To love is to be vulnerable: to hand over your weapons to another, remove your armour.

Crazy. Who does that?


He gave us the keys, the will not to choose him, the knife to wound him. He did not defend himself.

And where did that get him?

In the garden he made for us, alone.

While we hid. And we went into the wilderness to build machines, to survive without him.

We fortified our weakness with iron and steel, shined to a holy gleam.

Our machines are mistake-proof: effective, professional, strong. Clanging, powerful gongs. We give our mechanical monsters many lovely names: church, revival, community. Words, stripped of the power of a vulnerable God.

We surrender our childlikeness to become little pegs in the machine—trading authenticity for professionalism.

Some pegs don’t make it. Too tragically fractured to fake it, not useful or strong enough. The broken ones are tossed aside. Rejects.

And there are pegs that shine, glittering with potential, hiding fault-lines under steel smiles. Led into the dark by beautiful bait—success, acclaim, holiness—until they are alone, easy prey for enemy teeth. Poisoned with pride, frozen with fear: holy on the outside, dead on the inside.

The enemy slithers by, regarding the machine with amused satisfaction. A useful tool. His résumé of divided and conquered families, friendships and fellowships grows long.

The father weeps over his striving lost boys and girls. “It is not good to be alone.”

All it takes is one fragile child to step bravely from the shadows, to hold up a broken key to the light—transparent. To risk to be seen. Expose even hideous faults.

Vulnerability provokes bravery, inspiring another to bare their face in return.

We lift unshielded faces, together, to the glow of Father’s face. His radiance consumes the cracks inside us and between us, transcending, making us pure.

Holiness is not measured in distance, but in closeness. To the Father, and each other.

Kat Selkirk
Kat Selkirk is a nomadic tea enthusiast, Canadian by passport, who found her home in God’s heart. She spent half her childhood in a small Ugandan town, where she developed her passions for nations, tea, dirt (gardening), writing and Jesus. While in University she got hijacked by God’s heart and became an intercessory missionary. She has no current address.