Drinking the Cup of Shame

I was on a long drive for work, listening to The Great Divorce by C.S. Lewis. It had been on my reading list for a while, and long hours on the road felt like the right time to finally catch up. Somewhere in the middle of the book, I was hit by a line that stopped me cold:

“But don’t you remember on earth there were things too hot to touch with your finger but you could drink them all right? Shame is like that. If you will accept it—if you will drink the cup to the bottom—you will find it very nourishing: but try to do anything else with it and it scalds.”

In that moment, I didn’t hear a quote—I heard a diagnosis.

In the scene, a “saved soul” is trying to coax a “ghost,” a damned soul, toward heaven. The ghost is afraid. He’s ashamed of what he’s become, and the prospect of being truly seen in that state is unbearable. So he hides.

It was too relatable.

For years, I wore ministry like a cloak—righteousness stitched together with sermons, service, and scripture. But underneath, I was carrying things I didn’t want anyone to see. Things that brought me shame. I had become a skilled tailor of appearances, able to fashion just the right words and actions to avoid ever being exposed. But shame doesn’t disappear just because we cover it up. It lingers. It festers.

Eventually, I fell. Publicly. The cloak was torn. I was unmasked.

At first, I reached for new coverings. I blamed my ex-wife. That one didn’t fit. People could see through it. Then I tried moving on as if nothing had happened. But it was like the emperor’s new clothes—I was still naked, still cloaked in shame, no matter how much I pretended otherwise.

It wasn’t until I stopped fighting shame, stopped resenting it, and started listening to it, that something began to change.

Lewis was right: shame scalds if you try to avoid it. But if you drink it—really drink it, down to the bottom—it becomes something else entirely. It becomes nourishing. It breaks you down, yes, but only to make room for something better.

Shame is a strange emotion. If you treat it like an enemy, it will consume you. But if you approach it like a guide, it can become a kind of grace—a wounded friend who points you toward the road home.

I take no pride in my past. There’s no triumph in the fall. But I’ve stopped pretending that those years didn’t shape me. They show me who I was. And, maybe more importantly, they help me hear the voice of God as He gently whispers who I can become.

So if you find yourself running from shame, hiding it behind success or sarcasm or service—stop. Don’t try to throw it away. Don’t pretend it’s not there. Sit with it. Drink the cup.

Because in the hands of a merciful God, even shame can be redeemed.