A pastor once asked me and another person to coordinate an RCIA program.  Ruth, an older woman faithfully attending our sessions in preparation for baptism, used to speak so softly we could hardly understand her, as though apologizing for having lips, and just wanting to disappear into the upholstery of the chair.  

My co-leader Don said to me one evening: “I wonder who hurt Ruth so much that she’s filled with shame and can’t look people in the eye or speak audibly.”

Since then, I’ve learned how laden most of us are with shame, the kind that wraps you in its invisible sticky cloak and keeps you tucked away, too monstrous to be seen.  As Frankenstein’s monster said to the blind man who asked why people ran away from him: “It’s because I’m so ugly.” 

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We know from Scripture and Church teaching that nobody is created monstrous.  We’re created in God’s image, but what does that mean?  Why do many feel embarrassed about themselves? Why are we at such pains to cover our nakedness?  

There’s a reason.  Shame is a temptation that makes sense because we’ve been wounded in our nature. Our sense that there’s something awry in us isn’t an illusion, or psychological illness.  We’ve been disfigured by sin, and must feel the consequences.  The theological mistake is to conclude that through sin, we lose God’s image in us.  This gift is never taken away. Even tarnished and torn, it isn’t obliterated.  

We humans are adept at creating little inner cloaks to protect us from being seen.  When we’re hurt and afraid to show it, we want to  cover that can quickly become armour.  Eventually we become so swathed and swaddled we can barely be glimpsed. We’re protected, but oh so lonely and sad.  

When others meet us, they’re meeting a masterful suit of armour.  They might be fooled by a shiny exterior, alarmed by a belligerent one, or repulsed by a damaged one. Such is the plight of the human being lost and burdened by shame. It’s the plight of the hiding human race. “Where are you, Adam?” calls the Lord, missing their evening walk in the garden He made for His beloved.  Where are we?

Here we are, on the roadway outside Paradise, where thorns and thistles tear at us, ashamed of ourselves.  Shame can be healthy in our disfigurement, arousing unpleasant sensations that prick at us and tell us we’re acting in ways unworthy of our divine calling.  But there’s a shame that’s poisonous (like the serpent’s false promises), because based on a lie. It’s that we’re fundamentally lacking the good in us, and irredeemable. This lie has been exposed by the Cross. 

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On it, Christ covers our nakedness. Being stripped naked and dying for us, He does something to our disfigured nature. Grace works on human nature, which has been disfigured and wounded, but remains always God’s image.  

There’s a profound dignity in the human being that’s never lost, though it’s wounded and can be tricked into thinking it’s a monster. 

Because of the Incarnation, through the realism of the sacraments, and in faith-based work such as counselling, we can help each other re-member and act on that dignity.  It’s why St. Paul can pray that we “be strengthened with power through his Spirit in the inner self.”

In truth, we’re clothed in God’s mercy.  Discovering so brings joy and relief. Yet it can be hard to accept. Would we rather rely on ourselves alone, and stay in our miserable prisons?  Do we want to feel good, or become ourselves?  How difficult it can be, even in prayer, to really show up.  We prefer to get our best clothes on and tell God what we think he wants to hear. 

And yet, in the depths of this terrible predicament of ours, a look, a touch, a word, can expose the lie and reveal again the truth of the Cross: “He loves each one of us as if there were only one of us.” (St. Augustine). We’re redeemable, and redeemed.

Don’s caring look raised Ruth’s eyes as we continued our evening sessions.  When she looked up, a sparkle was in her brown eyes. Through that fall and winter, she responded to his warmth. The rest of the group did too through glimpses of her beauty. She never spoke much above a whisper, but when she was baptized at the Easter vigil, her face shone like the light of the Paschal candle.

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