Shame, Entanglement, and the Gift of Exposure

“But everything exposed by the light becomes visible—and everything that is illuminated becomes a light.”
— Ephesians 5:13 (NIV)

Shame is a funny thing. It’s more than just feeling bad about something we’ve done. At some point, it starts changing what we believe about ourselves. If people really knew me, would they still love me? Would they respect me? Would they still want me around? And so we hide.

And hiding works. At least for a while.

But eventually we become trapped by the very things we’re trying so hard to keep hidden.

Which is why being exposed feels so terrible. Nobody likes having the things they are most ashamed of dragged into the light. It can feel like everything we were afraid would happen is happening all at once.

But I wonder if exposure can also be a gift.

Because once something is in the light, we don't have to spend so much energy hiding it anymore. We don't have to keep defending ourselves. We don't have to keep pretending that we are somehow less broken than we really are.

I think this connects to what the writer of Hebrews says about “the sin that so easily entangles.”

Why do we get entangled in these things in the first place?

I think a lot of the time we are simply trying to deal with what is happening inside of us. We feel lonely. Afraid. Rejected. Inadequate. Angry. Overwhelmed. Ashamed. Sometimes we don't even know what we're feeling. We just know we don't like it and we want it to stop.

So we do something.

Maybe we withdraw. Maybe we get angry. Maybe we work more. We try to control the people around us. We look for approval. We eat. We drink. We escape into a screen. We pursue sex. We get defensive. We stay busy. We find something that changes how we feel.

And I don't think comforting ourselves is necessarily wrong. We need rest. We need pleasure. We need safety and connection. Sometimes taking care of ourselves is exactly what we need to do.

But there seems to be a pretty fine line between taking care of ourselves and trusting in the things we use to take care of ourselves.

And maybe that's where the entanglement begins.

Most of the things that eventually entangle us probably didn't start with us deciding to wreck our lives. They worked for us in some way.

This makes me feel safe.

This makes me feel in control.

This keeps me from feeling rejected.

This helps me escape.

This makes the pain quiet for a little while.

And because it works, we do it again.

And again.

Until eventually the thing we were using to deal with our pain starts creating pain of its own.

And it never affects only us.

Anger changes a home. Withdrawal creates distance. Control hurts the people we are trying to control. Defensiveness makes it almost impossible for someone to be honest with us. Work can become absence. Sexual behavior can destroy trust.

We may think we are simply managing what is happening inside of us, but the ways we manage our pain inevitably spill over onto the people around us.

Maybe that is part of the tragedy of sin. In trying to take care of ourselves, we end up hurting ourselves and the people around us.

And then shame comes along and makes the whole thing worse.

We look at what we've done. We look at the patterns we've developed and the people we've hurt, and somewhere along the way I did something wrong becomes there is something wrong with me.

So we hide some more.

We defend. We minimize. We blame. We pretend.

And the things we do to protect ourselves from shame end up keeping us trapped in it.

Which brings me back to Ephesians 5.

Maybe that's why the light is a gift.

The light doesn't just expose what we've done. It lets us see what has actually been happening. What have I been reaching for? What have I been trying not to feel? What has it cost me? What has it cost the people around me? And what have I come to believe about myself along the way?

Exposure feels terrible.

But once something has been brought into the light, I don't have to keep hiding it. I don't have to keep defending it. I don't have to keep convincing myself—or everyone else—that I'm not broken.

I can surrender it.

And then God does something with what I surrender.

The broken and bent places of our story don't produce the light. They aren't the light. But somehow, once they have been exposed and surrendered to God, they can become reflective of His light.

The very things I once desperately wanted to hide can become places where someone else sees the grace of God.

The light exposes our brokenness. We surrender what has been exposed. And somehow, by the grace of God, what once brought us shame becomes a place that reflects His light onto others.