I generally think I’m quite a humble person. You’re not meant to say that, of course—at least, not in Christian circles—and perhaps genuine humility is so accompanied by a dose of the self-effacing that to say as much is a contradiction of self-reference like the great paradox of Epimenides (Titus 1:12). But that’s by-the-by: this blog has always been a place of the utmost honesty, and I’m sure my readers don’t want that to end with a show of faux-modesty. The Christian world is rather too full of people saying what they’re meant to say—totting out the party line, so to speak—that cutting back the religious brambles to get to what we actually believe can sometimes be a rather exhausting exercise. I thought I’d spare you the trouble.
I have the humility, I usually think, to see myself for what I actually am. That is, I readily confess my deficiencies: weaknesses of thought (mathematics!), of physical propensity—particularly my ability to face up to ball-shaped projectiles—and of course of emotional stability (the preferred phrase is ‘an artistic personality’). In other words, I’m not going to pretend that I’ll be coding my way to the next algorithmic breakthrough, or reprising my former role as (I jest not) a second row, nor running for public office any time soon. I have, I believe, the honesty to recognise that I would just be no good at these things.
This humility can of course be a cover for what is really a kind of laziness or cowardice. Think of Moses at the burning bush: each one of his protestations against the idea that he might be the one sent to free God’s people from Pharaoh’s grasp amounts to the thinnest of thin excuses. Who am I that Pharaoh should listen to me?—you were brought up by his daughter, in case you had forgotten! But I am not eloquent!—you who were ‘instructed in all the wisdom of the Egyptians … mighty in his words and deeds’? Moses, once bold enough to slay an Egyptian in a moment, becomes before the rallying cry of God the lowliest of men, but a shepherd tending to the flocks of Jethro. How convenient. But true humility doesn’t just ask ‘why me?’, but ‘why not me?’ The humble do not rush to push themselves forward; but nor do they balk at stepping up to the mark that God has set them.
But that humility—the humility with which in my more charitable (and perhaps less realistic) moments I believe myself to be endowed—is, I have learnt, only the first rung of the ladder. Pride inflates the ego, makes one the centrepiece of circumstances, and, if left unchecked, begins to see other people as commodities. In the face of it, humility comes as a reality-check: am I really quite as important as I think I am? The humble have the wherewithal to see themselves through others’ eyes, and so to inject into their otherwise self-exalting hearts the liberating realism of their proper station. But, as I say, that is only the first step down into the valley of humility, along the road that Christ walked before us. Further down it is another kind of humility, one that counters another kind of pride: and that is the humility of un-realism, of not being seen for what you are. And this humility, I would wager, is an awful lot harder to practice.
Most of the time, we don’t have to realise that. I don’t think I do. But occasionally situations present themselves that make me acutely aware of it—or more, of its absence. I am speaking of times when others mistake me for something that I am not, and think of me as, in worldly terms, less than I am. A few years ago I helped out on a camp that I hadn’t done before. Partly because I was a new face there, and partly because I signed up quite late, I was put with the team of youngsters whose job was to keep things going in the kitchen—washing up, making sandwiches and the like. It was generally thought of as a stepping-stone to becoming a real ‘leader’ on the camp: the place where either promising but untested prospects learnt the ropes, or where those who were keen to help but otherwise unsuitable for the more pastoral work of leading a dorm of teenagers could nonetheless still get stuck in. Perhaps I should have said no to it; but I supposed that it wasn’t particularly Christian to offer to help only if the role that I was given suited what I thought my expertise and gifts merited. So I went along, and duly found it an awful lot harder than I could have predicted. To me it seemed that people assumed I was younger than I actually was, less intelligent, and less spiritually mature. And it cut me to the bone.
The same thing happens when it comes to intellectual knowledge. Talking about anything intellectual always presents a challenging task of pitching: assume too much knowledge of your interlocutor and you risk both making them feel small and presenting yourself as a snob; assume too little, and you risk hurting their pride. On the receiving end of such conversations, it’s usually my pride that gets hurt. Sometimes, people misunderstand something I’ve said, but instead of giving me the benefit of the doubt—in other words, assuming that, since I can’t have thought that, they must have misunderstood me—they assume that I’ve said something fairly stupid. It happens a lot in my circles; in particular, gentlemen with PhDs tend to assume that they’re the intellectual superior (no matter their topic of expertise) of their conversation partner, and anyone less officially qualified than them is uniquely capable of straying into quite basic errors. I probably also do it, with folk I assume to be less clued-up than myself. But it stings me, especially when I do, perhaps, know rather more about what we’re talking about than they suppose. How dare they think I would make so silly an error as what they have misunderstood me as saying? Who do they think I am?
It is in situations such as these that I realise how proud I really am. Humility of the kind I began with above is really quite easy. It begins with an objective look at reality, and the willingness to listen to the honest opinions of others. But the humility to be misunderstood, misrepresented, and perhaps even unfairly maligned—this does not come so easily. Perhaps that is because it is so rarely called upon. Most of the time, I operate in a world of competing, but ordered, statuses—one where a rough hierarchy operates, in which achievements, abilities, and acumen are given their due respect. I know where I fit within that world. But, every now and then, the script is ignored, social capital counts for little, and gifts are not duly recognised. And then I realise how proud I am: how quickly I become indignant, hot under the collar, and aghast at what I can’t help but interpret as a miscarriage of justice.
But this response—quite visceral, really—is soon replaced by a sense of shame. I feel affronted at so sparse a misrepresentation of myself: the gap between reality and the misconstruals of it that so offend me is, even in worldly terms, rather small. And the humility that puts up with this kind of situation is required of me so infrequently. It was, by contrast, the whole shape of Christ’s life. His was a life of misconstrual, at various different levels, all of them shocking for how far short of the truth they fell. Even those closest to him, who beheld his glory upon the mount of transfiguration, failed to grasp who he really was, and scattered like sheep when the shepherd was struck—even to disavowing him completely. Then there were those who thought him a good teacher, a prophet even—yet who did not fall down before him in worship. Finally there were those who killed him: who put the God who is Justice before a shameful mockery of earthly justice; who whipped and spat upon the One who breathed life into their very souls and commanded the breath in their lungs; who nailed into his hands and his feet the cruel nails crafted from metals born in the very stars he had called into being. Peter’s words condemned them, and condemn us all: ‘you killed the author of life’. This is the great condescension of the Son of God, and it is too marvellous, too fearful, for us to comprehend.
How silly I am, then! I am stung by the barest of false reputations. I balk at the smallest of misunderstandings. I cling to my status so dearly. But Christ gave it all up: to the obvious humility of human life, in all its tarnished fullness—breathing, urinating, eating, fearing, hoping—but, more than that, to the bitter injustice of the greatest misidentification this world has ever known. The one who made life gave up his life—all amid the taunts of those who jeered at his divine sonship and the supposed glories of his kingdom—and he did so in order that he might build that very kingdom, in all its unutterable beauty: a glory this world has not known.
To walk in the path of Christ requires a humility that goes beyond mere realism, important as that may be. It means being rejected, castigated, cast off if need be: it means being misunderstood, falsely accused, and ignored. It means doing humble things that don’t fit the popular Christian conception of humility—the humility that, ironically, is so praised. It probably means you won’t be famous—though, like Moses, it might lead you to just that. It will look different for different people. But one thing that will be common to us all: it will hurt. And I have barely learnt that.
The Fourth Discourseman
The Four Discoursemen 