).

In my case, it was the shame I felt, back then, for getting divorced, not making my marriage work. The shame I felt as a priest getting divorced, believing I was disappointing people and “tainted,” not worthy to do what I believe I was called to do.

When we armor up, as Brené Brown says, we try and divorce our self from those feelings. It doesn’t work, they don’t go away. They come out in a different context and conflict. To revisit our stories of when we felt shame is to be our own healer. To re-examine is to eventually rewrite the story and integrate what we learn. So when the feelings happens again, we can respond differently.

To do that, we befriend vulnerability. We rumble with the grief, sadness, hurt that lies underneath. That is the part of the story people connect with and it was the part I wasn’t sharing in the run-through.

Eventually I got there, by really telling the story of what getting through those difficult days felt like. And how it all came to a head, in my head, that Christmas Eve night in my prayer to God.

You can listen to the story. But, spoiler alert, I drop an F-bomb. It was a deliberate move that I debated beforehand and trusted my gut in the moment.  I know not everyone approves. That’s ok. I can’t please everyone. It was honest.

Taboo words can hide taboo feelings. And that’s why I used it. It helped me be honest and people need to see that. See a priest who isn’t afraid of taboo words, or getting mad at God, or getting divorced.

Because I know someone that night was struggling with a taboo story of their own. And maybe hearing my story helped. There have been so many times hearing someone else’s story has helped me. Remember my friend we are meant to revisit our stories, especially the hard ones. We are our own healers and we bring healing to others when we dare to lean into vulnerability and examine in the light, what we mistakenly believe we should keep in the dark. That’s where shame hides.

Vulnerability is the birthplace of love, joy, belonging and worthiness. It’s the beginning of becoming who we are created to be.