The Positivity of Shame Devotional Guide
Monday: 2 Samuel 12:1–7. David thought he was hearing about someone else—a story of injustice, greed, and abuse. A powerful man exploiting someone with little. David’s anger burned hot… until Nathan turned the mirror around: “You are the man.” Sometimes, the most jarring wake-up call isn’t a punishment—it’s a story. A reflection. A truth told kindly but directly enough that it pierces the armor we’ve built around our ego. When we finally recognize ourselves not as the hero, but as the one who’s harmed someone else… it can unravel us. Have you ever had a moment where someone helped you see yourself more clearly? A friend, a mentor, a teacher, a parent—a prophet, even—who told you a hard truth, not to humiliate you, but to call you back to your better self? David had to hear it to believe it. We all do, from time to time. It’s easy to critique others’ behavior. But what happens when the story is actually about us? What story are you telling yourself about who you are right now? And what story might God be gently (or not so gently) telling you instead?
Tuesday: 2 Samuel 12:9–10. Nathan doesn’t call David a monster. He doesn’t erase David’s value as a person. But he does name the behavior for what it is: a betrayal of trust, a use of power to harm, a choice that led to death. We can confuse naming someone’s actions with attacking their worth. But it’s possible—and crucial—to say: This behavior is wrong without saying you are unlovable. That’s foundational for how we raise children, but it’s also foundational for adults, especially those with influence. Some of us were taught that shame makes people change. Others were taught that love means never confronting someone at all. Both can lead to chaos. Grace without accountability is just permission. But accountability without grace is cruelty. What harmful behaviors have we let slide in others—or ourselves—because it felt more loving to say nothing? What would it look like to love someone enough to name what needs to change?
Wednesday: 2 Samuel 12:13. There’s a kind of shame that crushes us—and there’s a kind that cracks us open. David’s moment with Nathan is like that. A holy slap of truth. Maybe you’ve had one, too: a mentor’s firm voice, a teacher’s disappointment, a grandmother’s correction. A moment when you suddenly saw your behavior for what it was—not because you were being abused, but because you were being loved into accountability. You may remember Indiana Jones, leaping from planes and battling Nazis. But in The Last Crusade, what shakes him the most isn’t danger—it’s when his father slaps him and says, “That’s for blasphemy.” A moment of emotional jolt, not physical pain. Sometimes it takes something like that to wake us up. And then comes the question: now that you see, what will you do? Who has helped you “wake up” in your life? And when has your own behavior startled you into repentance?
Thursday: Psalm 51:1–12 (attributed to David’s repentance). We often think repentance is the price we pay to be loved again. But in the Gospels, Jesus flips that. He loves before we say sorry. He forgives before we clean ourselves up. He sits down with tax collectors, prostitutes, and sinners—not to lecture, but to eat. As theologian Peter Rollins puts it: “It was precisely this unconditional love and forgiveness that seemed so potent and transformative—often being the very act that drew people to repentance.” Jesus didn’t wait for people to change. His love made them want to. He didn’t excuse harmful behavior, but he didn’t withhold compassion either. We need that kind of love today. And we need to offer it. Because no one is shamed into the Kingdom of God—but many are drawn into it by grace. Have you ever experienced love that came before you felt worthy of it? Who might need that kind of love from you today?
Friday: Luke 22:19–20; 1 Corinthians 11:23–26. When David realized the depth of what he had done, he fell before God. He wrote words that still echo through the ages: “Create in me a clean heart, O God.” He was broken, yes—but not abandoned. Repentance was not the end of his story. It was the beginning of something new. Each time we come to the Communion Table, we are invited into that same beginning. Not because we are perfect—but because we are honest. We bring our regrets, our selfishness, our silence, our wounds. We come not as people with perfect records, but as people who want to be made whole. In United Methodist theology, the Table is open. That means you don’t have to earn your spot. You don’t have to clean up first. The Table doesn’t deny your past—it simply doesn’t let your past define your future. What needs waking up in you today? Can the bread and cup remind you—not just of forgiveness—but of the life you are called to live now? What would it look like to leave the Table different than you arrived?