Appearance Versus Reality
All right, I’m a little late to the game, but I finally watched K-Pop: Demon Hunters. I couldn’t help it. I mean Korean pop stars fighting demons? Pretty enticing. Turns out, though, the movie has a greater depth than the title suggests. The main protagonist, Rumi, revealed her inner secret: shame.
The Fear of Being Seen
Much like Elsa in Frozen, Rumi reveals to the viewer that she carries a “pattern.” This pattern marks her identity as one of the “demons,” the very things she hunts. Demons in this movie don’t exactly line up with our Catholic understanding of demons. They are a mix between damned souls and meddling ghosts. This secret, if discovered, would render her life’s mission pointless and lead to her being rejected by those she loves. Mission and relationship are on the line, or so she believes.
A recurring question runs through the movie:
“Can you face your shame on the road to transformation, or will you hide it and let it destroy you?”
Such is the case for many of us—we put ourselves in a bind. We often think that the revelation of our shame would undo us. “I can’t believe how selfish my thoughts really are; I really am a bad person.” “If I knew me, I’d hate me!” “If my wife knew about my past, she’d leave me.”
These questions and dilemmas haunt our very core. So painful is the thought of rejection that we put up all sorts of psychological safeguards to keep our shame nice and cozy deep inside. Best not poke the bear, just bury him in a perpetual hibernation.
The ironic thing is that when we spend so much time and energy running or hiding from our shame, we actually reduce ourselves to more deeply identify with it. In other words, when we run from the pain, we end up being consumed by it.
Is There a Healthy Version of Shame?
Let’s call in Saint John Paul II to help us understand a Catholic notion of shame. Shame functions both as a pitfall and a road sign. It serves as something that can separate us and as a sign of our dignity.
Shame didn’t exist before the Fall. In Eden, we walked with God “in the breeze of the morning.” But when sin entered the world, shame followed. Shame can be understood in more than one way. It isn’t just I did something wrong—it’s that something is wrong with me.
As John Paul II observed in his 1979 catechesis on original nakedness, “in the experience of shame, the human being experiences fear with regard to his ‘second self.’ This is particularly clear in the relationship between man and woman” (Theology of the Body, General Audience, December 19, 1979, §3).*
That feeling led Adam and Eve to hide themselves from each other and from God, just as our own shame leads us to hide our wounds from others and from Him.
God’s Response: Clothing, Not Condemnation
What does God do in response to His children hiding? He gives them fig leaves to cover themselves. He clothes them in comfortable clothing so they can return to relationship with Him.
What wonderful news! How much we all suffer from the fear of rejection and criticism! When we do something wrong, we expect anger and pain in return. We expect a beating or a scolding. And yet, God gives us the opportunity to meet Him where we are.
But, you may protest, what about the consequences? God exiled Adam and Eve from the garden! Fair enough. Our sins are met with mercy, but they are met with justice as well. However, as is the case with our good Father, even the justice serves as a vehicle back to relationship with Him.
The exile from the garden was not a permanent separation from God but a journey from sin to reconciliation, from fallenness to redemption.
The Wounded Human Condition
A gift I have in my role as a Catholic mentor is that I get a daily front row seat to the reality that we all have wounds. There is not a living soul who is unaffected by concupiscence. I can attest, both as a clinician and through my own patterns, that running from our wounds simply prolongs the suffering.
Yes, it is true, we have an enemy—real demons who oppose us—but we also carry inner wounds that those demons exploit. And that distinction matters:
We are called to reject and fight the demons, while embracing the wounds at the same time.
When we fail to do that, we become disintegrated. We start to hate parts of ourselves, and our inner world fractures.
Fighting Demons or Hiding Wounds
We spend much of life “fighting our demons,” turning our gaze from that which is shameful toward that which is good. That’s not a bad thing when done in union with Christ. But Christ tells us not to hide. He, who is one with the Father, also holds open the door for relationship. There is no longer enmity between us and God—for Christ Himself is our peace, the One who breaks down the dividing wall of hostility (Ephesians 2:14–16).
This truth is veiled for us, though. Often, we look for other ways to protect ourselves and others from our inner wounds. We exile parts of ourselves, believing that we cannot be seen fully. We hide.
Just as God gave fig leaves to Adam and Eve, He does the same for us. Only we—as the Body of Christ—can be be the proverbial leaves for the wounded. We can create an environment where others can enter back into relationship with God. But what does that look like? How can we be a clothes fitter as God the Father is, as Christ is?
As is the case with most things, it starts with you—individually, as a person. Echoing Pope Benedict’s reminder that “you were not made for mediocrity,” we must be brave enough to face our wounds. We must be brave and step out from behind the guard of hiddenness. In a word, we need to be vulnerable.
Your façade will only hide you for so long—maybe even your whole life here on earth—but it will be dissolved at the final judgment. Better to work through our purgation here on earth than in purgatory.
If we can be vulnerable here—with our spouse, with our friends, with our parish communities—we will become models of vulnerability for others. Vulnerability elicits compassion in healthy people. If vulnerability elicits anything else from someone, it is not you that’s the problem, but rather the woundedness of another.
And when others feel more comfortable sharing their woundedness, it gives them the opportunity to be met not as the parts they want to present, but as they truly are.
Instead of being shamed for her secret, once it was revealed, Rumi received an unambiguous embrace of her goodness from her friends and love interest. These acts of empathy and compassion empower Rumi to overcome the temptation presented by shame.
Christ, the True Healer of Shame
For us, Christ is the answer. Through Him, we learn to view ourselves and others with mercy, compassion, gentleness, and peace.
Rumi’s journey reminds us of our own. She fights to conceal her darkness, believing that if her secret were known, she would be unlovable and her mission would lose meaning. We do the same—covering, performing, protecting, and pretending—forgetting that Christ doesn’t wait for us to be perfect before entering our story.
Like Rumi, each of us must face the moment when hiding no longer works. Also like Rumi, we need not fight our battles alone. In the final climatic scene, Rumi, almost taken over by her demon, empowered by her friends embrace, given hope by her love interest, and by an interior act of the will, chooses to come out of hiding. In a mighty final act, she takes down the big baddie and restores harmony to her city.
We need not hide in shame anymore. Instead, we can reach out in vulnerability—offering and receiving accompaniment in Christ, who enters even the places we fear most and calls them His own.