Unspoken

Thoughts on the Evangelical Perpetuation of Shame

Anyone who grew up in the 90’s subculture of evangelical youth groups knows a little something about the “unspoken prayers” stigma. You know, when at the end of a particularly emotional meeting, a youth leader asks for specific prayer requests and kids spew out banal, egocentric (developmentally on brand) hopes and wishes for a win on Tuesday’s game, a date for prom, an A on the test. When crickets have taken over the stuffy room full of too much spray deodorant and Starburst wrappers, the call out for the unspoken prayer requests rings out in the void.

“Does anyone have an unspoken prayer request? You can simply raise your hand and we’ll mention you in prayer.”

Everyone tries not to frantically look around the room to see if Susie raises her hand. If she does, we know what it’s for. Why doesn’t she just say it, for crying out loud?

I am about to make a bold statement that might raise a few hairs, but that seems to be what my 40s is about.

Evangelicals have cornered the market on how to leverage SHAME; which is the catalyst of nearly all of our anxiety. Mine, anyway.

Imagine this. I am sick with the flu, but my kids’ school begins at 8 am. It’s already 7:35 and I can’t even drag myself to the bathroom. I call my neighbor down the block who has kids in the same school.

“Hi” I say tentatively.

“What’s up?” she says.

“I have a request,” I say.

“…….” She waits.

“It’s unspoken.”

What could she possibly do with that? It’s kind of ridiculous, right? Except I’ve found myself holding the phone and never making the call because of the shame. What if she thinks I’m needy? Asking too much? An imposition?

The shame was endless. A CNN ticker at the bottom of my brain. Why can’t you keep up? Why can’t you push harder? Why can’t you produce more? Why can’t you keep the living room clean? The kids schedules straight? Make more money? Be more efficient? Intentional? Eat better? Exercise more?

In 2003 I ran clear out of air in my lungs and didn’t know which way to the surface. I had the stark realization that I was, in fact, <gasp>, not a machine. I was very much human. And very much in trouble. I was 19, a sophomore in college. There was incredible, financial turmoil back home surrounding whether or not I could remain at the very expensive private Christian college I chose to try to make my Dad proud of me. I was in a toxic relationship I couldn’t seem to get out of. I was working three jobs ( one of them the night shift) to attempt to offset the astronomical tuition. I was getting sicker and sicker by the week- and then news of someone I loved’s untimely death sealed the deal. I dropped out of Nyack College in February of 2003 with a debilitating case of mono, a hospitalization-level liver infection, and a completely broken brain.

It took months to work up the nerve to leave my childhood home. It took months after that to get back behind the wheel of a car. My mom had to drive me to the Registrar’s office of our local college to enroll in a class or two that I never made it to. I couldn’t eat or breathe or speak. Everyone was afraid, but me. I couldn’t feel anything at all but the shame.

Some of us were raised believing we were the chosen ones, and by default, we must have a higher-level operating system. The shame of the first breaking was worse than being broken.

I don’t carry any shame at all about that now.

It is hard to admit that I did, once.

For those of us who grew up in the American evangelical whirling dervish, we were taught to be the ones to GIVE the help…not to receive it. Thus…. we all grew up rooted in shame for not being machines. For breaking when pushed too hard. For having mental health issues that need to be addressed in ways that “prayer” and “ faith like a mustard seed” never seemed to fix. ( Eh hem, because we also needed medication.)

I am shattered when I imagine my own children believing that they must “soldier on” alone. I am grateful it is not their story.

These days, I am too much at parties. I give too much information away. I laugh too hard. I make no excuses. I am too candid. I connect too deeply, too quickly. Because I know there’s a Susie in there somewhere, who is swimming in the shame of her own need and I want her to hear me say-

“ XYZ is a struggle for me. Will you just hold it with me a minute?”

Because there’s nothing shame loves more than an unspoken prayer request.