What becomes of the stone-catchers?

(Fierce) Vulnerability as an invitation to transformation

Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial, Washington, DC

In his book Just Mercy, Bryan Stevenson recalls the biblical parable in which Jesus intervenes to save a woman from being stoned by saying “let he without sin cast the first stone.” His comment had the intended impact: the Pharisees were “convicted by their own conscience” to put down their stones.

Today, however, in a time of heightened fear, trauma, and polarization, he observes that we cannot rely on people to put down their stones, to trust that they have the necessary capacity for self-awareness. But nor can we allow someone to be stoned. What is needed is something incredibly difficult: people to intervene, to step into the fray, and catch the stones. He explains:

Some of us actually have to position ourselves in front of the condemned… And we have to catch those stones…I want to catch them because I don’t want them to be battered and beaten and destroyed by this unjust anger and violence. But I also want to catch them to give those who cast the stones an opportunity for one more chance. To hear what we are supposed to hear; to be called to what we’re supposed to be called to, which is not condemnation and judgment, but to justice and mercy.

This is not a role for everyone. To step into the line of fire is not for the faint of heart. But I think Bryan is right: we desperately need stone catchers in this moment. People who can intervene on the side of justice both to prevent harm… AND to invite the transformation of those who would throw the stones. As Mia Birdsong notes:

Truly preventing harm means that we have to support the transformation of those who perpetrate it.

Today I want to talk about the burden of the stone catcher, and what vulnerability asks of us. Here’s what I’m slowly trying to learn:

TL;DR: Some of us are called to be stone catchers: to intervene in the face of harm both to prevent that harm… and to invite the perpetrator into transformation. That work can be lonely… and painful. Acknowledging and showing that pain is an act of vulnerability… and that vulnerability, if we can express it, is the invitation to transformation. We must be discerning about how much vulnerability we show, and to whom… and allow ourselves to be held and supported in this work by those who love us. I want to strive for what Kazu Haga calls “fierce vulnerability.” Fiercely protective of what I love: defending those who would be stoned. And vulnerable: open to seeing the humanity of the stone throwers, to the possibility of their (our!) mutual transformation.

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“Be the bridge”

During my psychedelic plant medicine journey last year, I heard a repeated refrain as I sought guidance from the Earth on my role in the world: “be the bridge.”

I’ve long-identified with the role of the “bridger,” the mediator, the one seeking to reconnect, to transcend binaries, to find the “both/and.” john a. powell of the Othering & Belonging Institute has popularized the concept of “bridging” in recent years, inviting us to “bridge” to hear the perspective of the “other,” to create the possibility of connection. This conception of bridging is between me and you, between us and them: bridges connect two points, and are built from both sides.

But there is another conception that involves the bridge itself. Where the act of bridging isn’t from one side to the other, but extending from the middle to connect the points. To intercede. To mediate. That role is essential… and can be painful.

This is the concept of bridging that bell hooks had in mind when she observed that bridges are made to be walked on… and that Gloria Anzaldúa and Cherrie Moraga invoked in their classic anthology This Bridge Called My Back. Gloria explains the role of the bridger (in her case, speaking of radical women of color):

Liminality, the in-between space of nepantla, is the space most of us occupy. We do not inhabit un mundo but many… we must become nepantleras and build bridges between all these worlds as we traffic back and forth between them…

It is risky to venture outside the confines of our color, class, gender and sexuality, as it is to make alliances with others who do not fit into the categories of our self-identity. One of the biggest risks is isolation from the group with which we identify.

It is this latter conception that I felt called to on my journey: to step into that middle space. To catch the stones. To invite others to connect across the bridge that is my body.

This feels core to my lifework, and already a deep commitment I’ve carried since childhood. To repair: to create and hold the space for transformation. To intercede to transform violence. I tell myself that I can: I am large. I can carry a lot of weight. And I have unearned advantage in the form of my privileged identities: isn’t this a good use of them, to put them in service of those whom dominant culture would destroy?

Catching stones is painful work

But it’s exhausting work, and painful. When I step into the fray, I can become the target: the stones are now aimed at me. And unlike in the biblical parable, in my work the stones are being thrown from both sides: it’s impossible to fully protect myself.

My capacity for empathy is great: I try not to take it personally. I see the trauma that is behind the stone throwers; I recognize that hurt people hurt people. I can see their humanity.

But they can’t see mine. If they could, they would put down their stones. So my pain increases as they continue to throw stones; it becomes harder not to take it personally.

I have a deep commitment to not giving up, to perseverance, to refusing to capitulate to systems of oppression. And yet over the last week I’ve had three different experiences from three different parts of my life that have made me feel, in a deeper way perhaps than I’ve ever allowed myself to: sometimes the stones simply hurt. I heard that wounded piece of myself that I have so often ignored calling for reprieve, telling me: sometimes it’s too much to bear; it’s too painful to continue on.

I allowed myself—possibly for the first time in my entire life—to acknowledge the somatic impulse to curl into the fetal position and just say fuck it. I can’t take it anymore. I recalled this line that resonated with me:

And another piece of myself resisting that call: no. Do not collapse. We can’t afford to; we must soldier on (we, the many pieces of my multitudinal self in dialogue). I have watched friends be pulled down and destroyed in this work: by cancel culture, by the weight of our collective trauma… I can’t allow that to happen to me. I have to take care of myself.

The transformative potential of vulnerability

But damnit… I don’t want to shut out my feeling self. As part of my new declaration to “repair the ruptures of patriarchy” I made a commitment to myself to feel my feelings… and to try to share them with others. I want to be seen for the flawed and imperfect person that I am, doing my best to heal and to be part of the transformation our world so urgently needs. Sometimes I just want to be held.

But I feel stuck: I sense at some level that to allow myself to feel how much it hurts is to collapse, to suffer a mortal wound from which I might not recover. Better to let the stones bounce off then to acknowledge how much they hurt. But if I don’t let myself feel, then I’m both violating my commitment to myself and inadvertently disconnecting from others. I’m read as invulnerable… in other words, not fully human.

I brought this dilemma to my somatic therapist last week, and she offered an observation: perhaps they keep throwing their stones because they don’t see that you are hurting? She went further: perhaps, if I allowed them to see my pain, they might not throw as many stones? Perhaps showing my pain is one way of showing my humanity? Of allowing myself to be seen?

Initially I resisted: how could they not see that I am hurting?! I’m getting pelted with stones! But I allowed her point to land: it’s true that I don’t often allow others to see my pain, to acknowledge the impact. A friend once remarked with some incredulity about a particularly painful public episode in my life, “how were you not affected by that?” I was surprised: what do you mean? Of course I was affected: I am human. But I hadn’t let her see that; I did what I have always done: I soldiered on. 

Oh. Damn.

This landed: it’s easier to throw a rock at a police officer clad in full riot gear, helmet, baton and shield than it is to throw a rock at someone unarmed and unprotected. It is easier to attack a symbol (me as a white man seen as the embodiment of white supremacy and patriarchy) than a person. To see someone disarmed is… disarming.

Indeed, sometimes witnessing someone else’s pain is what transforms the conflict. I have been thinking a lot lately of the 1984 classic Miyazaki film Nausicaa: Valley of the Wind, where the titular character is trying to save an injured creature: intervening between two warring parties to prevent disaster. Her efforts are ineffective: the creature is so blinded by its own pain that it lashes out and injures Nausicaa. Even then Nausicaa persists in her efforts… and only when the creature is finally able to sense Nausicaa’s pain, and understand that Nausicaa endured that pain to help the creature from a place of love… does it soften and the conflict is transformed.

This is what nonviolence asks us of us. To stand in the middle while the stones are being thrown, to witness the humanity of the throwers, and to remind and invite them: you are only frightened. Put down your stones. (Hat tip for this framing to this gorgeous essay by Jerrine Tan exploring the radical nonviolence of Nausicaa).

Then to feel the pain when the rocks hit, and to stay in the middle. To allow the stone throwers to see the pain I am feeling… the pain they are causing.

Finding the courage to feel

It feels incredibly risky. I’ve previously talked about one quality of leadership as the act of unilateral disarmament (particularly for those of us with privileged identities); this is more than that. This is about intentionally letting down my guard. Dropping the shield; leaving myself open to pain. Letting them see that I too am a person. What if they don’t see, or don’t see in time? Will I too collapse under the onslaught? 

This is the definition of vulnerability I’m holding on to here: Gabor Mate’s reminder that etymologically vulnerable means “open to being wounded.”

Yet I’m intrigued by the possibility. It feels true in my body and my experience that showing softness can invite reciprocal de-escalation. And I like the idea that I have agency, that the invitation to transformation starts with me. I don’t have to wait for them to put down their stones… I can still choose softness. I don’t like my invulnerability: I experience it as a barrier to connection; it blocks me from accessing my compassion. It takes so much energy to protect myself from the stones that I find it hard to show the stone throwers my care.

I can still put down my shield. This, actually, is what I yearn for. My goal is not only to protect the person being stoned; I want to invite the thrower to choose to put down the stone. What might it feel like to allow more softness in the face of stones? What might it feel like to allow myself to acknowledge what I know to be true: that this work is hard, and heavy, and sometimes it’s more than I can bear?

As I tentatively allowed my body—in a supportive space held by my therapist—to lean into the impulse to curl up… I realized that I wasn’t actually afraid of collapse. My roots run deep: I am strong enough now to withstand the gales without toppling. I have no doubt that I will get back up. Failure is not an option. My roots are connected to the Earth, and the Earth is always there for me, a renewable source of resilience. She will not let me down; she never has.

And: my roots are intertwined with those of others. I am not catching stones alone: I have community. No man is an island; no redwood stands alone. I have people who do see me, and love me. Who want to show up for me… if I let them. What I need in these moments when it all feels like too much… is to be held. The refrain that came to me in therapy, what my wounded self wants to say: can I have a hug?

What if I allow myself to see that there are people around me who will not let me collapse, who will not let me be stoned? What if I have my own stone catchers? What if they feel the way I feel… that we will not allow each other to be destroyed by injustice? I’m reminded of this scene from the West Wing, which still gives me chills:

Listening to my resistance

I’m ready to practice more softness. Indeed, it feels like the only way to be in integrity with my commitments. I want to feel; I want others to feel me. I want to transform violence; only nonviolence can do that. I want people to feel my love… which means I have to let them feel my pain. Here’s Gloria again, in the foreword to the 20th anniversary edition of This Bridge Called My Back:

We must be motivated by love in order to undertake change—love of self, love of people, love of life. Loving gives us the energy and compassion to act in the face of hardship; loving gives us the motivation to dream the life and work we want.

But it won’t be easy. Nonviolence in the face of violence never is. The stones will hurt. Nausicca did get wounded. But even before I face the stones out in the world, I have to overcome my own resistance: reach an agreement with the parts of myself that tell me I’m crazy for even considering taking off my armor. Here is what those parts are telling me, with wisdom gleaned from hard and painful experience:

1. To show vulnerability is to invite punishment. This is the wounding of growing up as a boy under patriarchy: don’t be a sissy. Toughen up. Don’t cry. Be a man. Not only did showing my feelings not elicit the response I was needing (nourishment in the form of a hug or the expression of care), it invited the opposite of that: punishment, turning away, callousness.

2. To show vulnerability is to provoke fear in others. I think there are two aspects here. One is a feeling of scarcity: if they have to hold space for my feelings, they fear there won’t be enough collective care left over to hold space for their feelings. It feels zero sum: to care for my needs is to abandon theirs; mine are threatening, and must be denied or shut down. I don’t have a right to take up space. The second aspect is not knowing how to handle it (this is a particularly gendered dynamic under patriarchy, where men can’t show vulnerability to women for fear that they won’t be able to hold it). I’m reminded of this scene from the Departed (and yes, I tend to access and recognize my feelings by noting my resonance with scenes from movies… hey, at least it’s something!):

3. To ask for care can provoke guilt/shame, and actually add to my emotional burden. Again, I think there are at least two elements here. One is a version of the DARVO response: they feel guilt/shame at being perceived as the cause of my hurt, and instead of holding space for my feelings put it back on me. How dare you make me feel bad! The second is that witnessing my vulnerability can provoke their shame for having suppressed their own vulnerability; it can be confronting to exiled pieces of themselves, and they can lash back out. In both cases the result is that not only do I not have my emotional needs attended to, but I then have the added burden of attending to the emotional needs of the other.

4. Taking accountability can be dangerous. Not everyone has yet reached a place of somatic safety to take accountability for their actions: to acknowledge harmful behavior can trigger toxic shame. So if I show a willingness to take accountability for my actions… others can use that as an excuse to offload their responsibility onto me, to avoid looking too closely at their own behavior.

So yeah: practicing feeling (and showing!) vulnerability after a lifetime projecting invulnerability… will be difficult. All of these fears feel present, and real to me. And: I now feel like I can handle them all… with discernment, and support.

Boundaried generosity: fierce vulnerability

There is a balance I’m trying to strike: feel too much and collapse; feel not enough and I contribute to my own dehumanization and lose the potential for transformation. This is where discernment comes in: how much softness to show… and to whom?

Inside myself my feeling practice can be unfiltered: my work is to feel the fullness of my feelings, knowing that I will not collapse.

And with trusted partners to allow myself to be held: it feels revolutionary to relax into the knowledge that I have people in my life who want to show up for me the way I aspire to show up for them, and for others. Which means I can practice receiving care, and love: letting that sustain and resource me when the weight becomes too much, so that I can return to my work. Allowing them to catch stones aimed at me: trusting that they are capable of it. De-armoring there will be hard because it’s new and requires un-learning, but it’s a safe domain of practice: I can trust that I will be held.

It’s a different story putting down my shield and showing softness outside of close relationship, practicing nonviolence in more violent or dangerous contexts. Here discernment is needed about how much to feel… and how much to show. My goal is to let the stone throwers know that I see their humanity… in order that they might see mine… for it is in that mutual witnessing that the potential for transformation exists.

I have fallen into this trap as well: when someone is hurt they need that hurt to be acknowledged; they want to know that I feel them, that I am impacted. If I remain impassive in the face of the onslaught… I can make it worse. They feel unseen in their pain, and can throw the stones even harder.

Paradoxically, then, allowing them to see my pain (and my humanity) is a way of acknowledging and validating theirs. Can I show enough of my pain to allow the possibility of acknowledging our shared humanity… but not so much that it triggers any of the defensive responses I’ve named above?

I think of this as boundary work: deciding what to let in, which stones to let land. Juliane Taylor Shore offers a great metaphor for boundaries that I’ve found helpful, inviting us to think of them like a “jello wall,” a semi-permeable membrane where we interface with the world. She offers two prompts to consider before responding to a stone thrown in our direction:

1. Is it true?

2. Is it about me? (are their big feelings a response to my behavior?)

I’ve gotten quite good at this discernment: this is my commitment to “centered accountability.” But of course in my work for social justice, the answer is nearly always more nuanced. Of the many stones being thrown at me, some are probably true. And some are probably about me. If I dodge or catch them all, I miss an opportunity for growth and learning. If I let them all land, I am crushed under the onslaught.

So I ask a third question: do they care about me? (Are they invested in my growth and well-being?) If so, I can try to stay with softness. If not, I need to proceed with more caution, exercise more discernment, or call for more help.

I aspire instead toward what I think of as boundaried generosity… a concept I adapt from Pat McCabe’s description of the Earth as giving from a place of “fearless generosity and radical abundance.” I feel a need to be more boundaried than the Earth has been: I fear she trusts too much. I hold this vision in dialogue with friend and Building Belonging teammate Kazu Haga’s work (and forthcoming book!) around Fierce Vulnerability. Yes, this is the posture I want to strive for. Fiercely protective of what I love: defending those who would be stoned. And vulnerable: open to seeing the humanity of the stone throwers, to the possibility of their (our!) mutual transformation.

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Thanks for joining me on this process of inquiry; writing for me is always a helpful space in which to process and integrate thoughts and feelings. I’m curious if this resonates for others, particularly for my fellow stone-catchers out there: how do you discern what to let in? When to curl up?

Who cares for the care-givers? I’m slowly learning to accept that care, and to ask for it… but it’s slow unlearning work, and I’m grateful for loving practice partners.

In community,

Brian