Courage In Vulnerability

I

n the entire New Testament, the word “shameless” appears only once, and when it does, it is presented as a virtue. In Luke 11:5–8, Jesus tells a parable about a man who knocks on his friend’s door at midnight asking for bread. The friend hesitates, but Jesus says that because of the man’s “shamelessness,” he will get up and give him what he needs. Shameless persistence, when rooted in trust, becomes a path to grace.

We see something similar in the Syrophoenician woman. She was, in a sense, shameless—but not in a negative light. She refused to let shame or rejection silence her plea for mercy.

This brings us to the two sides of shame.

There is healthy shame, and there is unhealthy shame. The unhealthy kind leads to self-hate, despair, and self-rejection.

If the woman had unhealthy shame, she might have said to herself, “I do not belong here. I am worthless,” and walked away in self-deprecating silence. If that had happened, we would not have this beautiful Gospel story today.

A healthy sense of shame, in Ignatian language, resembles holy indifference: indifferent to honor or dishonor, not addicted to praise or destroyed by blame. Detachment keeps the heart steady and sober.

The Syrophoenician woman is a beautiful example of this indifference and sobriety. She stands in truth—she knows she is a Gentile, an outsider, with no claim before Jesus. She does not pretend to belong to the covenant people. If we were to put words on her lips, she might say, “I stand here without privilege. I have no merits to present. Yet I rely solely on your mercy for the sake of my daughter.”

In our meditations this week, we reflected on sin and how it unfolds in every human heart. St Ignatius of Loyola invites us to ask for a sense of shame for our sins—but never the kind that destroys us.

When we sin, we may quickly conclude that we are completely rejected—that we have no right to stand before God, that we are utterly unworthy of love, that nothing good remains in us. After committing a sin, one might say, “I am a mistake. I am a failure.” But that is a lie. If you have said this to yourself, it is time that you use the Ignatian virtue of agere contra. It means go against. You must tell that voice, go away, that is a lie.

God does not want us to live in that falsehood. Henri Nouwen reminds us that when we reject ourselves, we contradict the sacred voice that calls us the “Beloved.” Self-rejection then becomes the greatest enemy of the spiritual life.

How does this distortion begin? Often with a wound that seems small but cuts deeply. Perhaps it was the day an exam result declared, “You failed.” Slowly the message shifts from “I failed” to “I am a failure.” But that is the deception. The exam was failed—yes. The person was not. A performance can fail; a person never becomes a failure in his or her very being.

Second lesson: the two types of humility.

In the Bible, dogs are often portrayed negatively, associated with impurity or low status. When the Syrophoenician woman accepts the image of “dogs,” she embraces the lowest place as an act of faith. It is humility that evokes compassion, not pity—and this distinction is crucial.

There is false humility and true humility.

False humility can disguise itself as wounded pride. It can say, “Because I suffer, because I am marginalized, I deserve a miracle.” We can weaponize our deprivation, vulnerability, or exclusion, turning them into a subtle entitlement. When we do not get our way, discouragement follows, even sulking. St Thérèse of Lisieux once said, “Discouragement itself is a form of pride.” It quietly assumes that everything depends on us, and when things fail, we turn inward instead of trusting God.

True humility, however, says, “I do not claim rights before God. Everything is gift. Even crumbs from the Lord are grace.” This is the posture of the Syrophoenician woman. She does not demand. She trusts. And Jesus responds: “For saying this, you may go.” Her humble faith moves His heart.

Third and last point: courage in vulnerability. We go back to the dog. Dogs are not only portrayed being with low status. Dogs are symbols of tenderness.

Pope Francis reminds us that tenderness is the language of the strong—of those who know they need another. It is not weakness; it is strength. "Tenderness is fortitude." It is the path of the courageous. The more power one has, the more one must act with humility and tenderness; otherwise, power intoxicates and destroys.

Now look again at the Syrophoenician woman.

She comes without power, status, or religious privilege. She does not assert rights. She kneels in need. Her vulnerability is not humiliation—it is tenderness. She lowers herself, not into self-contempt, but into trust.

Her tender humility meets the tenderness of Christ. She accepts even the image of “dogs,” yet responds boldly: “Even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” That is faith clothed in humility.

No wonder humility is called the mother of all virtues. Why? I believe because true humility is tenderness, from this every other virtue can grow.

In the end, it is not power that moves the heart of Jesus. It is the Syrophonecian woman’s vulnerable, trusting tenderness. And to such tenderness, He responds not with pity, but with praise and delight: “Great is your faith.”

Summary of the Three Points

Unhealthy shame says, “I am worthless.” Healthy shame says, “I am in need, and I will ask for mercy.” False humility demands; true humility trusts in grace. True strength is tenderness—the courage to kneel before God in trust.

Amen. Fr JM Manzano SJ