by Beth Moore
I still struggle with thoughts that if I am the “perfect husband,” then she will love me more. Even though I know the truth, Satan uses doubt to make me believe the lack of physical intimacy in our marriage is because I am unattractive, unlovable, and undesirable.
In so many ways, men are just like women. Each gender was created in God’s spectacular and multifaceted image. Each of us houses a human soul that craves love, acceptance, and affirmation and fears anonymity and rejection nearly to the panic point. The insecurities mentioned so far from the survey were not at the top of the food chain for what eats a man alive, however. Ask the men in your life, and most of them will come up with the same answer even if they state it a dozen different ways. I tried it just last night when my oldest daughter, Amanda, and her family were at our house. While we chatted in the den after dinner, I asked my son-in-law Curtis if he’d had a chance to look at the men’s answers to the two questions I’d posted on insecurity. He’s a stellar guy with an uncanny knack for the bottom line, and his input on virtually any subject proves noteworthy. He responded, “No, I haven’t stopped long enough to read them yet, but I bet I know what turned out to be the number one insecurity of men.” And he was dead on.
Fear of failure.
Failure of what, you ask? Based on the explanations, it could be failure of any kind and of anything. It depends on each man’s reference point and what he perceives as valuable in his environment. One respondent represented the broad potential for failure with a fill-in-the-blank:
[My biggest insecurities come from a fear of] not being able to _____________________. [In other words:] Failure to deliver on whatever. Failure to . . . provide for my family, protect my family, complete work projects thoroughly and quickly enough, disciple my children, be the spiritual head of my home, show strength without dominance or anger or frustration, love my wife in such a way that she knows it and draws strength from it.
Many others conveyed the same broad, sweeping fear that feeds a demoralizing sense of insecurity. Two areas of potential failure floated to the top among the responses. In uncontested first place: failure to provide. The fear was so raw and so real that it stirred up significant compassion in me, shook loose a few preconceptions, and gave me a new appreciation for what men face. Don’t get me wrong. I still think women got the short end of the cultural stick in several ways, but our gender is far from alone in facing monumental areas of self-doubt. Listen to this guy’s heart:
I worry that I’m not good enough to rise to the top of my field—and that I’ll someday be cast aside. So what then? I’m insecure about being able to provide for our family financially. I feel a lot of pressure about money long term. I sometimes feel insignificant—like I was born for something great but that I wasted it and I’ll never get there now. I wonder if God gave my resources to somebody else like the parable of the talents.
If the men who answered the questionnaire were even the smallest representation of adult males in North America, the temptation to confuse who they are with what they make is astronomical. Add economic meltdowns, foreclosures, pay cuts, and layoffs to the landscape, and you’ve got yourself a serious breeding ground for insecurity. The thought occurred to me that the same culture that makes so many women feel inadequate physically makes just as many men feel inadequate financially. Multimillions are spent annually on marketing in our western hemisphere toward one specific goal: to convince us that we don’t yet have enough. To have more, we need to make more. To make more, we need to be more. That’s some substantial pressure, sister.
Let’s rush to state that many women also carry tremendous financial burdens and feel some of the same pressures to provide. This is true of no one more than single moms. While financial insecurity came up often enough in the women’s survey I offered, I can’t remember a single one saying that her biggest insecurity of all was her fear of failing as a provider. The difference in nuance between basic insecurity about finances (which many women feel) and failure as a provider (which many men feel) may seem subtle, but the internal ramifications could be severe. One feels frightened by it, but the other feels defined by it.
Fear of failing as a provider was the first of two potential failures that floated to the top in the survey with the guys. The second was failure to prove himself a man. At first glance, the two may seem redundant, but the more I thought about it, the more I got the feeling that this one deserved a category all by itself. Without minimizing the minefield of women’s insecurities, our gender could stand to have our eyes pried open to the fierce battlefield men occupy in the fight for their own souls. In all these years, I can’t remember ever hearing a female say that she feels the need to prove that she’s a woman. We tend to consider it a fact that was settled at conception. We may want to prove that we are desirable women, capable women, intelligent women, or even real women, but there’s still a subtle difference. Men aren’t tagging their gender with an adjective. They want to prove to be men.
And that’s when it really occurred to me. They feel a truckload of pressure to be what we would consider them to already be. Girls become women when they reach a certain age. Boys become men when they attain and conquer. A male doesn’t become a man just by growing up. Apparently most guys feel like they have to prove something in order to be men. If they don’t, they’re just overage, awkward, acne-faced boys without a hair on their chests. And it’s not just about being manly. It’s about being what they consider to be a man. Maybe that doesn’t seem like a big deal to you, but I think it’s huge. Whether we’re married or single, moms or not, women tend to be more confident (dare I say it?) of their basic womanhood. I didn’t say we were more confident in our womanhood but of our womanhood. There’s a difference. Even with the ravages of cancer leaving breastless chests, hairless heads, and total emotional upheaval, most females still tick and tock like women until their time is finally up. They may not feel like whole women, sensual women, or happy women, but underneath that fragile skin they are still woman-to-the-bone.
Men in this society, on the other hand, feel they have to earn their manhood. To make matters more complicated, the ultimate judgment is often left up to one individual’s scrutiny: their own father. And God help them both if the father didn’t prove his own manhood to his son. His word can become their lifelong bond whether it was affirming or searing. If every person on the planet acknowledges that a man is a man but his own father does not, the fight to earn his stripes is twice as bloody. Needless to say, you and I have a host of other issues with our moms, but oddly we tend to know we are women whether or not they affirm it and give us their blessing. I can’t really tell you that my mother relished being a woman, but I’ve loved being one nonetheless. I’m not sure many men could say the same regarding their fathers. As it turns out, perhaps life is as complicated for them as it is for us.
As you read the following comments from five grown men, don’t just skim their concise words. Look beneath the expressions to the broader human struggles.
[I am] insecure about my acceptability to other men (not validated by my father much); I struggle with whether I measure up . . . whatever that means (income, athletic prowess, professional standing, academic credentials, etc.). This gets in the way of building healthy friendships with other men of God.
I am twenty-eight years old. The things that I’m most insecure about are usually the things that I’m naturally not good at. Since I’m naturally introverted and quiet, people have a tendency to question my traits as a “strong” man. Since this bothers me most, I tend to get defensive and explain why I acted in that manner and try to prove my actions to the other person.
I am thirty-three years old, and my primary areas of insecurity are the fear of failure (or being viewed in this way), that I will not be viewed as an honorable man due to my actions, and that I will not be viewed as a “man’s man.” I do not enjoy talking about or dwelling on my insecurities. The way I typically deal with these insecurities is by acting proud and lashing out.
My primary
area of insecurity is in being around other men I feel are more apt at being a man than I am, whether it is career, income, social status, or educational background.
I can find myself insecure when I speak with my dad. I feel that I have to justify my decisions and often seek his approval.
So why on earth do we need to know all this about men? Are we supposed to feel sorry for them or something? After all that our culture has put us through as a gender, are we expected to pull out our violins and play a tragic ode to the male race? No, they would probably tell us we could save our pity. But I do think it would do us a world of good to develop some compassion. A dab of understanding. A peek of recognition that they aren’t getting off easy in this culture either.
If you and I are going to develop into real, live secure women, it is absolutely imperative that we realign our mentalities toward men. We’ve got to get it through our thick skulls that men are neither gods nor devils. They are neither to be adored nor abhorred. As you stare at those opposing terms, I ask you to consider your own tendency as I consider mine. Maybe like me you vacillate between the two, but this is the news flash: either extreme—adoration or abhorrence—always betrays the depth of our own insecurity.
Men are human flesh and blood caught up in the conflict between the sacred and the crude, just like we are. They also waver miserably between what they really need and what they think they want. They have been hurt by women just like we have been hurt by men. They have felt overpowered and undervalued by women just like we have by men. They have felt under our spell just like we’ve felt under theirs. All of us have a human nature that is selfish and depraved, yet by Christ’s touch, is also graced with wonder and good. We are fellow sojourners here with feet of clay, and neither man nor woman is immune to broken hearts, chipped minds, and crumbled lives.
And we all, to whatever degree and for whatever reason, battle insecurities. Part of our perception that women are the only ones fraught with them may come from the differences in how they surface in each gender. Thanks to the humble men who responded to the survey, we’re about to get a glimpse into the ways they tend to act when they feel insecure. These, from their own mouths:
When I feel insecure, I clam up and turn inward, and depending on the situation, I might be snippy or depressed. Sometimes I pretend like there’s no problem at all so she won’t see what I’m feeling and thinking.
I find myself turning inward and/or becoming defensive when my insecurities flare up. At the end of the day, once I’ve dealt with the emotional aspects, I just try to work harder to make those things better, and I try to remind myself that those things really have very little significance on my self-worth.
I get very edgy and sometimes respond more angrily to my family than I should.
I look for people and things that make me feel secure.
My insecurities show up in my relationship with my wife. As I get out of balance and put my expectations on her instead of God, my security of who I am is more fragile when she doesn’t react in the way I am expecting. My most common reaction is self-pity.
Anger, frustration, melancholy, fatigue/exhaustion . . . increased need for solitude (prayer, reflection, decompression). Sometimes a desire to just leave, run, evacuate, escape.
I usually boast in myself or try to make myself look better than others.
I find myself avoiding eye contact or telling better stories that aren’t always truthful in order to gain respect.
I react by withdrawing and waiting for someone to draw me into the conversation, and I often wonder how I am being judged.
As a man, I feel like I ought to know how to do the things that present themselves to me. I usually respond to these feelings by either ignoring the issue altogether or acting as if I know what I’m doing.
I usually am more anxious, easily agitated.
I divide the events of my day into wins and losses, and a series of losses can send me into a mood or grumpy period where I try to run off to a cave and sulk.
Lastly, this one from a single twenty-five-year-old:
I can act out and rebel and try my hardest to do everything opposite of what society expects, or I can isolate myself from . . . family and friends. I’m extremely uncomfortable with change in my environment; I usually put out a standoffish, don’t-talk-to-me, don’t-mess-with-me vibe. I will go off by myself.
Overwhelmingly, the men used one word to describe what they do when they feel insecure: withdraw. If they don’t overtly withdraw, they will probably behave in a way, whether consciously or unconsciously, that will make their loved ones withdraw. One way or the other, a man who feels insecure will often force space. (And as my son-in-law interjected, deny that he’s doing it.) If quietness doesn’t work, excessive irritation, agitation, or anger can usually do the job. We’re not talking about mean-spiritedness here. We’re talking about human nature. If we’d let it, the concept of withdrawal could explain so much to us. We think we’re the only gender that gets eaten alive with insecurity because we don’t recognize the opposite gender’s signals. Leaving room in our minds for obvious exceptions, let’s throw a couple of common tendencies on the table. Generally speaking, men withdraw when they feel insecure—and women cling. Men give off the don’t-mess-with-me vibe. Women give off the please-mess-with-me vibe. Hence, from all familiar indications, women assume we’re the only ones who ever deal with insecurity. And we’re mistaken.
Tucked unassumingly in the folds of Mark’s Gospel, you can find a brief and often overlooked encounter that is marvelously baffling. You won’t find anything like it in the rest of the Bible from Genesis to Revelation. Take a good look at it:
[Jesus] came to Bethsaida; and they brought a blind man to Him, and begged Him to touch him. So He took the blind man by the hand and led him out of the town. And when He had spit on his eyes and put His hands on him, He asked him if he saw anything. And he looked up and said, “I see men like trees, walking.” Then He put His hands on his eyes again and made him look up. And he was restored and saw everyone clearly.
Mark 8:22-25, NKJV
No, it’s not the spit that makes the encounter weird, although if you’re not very familiar with Jesus, His method here could admittedly seem bizarre. What puts the interaction in a class by itself is that it suggests a partial healing. In every other Gospel account, and for that matter, in virtually every other Scriptural account, if a physical healing took place, it was complete. The person would ultimately die just like all humans do, but for the time being, the man or woman was completely restored and made whole.
Not this time. The man brought to Jesus in Mark 8 was as blind as a bat. Christ used the saliva from His own mouth as the healing salve. (In terms that are common to us today, you might think of it as Christ slathering the blind man’s eyes with His own DNA.) After dousing his eyes, Christ placed His hands on the man. All four Gospels burst at the happy seams with stories of healings, so thus far nothing out of the extraordinary-ordinary of Jesus Christ has happened. Then comes the tricky part. Christ asked the man if he saw anything.
I see men like trees, walking.
Hmmmm. That’s not good enough. Christ didn’t want to improve the man’s vision. He wanted to fix it.
He put His hands on his eyes again and made him look up. And he was restored and saw everyone clearly.
I doubt that the brightest scholars could tell you for certain what point God intended to make in this encounter or why He rolled it up so tightly in the sacred scroll. One of the most fascinating things about God is that He reserves the right to retain His mystery. Several elements about this scene in Mark 8 make my theological head spin, but I’ll tell you one thing that screams at me loudly in terms of our journey. The first result of the encounter between Jesus and the blind man represents exactly what can happen to you and me on an emotional level. We can “see men like trees, walking.” Not as fellow human beings. Not as peers on planet Earth. Our female eyes have a strange way of viewing the opposite sex as something more or
vastly less than they really are. Nothing would do us more good right this moment than to realize that our vision is impaired and it doesn’t have to stay that way.
Blurry vision toward men can develop in a couple of different ways. On one hand, maybe we’ve elevated them so high in our thinking and given them so much credit for our soul’s animation that we can’t see their frailties. The notion is not far-fetched, and neither is it necessarily conscious. The only way you might know if this is the case is to take an honest appraisal of your preoccupation with men. Are you wholly unable to imagine being fulfilled without a man in pursuit or one in your clutches? We’re particularly vulnerable to this brand of impaired vision if most of the affirmation we’ve received along the way has come from men. Maybe all your best friends are guys, and truth be told, it’s girls you don’t trust. If all your hopes are in men and all your dreams are spun around them like silver crowns on kings, you are not seeing clearly. And if the reverse is true and men hang their hopes on women, they’re not seeing clearly either. At the end of a disappointing day, we do men a disservice when we refuse to see them as regular people like us, with weaknesses and strengths, self-doubts and second guesses. When our vision is blurred with distorted images, we can let the entire gender grow out of proportion in our romantic imaginations until we’ve begun to see them, you might say, as trees: towering, mighty, muscular trees.
A few days ago Amanda and I had a conversation about her husband, Curtis, and it keeps churning in my head. It was perfect timing for this chapter. I had just said what a great guy he is and how much respect I have for him. “Honey, it must really be something to have a man who has such a priority relationship with God and is so incredibly devoted to Him and to his own wife and kids.” So you’ll get the picture, allow me to interject that he’s the kind of husband who gets out of bed and goes straight into prayer and Bible study every morning of his life. Seems to me, a woman could be pretty secure with a man like that. My very wise daughter responded with these words: “I am so blessed, Mom. He only gains my respect as time goes on. I’ve seen him grow like crazy, but it also occurs to me that the devil doesn’t want to trip up any man on earth more than a man like Curtis. He’s a great guy, but he’s flesh and blood just like the rest of us. God has taught me not to put any confidence in the flesh.” It was profound. She chooses to see him like the wonderful man he is, so worthy of respect, but she refuses to see him as a mighty, invincible tree, walking.