By Alethia Diener

Her makeup was immaculate. Her hair was swept up in a stunning bun, she wore a skirt and classy heels, and as this young mother sat in front of me in church, her straight back and clenched jaw revealed her desire to be The Mom Who Does Things Right And Is In Control. When her toddlers fussed, she grabbed their tiny wrists and wrenched them into silence, smiling apologetically at me. “Stop it,” her husband hissed as he jerked their daughter upright. “Stop crawling all over the floor like a baby. That’s not what the big girls are doing. Look! Everyone else is kneeling. You want to be a big girl, don’t you?” This family seemed afraid that there was no place for their children’s exploration, that this would somehow damage their image of Put-Togetherness.

In contrast, the messy-haired, tired-looking mother who walked into church late wore jeans and a simple sweater. When her toddler wanted to walk up and down the aisle throughout the service, this woman let her wander freely, holding her hand and picking her up to explore the religious art that caught her eye. When she wanted to splash in the holy water, that was allowed. When she waved at me and babbled, there were no apologies: this child was fully welcome to explore the house of God and reach out in innocent love however she wished.

My heart couldn’t help but break for the children in the first family, who would soon subconsciously accept the lie that there is no room for play and wonder in holy places, that God is somehow displeased with the sound of laughter. Yet I have no stones to throw at their mother, because I see myself in her. Many of us, I believe, treat parts of ourselves just as she treats her child. Contrary to popular thought, his self-cruelty is not a badge of holiness, but a lack of spiritual and psychological wellness. The holiest possible lifestyle, that which surrenders the whole self to God, is rooted not in tightfisted discipline but in childlike innocence, exploration, and wonder.

In his book No Bad Parts: Healing Trauma and Restoring Wholeness with the Internal Family Systems Model, psychologist Richard Schwartz explains that we are all made of innately good “parts” which balance and take care of one another. Like an external household, this “internal family” is composed of many different roles (the protector, the playful one, the disciplinarian, the rebel, etc.)—and like a normal family, it can become extremely unhealthy when one part’s role becomes imbalanced. For example, a person may have an inner critic, whose job is enforcing appropriate behavior, but who often shames and damages the person even in its effort to protect. As a result, other parts of the person are “exiled” or locked away. The process of restoring the whole person, then, is “doing in the inner world what Jesus did in the outer”: it is to “go to inner exiles and enemies with love, heal them, and bring them home, just as he did with the lepers, the poor, and the outcasts.” The journey to wholeness is one not of merely stomping out bad habits but of allowing God to enter into every broken part of us—the embarrassing, the silly, the awkward, the needy. All these parts are welcome. They are important parts of who we are, yet most of us keep them imprisoned, terrified that if we free them they will ruin our perfectly pieced-together lifestyle. God invites us instead to take them by the hand and lead them home.

The idea of a homecoming to self is by no means a new one. St. Augustine’s theology of selfhood is consistent with modern psychological research: in his Confessions, he writes: “I was prompted to return into myself, and I entered my inmost core under Your guidance.” Augustine addresses the core longings of his heart, finds that they are all met in God, and runs to Him with his whole self. In his story of interior struggle, he finally recounts a total surrender of his selfishness, lust, and rebellion—not by ignoring or denying these parts of himself, but by bringing them into the light of Christ. Our spiritual and psychological healing must reflect this reality, allowing every part of ourselves to run to the Father.

We cannot very well love our neighbor as ourselves until we love and embrace our whole selves. We cannot fully love God if we do not love His creation, St. Augustine reminds us—and we are His creation. We must take the time to face all the “parts” Richard Schwartz describes.

Holiness never lies in self-cruelty. We are indeed called to purge sin from our lives, but this is best done by looking for the source of destructive patterns and asking God to heal them. In an effort to serve God, we often speak far more cruelly to ourselves than we ever would to others—yet this renders us less productive, less able to bless those around us, and less surrendered to God. A personal story may illustrate this reality. For eight months now, I’ve lived with chronic Lyme disease. My primary physical symptoms are joint swelling and pain (sometimes so bad I can’t move), extreme fatigue, insomnia, and body aches. The mental aspect, however, is much harder: unreasonable terror, loneliness, anxiety, memory fog, and hideous intrusive thoughts. Nine days out of ten, I ignore the needs of my entire being, throw on a nice outfit, plaster on a smile, and live in denial of my chronic illness. In one of his frequent bursts of insight into my pride, my boyfriend asked me: “If we get married and our daughter gets as sick as you are right now, is this how you’re going to treat her?”

His words pierced my heart. How many times do I talk to myself as harshly as those parents in church talked to their little girl? You want to be a big girl, don’t you? I whisper to myself. Well, big girls don’t cry in Saga. Big girls pull it together and go to class, even when they’re sick. Big girls don’t ask for extensions on their term papers. The self-condemnation goes on and on. Yet both ancient theologian St. Augustine and modern psychologist Richard Schwartz point toward a better way, a life of humble honesty with God that welcomes His grace into every part of ourselves–even the pain and weakness. This wholehearted life courageously offers God our five loaves and two small fish. He multiplies what little we have, if we offer it all to Him.

How do we live this wholehearted life? Strange as it may sound, we must take time to play. We must intentionally carve out time to care for ourselves. Like the mother emanating stress, so many of us hurry through life, tense and afraid of falling behind. I don’t have time for counseling, we say to ourselves. I don’t have time to cry out to God. I don’t have time to take a nap. That’s not what the big girls do. The more loving mother, however, walked as slowly and gently with her child as if she had all the time in the world. Somehow, we have to believe we’re worth the time and intentionality that becoming whole requires. We must practice saying “no” to the opportunities that flood our inboxes every day. In her book The Gifts of Imperfection, researcher Brené Brown reports that the most self-reportedly “wholehearted” and fulfilled adults are grounded in their identity rather than their accomplishments, such that asking for help and saying “no” does not threaten them. They do not fear disappointing people. They cultivate play and rest, “letting go of exhaustion as a status symbol and productivity as self-worth.” Psychiatrist Stuart Brown echoes this truth: “The opposite of play is not work—the opposite of play is depression.” He argues that “true play that comes from our own inner needs and desires is the only path to finding lasting joy and satisfaction in our work…work does not work without play.” Statistically, those who play are most in touch with themselves–and those most in touch with themselves are the most open to the touch of God. The Augustinian return to self demands that we surrender our need to impress people, seeking authentic wellness rather than striving to keep up a good image.

The holiest life, then, that of deepest surrender to and intimacy with God, is one of childlike authenticity. St. Augustine’s Confessions connect his journey toward God with a journey toward a fuller realization of himself; other theologians have described the process of sanctification simply as becoming more fully ourselves. Loving the Lord with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength means loving Him with all our broken, fragmented parts. It is to live openly, to unashamedly accept where we are and ask for help when we need it. It is to approach our struggles with curiosity and wonder, much like the child slowly exploring the church–and like her mother, who allowed her weariness to show. This gentleness is not selfish indulgence but an honest assessment of our state, which leads toward an ever deeper surrender. The more authentic we are, the more we are open to God’s touch. A lifestyle of true worship, then, does not shut down the tears, babble, and exploration of a little child, but welcomes these parts home to the heart of God.

Alethia Diener is a sophomore studying theology and theatre. She loves medieval poetry, bright colors, children’s books, and splashing in puddles.