Why We Struggle to Be Loved: The Scandal of Dependence

Have you ever watched a child receive a gift? There is rarely any hesitation. They tear into the wrapping paper with wide-eyed wonder, fully absorbed in the joy of the moment. They may forget to say "thank you" immediately—children are sinners, too, after all—but they possess an innate ability that we adults have largely lost: they know how to simply receive. They know how to be loved without questioning if they have earned it.

Contrast that with us. As we age, we seem to master the art of deflection. When someone extends a gift or a compliment, we squirm. We say, "You shouldn't have," or immediately calculate how we can pay them back. We have become experts at giving—volunteering, serving, writing checks—but when it comes to receiving, we act like the uncertain ones, not knowing what to do with our hands.

This Advent season invites us to confront this uncomfortable truth: many of us are far better at loving than letting ourselves be loved. We’ve built our Christian identity around the active verbs—serve, give, sacrifice. But what about the passive ones—receive, accept, rest? As we prepare our hearts for Christmas, the image of the infant Jesus challenges our self-sufficiency. Here is the Word through whom all things were made (John 1:3), choosing to enter our world not as a warrior, but as a baby who cannot even lift his own head, utterly dependent on the trembling arms of a poor, young girl.

The Scandal of Dependence

The incarnation presents us with what might be called the ultimate reversal. The One who spoke galaxies into existence now cannot speak at all, only cry. The One who "upholds the universe by the word of his power" (Hebrews 1:3) must now be upheld in Mary's arms. This is not merely poetry or sentimentality—it is theology of the most profound sort.

Consider what the Gospel of Luke tells us: "And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in swaddling cloths and laid him in a manger" (Luke 2:7). The Greek word used here for "wrapped" (ἐσπαργάνωσεν, esparganōsen) implies a careful, tender binding. The Creator allows himself to be bound. The Infinite accepts limits. The Self-Sufficient becomes dependent on human milk for survival.

St. Augustine captured this paradox brilliantly when he wrote, "He through whom all things were made was made one of all things. The Son of God became the Son of Man... He who fills the world lay in a manger." (Sermon 184). This divine vulnerability wasn't a momentary concession but a deliberate choice that would mark Jesus's entire earthly ministry. From the manger to the cross, Christ consistently placed himself in positions where he needed to receive from others.

The Difficulty of Receiving

Why do we find it so hard to receive love? Perhaps it's because receiving requires admitting need, and need feels dangerously close to weakness in our self-made world. We've been taught since childhood to be independent, self-reliant, strong. "God helps those who help themselves," we say, though this phrase appears nowhere in Scripture and (while it can be understood properly) is most commonly cited in a way that actually contradicts much of what the Bible teaches about grace.

The prophet Isaiah reminds us of a different truth: "For thus says the Lord GOD, the Holy One of Israel: 'In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and confidence shall be your strength.' But you would not" (Isaiah 30:15). Notice that last phrase—"but you would not." How often does our unwillingness to receive become a form of rebellion against God's design for human flourishing?

In the Greek New Testament, the word for "receive" (λαμβάνω, lambanō) appears over 250 times. It's not a passive word but an active accepting, a taking hold of what is offered. John's Gospel begins with this theme: "He came to his own, and his own people did not receive him. But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God" (John 1:11-12). Our very salvation depends on our receiving.

Learning from the Infant Christ

What can we learn from the baby in the manger about receiving love? First, we see that receiving requires presence, not performance. An infant contributes nothing to the relationship except being there. They cannot earn love through good behavior or clever conversation. They simply exist and allow themselves to be loved.

St. Thérèse of Lisieux, who has been called the greatest saint of the modern era, declared a "Doctor of the Church" on the basis of (really) just a single work (compared to the other Doctors of the Church who wrote prolifically), understood this deeply. She wrote, "Jesus does not demand great actions from us, but simply surrender and gratitude" (Story of a Soul). Her "little way" was essentially about learning to receive God's love with the simplicity of a child, without the complications of adult pride and self-sufficiency.

Second, the infant Jesus shows us that receiving creates communion. A baby's dependence draws others into relationship. Mary and Joseph's lives are completely reorganized around this small, needy person. The shepherds leave their flocks. The wise men journey from afar. Even the animals, tradition tells us, warm the stable with their breath. Need creates community in a way that self-sufficiency never can.

This principle extends throughout Christ's ministry. When Jesus sits weary at the well and asks the Samaritan woman for a drink (John 4:7), his need becomes the doorway to her transformation. When he accepts Simon Peter's boat as a preaching platform (Luke 5:3), that act of receiving leads to Peter's call to discipleship. Christ's willingness to receive from others consistently becomes the pathway to deeper relationship.

The Prior Movement of Love

Perhaps the most crucial insight from contemplating the infant Jesus is this: love always moves first. "We love because he first loved us," writes John (1 John 4:19). The word "first" (πρῶτος, prōtos) indicates not just temporal priority but ontological priority. God's love is the source, the origin, the wellspring from which all other love flows.

This means that our ability to love others authentically depends on our willingness to first receive love. We cannot pour from an empty cup, as the saying goes. Or to use Jesus's own metaphor, we cannot bear fruit unless we abide in the vine (John 15:4). The branch must first receive life from the vine before it can produce anything of value.

St. Bernard of Clairvaux expressed this beautifully in his work On Loving God: "You wish me to tell you why and how God should be loved? My answer is: the reason for loving God is God himself, and the measure of love due to him is to love him without measure." But Bernard goes on to explain that this limitless love is only possible because God loved us first, when we were still unlovable. "But for whom was such unutterable love made manifest? ... So it was God who loved us, loved us freely, and loved us while yet we were enemies. ... This is the claim which God the holy, the supreme, the omnipotent, has upon men, defiled and base and weak" (Chapter 3).

Practical Steps for Receiving

How then shall we learn to receive love better this Advent season?

First, practice small acts of receiving without immediately reciprocating. When someone compliments you, simply say "thank you" without deflecting or returning a compliment. When offered help, accept it even if you could manage alone. These small practices train us in the spiritual discipline of receptivity.

Second, spend time cultivating the discipline of contemplative prayer, not asking for things or interceding for others, but simply being present to God's presence. The Latin phrase coram Deo—before the face of God—captures this posture. Like an infant gazing at its mother's face, we can learn to simply be with God, receiving the love that is always already being poured out. Contemplative prayer can be understood by analogy to the communication between spouses. I may speak to my wife, make requests of her (that's like verbal prayer), I can even think about how blessed I am to have such an amazing partner with whom I'm one-in-flesh (like meditative prayer), but the moments I most cherish with my spouse are those times when we say or think nothing particular, but simply sit together and rest in each others' embrace.

Contemplation can be very difficult for us. It was always difficult, even for monks and nuns. There are great works designed to assist those who seek to acquire the art of contemplation (e.g. see St. Theresa of Avila's Interior Castle). It's even more difficult in a society conditioned by television, movies, and social-media. Our minds struggle to focus on anything, we're addicted to rapid-fire entertainment, a constant stream of external distractions.

So do not beat yourself up about it if you struggle to achieve inner quiet, or find your mind wandering. The struggle does not invalidate the value of silence. Contemplative prayer always comes with struggle, and it always has. I'm no master of contemplative prayer, my ability to enjoy this kind of prayer remains fleeting, but by God's grace I've experienced it when I've pursued it with intention. I am not always successful, but it's a struggle worth engaging. I recommend The Power of Silence by Cardinal Robert Sarah.

Third, examine your reluctance to receive. What fears arise when someone offers you love or help? Do you fear being a burden? Being obligated? Being seen as weak? Bring these fears to prayer, remembering that the all-powerful God chose to be a burden (literally) to a teenage mother. If God can receive, so can we.

Fourth, meditate on the Eucharist as the ultimate school of receiving. In Holy Communion, we contribute nothing but our open mouths and hearts. We cannot earn this gift or improve upon it. We can only receive. In the Western Liturgy, a congregational response drawn from the words of a Roman Centurion who sought to receive healing from our Lord on behalf of his servant-child, serve as a powerful statement to prepare us to receive in this way: "Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed."

The Vulnerability of God

As we move through Advent toward Christmas, let us sit with the profound mystery of divine vulnerability. The hands that shaped the stars now grasp at Mary's finger. The voice that thundered from Sinai now coos and cries. This is not God playing at being human while keeping divine power in reserve. This is genuine need, real and chosen dependence, actual vulnerability.

And in this vulnerability, we find our invitation. If God can receive, then receiving is not weakness but participation in the divine life. If the Creator can accept creation's care, then accepting care is not shameful but sacred. If infinite Love makes itself dependent on finite love, then our own dependencies are not flaws to overcome but doorways to grace.

This Advent, as you prepare room in your heart for Christ's coming, consider what it might mean to prepare room not just to give but to receive. The infant Jesus does not come demanding offerings but offering himself to be held. He does not arrive requiring our service but inviting our tenderness. He appears not as one who needs nothing but as one who chooses to need everything, and in that choice, sanctifies all human need.

The mystery of Christmas is not just that God loves us, but that God allows us to love him—and even more mysteriously, seems to need our love. Not that anything in the Almighty was lacking, but that He chose to make Himself lacking that we might find Him in our poverty. His "need" is conditioned not by what He lacks, but by His nature: for God is love, and love demands reciprocation. Love becomes sacrifice, the gift of oneself solely for the good of the other, but it also receives the gift of the other in return. The baby in the manger cannot care for himself. This is the scandal and the glory of the incarnation: the self-sufficient God makes himself dependent, that we who are dependent might find in our need not shame but grace, not weakness but the very pathway to divine life, a participation in infinite, Trinitarian love.

As you gaze upon the Christ child this Christmas, whether in a crèche, an icon, or the eye of your heart, remember that you are not just seeing love incarnate. You are seeing love that receives, love that accepts, love that allows itself to be held. And in that divine receiving, you are invited to discover that your own need for love is not a flaw in your humanity but its very crown—the capacity that makes you most like the God who, in infinite wisdom, chose to become a baby who perfectly received love.