August 03, 2005
Confessions and Reflections of Proud Man
I've struggled with pride for most of my life. As soon as I discovered I was good at something, pride immediately began its subtle work on me. Academic pride more than any other was my trap, though at various times I've been proud of being able to run fast, read swiftly, remember well, fight hard, shoot straight, and more. It seemed to me that praise made me proud. So I've spent a great deal of effort and psychological energy trying to block out praise. I punish myself savagely for praising myself within the privacy of my own head (it often takes a little while before I realize that's what I'm doing), and I try very hard to blunt the internal impact of praise before it penetrates inside. I do this by spending a large amount of effort to discover a way to reflect the praise a bit by pointing out something that makes the accomplishment a little less loustrous. I wish it weren't such an easy task, but it is.
However, I have failed to make myself a truly humble man. Or at least, any progress I've made has nothing to do with the aforementioned policy of trying to screen out praise. Instead, that policy has had at least two disastrous effects - first, it conceals from me how proud I truly am, since any time my praise shows itself I do my utmost to hush it up and hide it. Second, it has made me mostly deaf to the love of my wife. Nikki is wondrous at praising me and trying to encourage me. But when she does so, I feel nothing inside. My shield against external praise seems to deflect every good thing she says about me, admitting only the (thankfully few) things she says that don't sound so good. I am reminded of what Aslan said to Uncle Digory in The Magician's Nephew, "Sons of Adam; how well you defend yourself from all that may do you good." The only sort of praise my shield seems capable of deflecting is the sort that can do me good ...
As an aside, I've learned at least one lesson from books and movies. Never, ever, under any circumstances let your guard down. I flinch inside every time a hero (or villain, actually) commits the stupid mistake of assuming that everything is ok and it's time to gloat. Every time I see blatant and open arrogance, I strengthen my internal vow that it must never happen to me. I think to myself "do not ever think that you're safe, that you've made it, that you're ok. Don't dare let up for a single second, because as soon as you do, you've had it. You'll lose."
I am like a man who has suffered a deadly wound and tries desperately not to think about it or let anyone touch it. I hope that if I try my hardest not to think any proud thoughts, that my pride will go away. This is deadly dangerous because it lets pride slip in all around me. It affects my assumptions, my expectations of myself, my expectations of others, and the way I think. But as long as it's clever enough not to show up on my "anti-pride" screens, it's safe.
You see, the trouble is that I don't really belive that I'm a proud man. Yes, I'm writing this, yes, I know it's true, but I almost never feel it. For a couple of moments as I've been writing, I feel a twinge of "reality" that lets me know that I'm writing of something I really feel inside. But most of the time, I'm writing information I've worked out in my head or read in a book.
I think that one of the greatest problems of being a Christian is find a way to be eternally grateful for God's grace. Just as I don't actually feel very proud much of the time, we rarely feel sinful either. For example, none of us loves perfectly ... but how long has it been since that thought actually hurt? We don't care if we don't love perfectly; nobody else does either. I've always found it hard to believe in the doctrine of original sin. Don't get me wrong; I believe it all right, but I don't feel sinful, and the people around me don't seem sinful either. On the surface of things, everything seems about right. Jesus once told a parable about a master who forgave two servants their debts ... one owed him very little, the other very much. Jesus asked which servant was going to love Him more ... and the answer, obviously, is the one who's been forgiven more. At hearing that, part of me almost wishes that I were guilty of greater sin, so that I could appreciate forgiveness more. And that thought betrays me. (Gosh I love it when I catch myself being so blatantly hypocritical!) You see, I don't consider myself guilty of great sin. I dismiss the sin I've been forgiven of as a mere trifle and wish I'd committed something I regard as truly horrible so that I could love more. Every more damning is the thought that likely the only reason I would want to love more is to make my "good Christian" score rise.
What should I do? Repent of course ... but how shall I repent of a sin I do not feel? Forgiveness shouldn't be sought because it's the "right thing to do," but from the simple knowledge that I need it. It has been long since I felt that I needed forgiveness.
How can I distinguish between a truly Godly desire for righteousness and a truly human (and infernal) desire for the appearance of rightouesness? How can I come to desire righteousness honestly ... instead of desiring it to make myself look better? How can I desire to do what is right rather than desire to have done what is right (so I can pat myself on the back)? How can I desire God more than "good Christian" points?
And what should a person do when he realizes he is not only a sinner, but but a self-righteous sinner who feels no need for forgiveness? When Jesus said He did not come to call the righteous, but sinners, He did not mean that there were people who did not need Him. Rather, He is of no use to people who do not feel their need for Him. What do I do with that knowledge when I realize that I feel righteous?
Something tells me that the a person should do what he knows to be right, even if he doesn't feel it to be right. I think that sometimes a person needs to drag himself along, without any help from feelings at all. I suppose there's room for the prayer: "God forgive me for not feeling I need forgiveness. For not wishing for more than I do."
It seems odd and faintly heretical to ask forgiveness for not feeling the right things. But it also seems right.
Thoughts, anyone?
