Vulnerability in the North Woods
Matthew 18: 1-4 (NRSV): “At that time the disciples came to Jesus and asked, ‘Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?’ He called a child, whom he put among them, and said, ‘Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever becomes humble like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me.’”
Hi! My name is Dan, and I’m a canoe guide this summer.
Tonight, I’m going to talk a little bit about vulnerability.
In her book Daring Greatly, Brené Brown defines vulnerability as “uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure.” Although many in Anglo American cultures associate vulnerability with emotions they want to avoid like fear, pain, or weakness, Brown argues that people who are vulnerable in front of others experience closer, more intimate relationships. According to Brown, vulnerability can be “the birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy, and creativity.”
As wonderful as all of that sounds on the page— and with respect to Dr. Brown—I still run hard and fast away from real-life moments of vulnerability. Transitions, new schools, new jobs, new people—vulnerability stinks! It’s terrifying. Horribly uncomfortable. It defies all instincts toward survival and self-preservation. Perhaps tragically, vulnerabilities are usually the first things I look for in others and the last thing I want to share about myself.
But tonight, I want to challenge us to reinterpret vulnerability; to think about it not as something to fear and to hold inside, but rather as something to embrace and to let out into the world. Vulnerability is a gift. Moments of vulnerability give rise to close relationships. They literally drive community. And whether you’re on base or on trail, visiting for a week or the whole summer, I’d bet money that you will be presented with the terrifying gift of vulnerability. Not the artificial share-a-story-about-your-past-so-we-can-get-to-know-you-a-little-bit crap, but real, breathtaking, inescapable vulnerability. The kind that makes your toes curl and your stomach turn over; that makes you feel small and insignificant and unworthy.
How many of us traveled up to Wilderness wondering if we weren’t strong enough, smart enough, kind enough, patient enough, experienced enough to be here? And you know what? You’re probably not. You’ll probably fail. And honestly, I hope you do, because I think that’s one of the reasons why we’re here on this earth. To be less than sufficient for the tasks that we’re called to do. To struggle and fail and call out for help in frustration and embarrassment.
This is my third summer at Wilderness, but my fourteenth on the Gunflint Trail. I grew up at a canoe outfitters just a few miles south of here, and when I stop to think about it, I realize that my life on the Gunflint is littered with moments of vulnerability. From throwing a tantrum that echoed across Seagull Lake as I clung desperately to the rock wall, halfway up the Palisades, far too prideful back down but unwilling to accept that the route I wanted to climb would take me dangerously far from the center belaying rope, to sitting at the end of my driveway surrounded by volunteer fire fighters who could do nothing but watch with me as the billowing smoke from the Ham Lake Fire changed color, believing wholeheartedly that my house and home and life were burning up right in front of my eyes, there’s something about being up here that practically breeds vulnerability. Obviously, I made it down off the Palisades, and we at Tuscarora got lucky with that fire, but if you think the vulnerability goes away with age, you’d be wrong.
Indeed, on my first day at Wilderness two years ago, I was introduced to Kris, my fellow maintenence worker. He brought all of his own tools (Dewalt), and in the first week on the job, I saw him completely rebuild an outboard motor, replace the starter in the camp 4×4 Ranger, turn on the water for a finicky cabin, and diagnose and repair 3 different cars. Kris was clearly meant for this job, and when I asked him about it, he shrugged and mumbled something about his dad being a carpenter and general handyman. I nodded, and then thought to myself, “my Dad’s was a carpenter too. I think he even has his plumber’s and electrician’s licenses. Some of that must have rubbed off on me, right?”
Wrong. At some point during most days of that summer, I felt like a hack. How are you supposed to lead a work crew when it seems like they know more about using the table saw than you do? How about when you’re told to build a picnic table the next day so you get up an hour before First Word to study the already-made picnic tables as models and you measure every side like ten times and produce several to-scale drawings in your little notebook and you’re so careful when you cut every board and drive every screw and then you turn the finished product over and it looks a little funny. But you tell yourself it’s ok, it must be ok, because you checked everything dozens of times. So you try to sit on it and your knees don’t really fit and then you realize that the table feels like those squat little plastic red-and-yellow tables that they sell for toddlers, and for the love of God, you just can’t seem to figure out how you screwed up the angles on the benches! Or how about when your boss Bill tells you over and over that you only have 12 sheet metal caps for the yurt and no extras so you need to be really, really careful and not damage a single one, and you pick the first one up so gently and you walk it over so gingerly and when you go to hand it up to him a gust of wind comes in and bends the cap right in half in your hands?!
It was really hard to come from the family outfitters where I was the resident pro to Wilderness Canoe Base where I was the lowly, struggling maintenance man. I’m still not much of a carpenter, but I learned how to ask for help. To admit that I didn’t know, even to the people that I was supposed to be teaching and protecting. To depend wholeheartedly on the skills of those around me, and to appreciate their grace and patience when I failed.
In the passage from Matthew that we just heard, the disciples are bickering amongst themselves. They go to Jesus and ask him to identify the greatest in the kingdom of heaven, and Jesus calls over a humble child. What a beautiful, astounding representation of vulnerability. If it’s easy for me to “play expert,” to hide behind my sunglasses and mustache and medpack, to stay quiet and let people assume that I know the answer, it should be just as easy to become like a child, to embrace and broadcast my vulnerabilities. How lucky am I to have the opportunity to screw up a few picnic tables and bend a few angle caps, to call out for help and to lean on the folks around me! I’m Dan and I still bite my fingernails. I got turned around and missed the portage into Alpine last year after TWENTY years of paddling Seagull Lake! I can’t for the life of me remember what order I’m supposed to attach the battery cables when I’m jump-starting a car. And I urge each of you to embrace the gift of vulnerability; to become like children, struggling and failing and building community with enthusiasm. I know I’ll be right there, failing beside you. Welcome to Wilderness.