Vulnerability, Our Modern-Day Meekness
I struggle with meekness. Not just the acquisition and practice of it, but the idea of aspiring to and emulating it. I feel a tension between wanting to follow Jesus’s examples and how I’ve come to define and experience meekness. And I think what I wrestle with is not the doctrine itself but the way we have shaped this word.
Throughout the King James Version, the word “meek” is used to describe Jesus, Moses, and one of the fruits of the Spirit. Even Jesus describes himself as “meek and lowly in heart” (Matt. 11:29). But other Biblical translations including the New International Version and the Christian Standard Bible use the word “humble” instead. I prefer this word. Humble feels more like a virtue, something even the haughtiest of us can acknowledge.
But even if we replace all meeks with humbles in the KJV, the wording of Mosiah 3:19 makes me think there must be another, more specific definition of the word. In his landmark sermon, King Benjamin declares that to put off our carnal, natural selves and cease being enemies to God, we are to become as children, being “submissive, meek, humble, patient, full of love.” Listed separately, being meek—at least to King Benjamin—seems related to but different from being submissive, humble, and patient.
Modern definitions tie meekness to being “deficient in spirit or courage”—hardly a kingdom-building quality. Let’s call this false meekness “invisibility.” Because when Christ says he is “meek,” the Greek word is praus (πράος) sometimes denoting a controlled strength. Aristotle uses the same word praus in discussing courage, the antithesis of our modern definition. We don’t need to be Greek scholars to appreciate that modern sensibilities don’t always align with words chosen by King James’s translators in seventeenth-century England.
Because language changes over time, I believe an appropriate modern-day translation for Christlike meekness is “vulnerability.” Today, this word delicately captures the potential in all of us for both courage and injury, virtue and fallibility. There is a tension to that word I think is inherent in everyday gospel principles. Consider how a leader in business exhibits vulnerability when she admits to her team that she doesn’t have all the answers and needs their help solving a complex problem. People overcoming addictions show vulnerability in acknowledging their mistakes and weaknesses in public forums. A parent becomes vulnerable telling a child how they made similar mistakes when they were young. A youth approaching a Church leader about a misstep that’s weighing on him makes himself vulnerable, pushing through fears of shame or judgment in order to grow and find peace. I feel vulnerable when I submit an article like this to editors who I know will improve the piece, but who will undoubtedly point out my errors and missed opportunities to have made the essay better. In each of these cases, vulnerability is the risk we take for growth.
If we’re going to counsel with others in religious or secular environments, we must embrace vulnerability. I’ve experienced the false meekness of invisibility and the Christlike meekness of vulnerability in ward and stake councils, and the difference is profound and consequential. I know I’ve made myself invisible in ward and stake councils. I know what it’s like to justify silence by telling myself I’d be intruding on someone else’s stewardship. Or that speaking up might cause contention. Or that my comments might just be banal white noise, so why contribute? But I’ve also seen robust discussions and unexpected solutions emerge when members of ward and stake councils spoke up to call attention to thorny issues. Whether they realized it or not, they were embracing vulnerability by being the first ones to tackle topics others were hesitant to address. In a Church that often prides itself in obedience and order, speaking up can be a challenge.
Several months after I was asked to serve as a bishop, my executive secretary approached me after a ward council. He seemed so nervous and hesitant, I was afraid he was about to confess some great transgression. But he was hoping to advise and even correct me. He pointed out that I spent a good chunk of ward council going around the room asking each individual auxiliary leader to describe what was going on in their stewardship. “I don’t think ward council’s the place for that,” he said. “That’s what your individual interviews are for. I feel like there are better ways to use our time when we’re all together.”
His assessment was accurate and came to me like a light in a dark room. It made perfect sense. There was nothing for me to question. But he was afraid I might take offense at his suggestion. When I sincerely thanked him for pointing out this inefficient use of time and expressed gratitude for his insight, he choked up. He was so afraid he was stepping out of line, his eyes watered at my words. He’d made himself that vulnerable.
If he had been meek in the false sense, he would have sat quietly, mistakenly assuming I knew best as the bishop, and our ward councils would have remained less effective. When we make ourselves vulnerable, we don’t make ourselves small, we make our hearts bigger.
Vulnerability fosters unparalleled confidence. With it, we do God’s work because we aren’t afraid to express pain and suffering when we encounter it. Vulnerability allows us to confront error and injustice head-on. Consider that in Doctrine and Covenants 25:5, the Lord tells Emma Smith that she will be a comfort to Joseph “with consoling words, in the spirit of meekness.” While I don’t doubt that Emma spoke in a spirit of gentleness, I can’t imagine it was without confidence or courage. After all, it was Emma who spoke to Joseph about the tobacco filth that stained the floors in the School of the Prophets. Unable to remove the stains and concerned for the spiritual and physical environment, she brought up the issue with Joseph. And though we don’t know the specifics of the discussion, scarcely a month went by before the revelation we know as the Word of Wisdom was received. Emma could have silently endured what one might have rationalized as her lot and responsibility. But I think it was her vulnerability in speaking up that led to a culture-shaping revelation. That may be a leap, but it’s one I find helpful and inspiring to take.
When I was a bishop, I saw firsthand how some of our members struggle financially, and how Christmas can be an especially challenging time. Our ward was a generous one, and we were always able to make certain such families had gifts for their children and extra aid for the adults. A few days before Christmas, my office was full of donated gifts, wrapped and grouped in enormous sacks for the families in need. I’ve faced unemployment myself, and I know what a blow to the ego it can be to accept this kind of charity. To preserve privacy, I delivered the gifts alone, coordinating with parents so I would arrive when their children wouldn’t see the sacks of gifts I was bringing. There was a thrilling touch of secrecy to every delivery so no Christmas surprises would be ruined. It was a rewarding and heart-warming service.
The last house I visited that evening was a family of seven, with kids ranging from elementary to high school. The dad had been laid off months earlier and hadn’t yet landed on his feet. At this house, the parents answered the door, shook my hand, then to my surprise, called all their children downstairs to help bring in the packages.
We all walked out to my car, and I opened the trunk, putting all the wrapped gifts on display. Before they were unloaded, the dad told his family, “You know I lost my job. And this is one of the ways the Church helps families like ours. All these gifts are from members of the ward to help us have a better Christmas. Isn’t it great to be part of a Church like this?” As they carried their gifts inside, the kids, instead of being embarrassed, were smiling and excitedly guessing what could be in each package. This was beautiful vulnerability.
This family’s example of openly acknowledging their struggles, embracing support, and teaching their children gratitude was true Christlike meekness. It was a nexus of humility, courage, faith, and growth. Again, vulnerability is what we risk for growth. This illuminates another facet of this virtue: Vulnerability fosters teachability.
In Church study aids like the “Topical Guide” and the “Guide to the Scriptures,” meekness is frequently associated with being teachable. On the surface, this seems simple—like a child eagerly learning from a loving parent. It’s just as easy to imagine ourselves sitting at the Savior’s feet, eagerly listening to every word of his wisdom. But true teachability often involves more than the joy of learning. In fact, it can hurt.
Vulnerable teachability asks us to confront uncomfortable truths and dismantle beliefs we’ve clung to for years. It’s the realization that palaces we’ve painstakingly built rest on foundations of sand. Admitting we’ve been wrong, possibly for years, requires courage, humility, and a willingness to embrace the discomfort of change. In this way, vulnerability becomes the scaffolding for teachability and enables us to rebuild on a sure foundation.
The scriptures are filled with individuals who came to terms with their own strident detours into error. Paul went from persecutor to proselytizer. King Lamoni listened to his servant, and his father listened to that servant’s brother. Captain Moroni walked back his angry accusations against Pahoran when he learned the truth. Even Joseph of Egypt watched his once-murderous brothers fall at his feet, finally recognizing what they had done. And the Doctrine and Covenants often reads like a catalog of divine rebukes, with God correcting even his most faithful servants. Sometimes vulnerability is chosen. Sometimes it’s forced by famine. But however it enters our lives, it opens a door to transformation.
My purpose isn’t to replace the word “meek” with “vulnerable” in every instance in the scriptures. There are some passages where it would be shoehorning the word unnecessarily, like when Mormon writes to his son in Moroni 8:26 that “the remission of sins bringeth meekness and lowliness of heart.” Humility or gentleness might work better here. My point is not to reject alternate definitions, but to be more mindful of misleading ones that lead to unhelpful behaviors.
In reconceptualizing meekness as vulnerability, we reclaim its power and purpose. Meekness is not fear. It is not shame. It is not silence or self-erasure. Those are the conditions Adam and Eve felt when they hid from God in the garden, afraid to be seen. Christlike meekness is not a diminished self. It is a self in a state of readiness. We become ready to act, ready to repent, ready to speak up, ready to grow. It is the courage to be seen, the humility to be taught, and the faith to move forward.
Vulnerability is not the opposite of strength. It is the channel through which our strongest relationships with God and others are formed. It transforms hearts, builds trust, and strengthens communities. It is, in essence, the heart of discipleship. It allows us to follow Christ’s example, not as perfect beings, but as teachable, courageous, and compassionate children of God. By embracing vulnerability, we become active participants in building his kingdom, one honest courageous step at a time.
Greg Christensen is a writer and creative director who’s called Salt Lake City, New York City, Budapest, Chicago, and Geneva, Switzerland “home.” He currently lives in Dallas.
Art by Eustache Le Sueur (1616–1655).
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