Humility parallels reality

 26 Proud of My Humility Humility — the one virtue that, if you think you have it, you don’t. Tongue planted firmly in cheek, I talk on my radio program about my years-long pursuit of the coveted humility award, which I finally captured this past year. My winning strategy was simple: While the other contestants attended the finals, awaiting the judges’ ruling, I stayed home, knowing that, were I to win the award and then accept it, I would automatically lose it. Tricky stuff, this humility. What is humility not? It is not thinking of oneself as a spiritual worm, unworthy of God’s or anyone else’s love. It is not disavowing one’s gifts and talents given by God. It’s not swatting away compliments with an attitude that says, “I’m undeserving.” In short, humility is not thinking less of oneself; it is thinking of oneself less. The modern self-esteem movement has relentlessly devalued humility. What now matters most to one’s psychological well-being is not a humble self-image, but a robust one. We all deserve stickers, trophies, and awards. Why? Because we do. I am a special person because I declare me so. It’s critical to my emotional fitness to be always in tune with my own significance. Christians agree — sort of. We are indeed good, valuable, and special, though not because we say so, but because God says so. He awards the life stickers that matter in the end. His declaration of our worth is true self-esteem. It never rises or falls with our social approval numbers or our accumulation of skills, achievements, and education. One can have a truly humble spirit while at the same time being fully self-assured of one’s infinite value. Tricky stuff, this humility. Humility parallels reality. It is a clear-eyed assessment not only of one’s weaknesses and sins and failures, but also of one’s strengths and virtues and successes. If I am a master chess player, then I am a master chess player. It’s not a humble move to deny that. Should I lose to another player, it is right to admit, “He beat me. He may be the superior player.” “He is better than I am” is honest. Humility parallels reality. A humble spirit is not something that can be grasped in itself. It’s the fruit of a mindset: gratitude for all God has dispensed, in talents, achievements, successes, maturity, morality. To humbly acknowledge any gift is to be ever mindful of the giver. Even the desire and effort to maximize those gifts derives from God’s prompting. Humility is not a virtue one can proclaim. “I feel so unworthy.” “I’m not the sweet person you think I am.” “If you knew me better, you wouldn’t think I’m such a good Christian.” Any of which may be a well-meant confession, but would a simple “Thank you” be humbler? It doesn’t say, “Come to think of it, I am most deserving of this honor.” It is a straightforward, “I appreciate your kindness.” Humility underlies all manner of admirable qualities. It leads to an easiness in sincerely uplifting others. Any impulse to compete, to measure up, to show myself superior, or to advertise my intelligence, knowledge, or competence is weaker. As you tell me about your vacation to Europe, I don’t anxiously await my turn to regale you about my three vacations to Italy, with its two Swiss Guard-guided visits to the Vatican and my personal papal audience. Thinking of oneself less leads to thinking of others more. Have you ever met someone, chatted awhile, and formed a favorable first impression? Later you realized why: She was genuinely interested in you. Not nosey, but eager to hear all about your family, your job, your interests. She wanted to know the bits and pieces of who you are and was much less invested in giving you her story and opinions. Somehow she deftly kept the focus on you. Such individuals are appealing, even if they unwittingly corrupt your humility by animating you to talk about yourself. They are anything but self-absorbed; they are other-absorbed. Humility is at the heart of likability. Humility is a safeguard against insecurity, the sense of not being as good as another. It restrains my measuring myself against you, in faith, parenting, housekeeping, finances, lawn care, doubles badminton. Rather than looking at how I compare with others, humility nudges me to look at how I compare with what God wants of me. Of course, I’d better not think, “I must be pretty humble because I really don’t compete with others all that much.” Again, if you think you’ve got it, you don’t. A wistful ditty: “I want to be famous, so I can be humble about being famous. What good is my humility when I’m stuck in this obscurity?” The greater one’s status in the eyes of the world, the greater the need to keep focused on the Author of it all. Humility is a hedge against easy offendedness. It asks, “Who am I to expect respect or recognition for what I do?” Of course, it’s human to want positives, but reality intrudes: We will never get them from everyone, consistently, always. Humility doesn’t demand. It tempers the expectation to be treated as well as I treat others — or as well as I think I treat others. It makes me less sensitive to critical remarks and hurtful conduct. It is the unspoken belief, “Who I am in God’s eyes matters infinitely more than who I am in others’ eyes.” A willingness to forgive accompanies a humble spirit. Realizing my humanness, with all my faults, failures, and fumbles should lead to more tolerance of others’ humanness. If I am merciful to me, I must be merciful to them. I am slower to judge when I know I too may be capable of similar conduct. Should I think, “I’m glad I’m not like that,” then I’ve just lost a bit of humility and might have to exchange my award for a participation trophy. One more time: Humility is seeing who one is through the eyes of all-seeing love — God. It does not seek to lift the self, contrary to modern psychological enlightenment. It seeks to “count others better than [oneself]” (Phil. 2:3). Do so, and you may be nominated for the Humility Award. Of course, you can’t accept it. Tricky stuff, this humility.

Guarendi, Ray . Thinking Like Jesus: The Psychology of a Faithful Disciple (pp. 70-72). Sophia Institute Press. Kindle Edition.