“For behold, the winter is past; the rain is over and gone.” –Song of Songs 2:11 (ESV)
The winter of 2003 arrived bitter and cold. Despite the 15-degree blizzards and drifting snow banks, our home was warm and bubbling over with excitement. Though not planned, our 16-month-old son would soon become a big brother. The three of us cozied up together before our crackling fire, crafting felt ornaments imprinted with cubby toddler handprints. We experimented with baby names, clever monikers for what we were sure would be our second son. Yet, less than three months into the pregnancy, I miscarried.
I was heartbroken. My minister husband felt shattered and alone. Though he experienced the intensity of the loss, Brad didn’t feel free to grieve. He perceived that he simply needed to accept God’s decision in this matter and move on. He pushed forward in ministry, pretending it didn’t hurt, pretending the pain wasn’t eating him alive from the inside. He mulishly pressed ahead, often by sheer will, until one day, this beast decided it would not be held at bay any longer.
Shortly after we lost our son, we struck out on a church-planting adventure. Of course when you step out in faith with God, your weaknesses are tested. As Brad was building a small group ministry at our baby church, he was also teetering over the bleak chasm of depression. About a year into this dark period, Brad was asked to preach a sermon series on God’s grace.
Lord have mercy. The floodgates were about to open.
“You cannot call it faith if there is no vulnerability or uncertainty." –Brené Brown
My gentle husband entered the stage that day, terrified and alone. During his sermon, he revealed how God was carrying him, kicking and screaming, through the valley of the shadow of the death of our child. In the midst of raw conviction, he communicated how broken and angry he was, but how God’s grace abounded even in this state.
He taught me something remarkable that day. Only in vulnerability can we reflect Christ. We show others how God’s grace is gently, or not-so-gently, shaping us. In this naked state, we can become great leaders.
1. Vulnerability removes pretense.
Growing up, I was taught that pain was mental. I believed the lie that, to be great leaders, we must be stronger than those who follow. Nothing could be further from the truth. We want others to see us as invincible, so we pretend pain doesn’t faze us. But pain is simply the heart’s way of saying something is wrong—or sometimes, that something is in the process of healing. Vulnerability allows others to see how God is working. Brené Brown, social researcher at the University of Huston, says, “You cannot call it faith if there is no vulnerability or uncertainty. If you have all the answers, then don’t call what you do faith.”
2. Vulnerability establishes original identity.
I love superhero stories. The hero always suffers a tragedy, and despite incredible odds, rises above the brokenness to become a hero. The origin story becomes part of the superhero’s identity. Each of us is gifted with a story of suffering that originates in God’s sacrifice on the cross. When we own this suffering and identify with Christ’s pain, rejection, and loss, we glorify God rather than shame. When we own the pain, we give our faith momentum.
3. Vulnerability creates connection.
Suffering is common to the human condition. By sharing our stories, we find authentic connections with others. People want to follow leaders who embrace that humanity, who acknowledge the power of pain and the greater power of God’s grace.
When my husband staggered off that stage, his perceptions shifted. A person came up to him after the service and enthusiastically shook his hand. This person said, “Your sermon gave me comfort today. It helped me realize my pastor could relate to what I am going through.”
My husband had stumbled upon the unexpected freedom of vulnerability. He no longer needed to feign strength. Instead he allowed God’s power to be resilient in his weakness. He encountered brokenness, but then he experienced God’s healing. He was no longer alone. His vulnerability allowed connections to foster with the people he was leading like never before. In that moment of defenselessness my husband became a great leader. The winter had passed, and his openness had ushered in the spring of new faith.
Sabrena Klausman has served more than 16 years as a pastor’s wife, church planter, and curriculum writer. She and her husband co-founded a nonprofit organization, Faceless Productions, Inc., which specializes in church curriculum and leadership training. She is the author of Zombie Christian (Tate, 2014).
