Humility's
Self-esteem
Introduction
(The exaltation of humility)
Jesus attacks the Scribes and the Pharisees for their showy-ness, saying, “They do everything just to be seen by others. Look how they enlarge their phylacteries and lengthen the tassels on their pray shawls. See how they grab the important places at banquets and the reserved seats in the synagogues.” He ends his tirade with a favorite exhortation of his: "Whoever exalts self shall be humbled, and whoever humbles self shall be exalted" (Mt 23: 5-5, 12).
He uses the same
exhortation to end a parable about two men who go up to the temple to pray, one
is a Pharisee and the other is a tax collector. When the Pharisee gets up to pray (or rather gets up to inform
God) he brags saying, “Oh God, I do
my Shema-prayer thrice daily; I do the required fasting; I do the
prescribed tithing.” Then he thanks
God’s that he’s not like others, “greedy, dishonest, and immoral.” But when the tax collector gets up to pray,
he goes down to pray, i.e. he bends down close to the ground,
close to the good earth from where
“humility” gets it “humus.” There’s no
“I do”; there is only a quiet “I am”: “Oh God, I am a sinner. Be merciful to me.” And
that avowal is even at peace with itself.
It is the tax collector and not the Pharisee, says Jesus, who goes home
that night at peace with God. Again there is that exhortation of Jesus:
“Whoever exalts self will be humbled, and whoever humbles self will be
exalted" (Lk 18: 9-14).
On a Sabbath Jesus is
eating at the home of an important Pharisee. The people are carefully watching
him, and he is carefully watching them. He notices how some of the quests are
grabbing the seats of honor. So he
tells a parable about the predicament you can get yourself into when you do
that: a person more important than you
might show up, and then the host will have to ask you to step down and make
room for the unexpected quest. Instead,
the parable says, you should first seek the lowest place, and then the host
will come up to you and say, “Ascende superius,” "My friend, go up
higher." One chuckles a bit here, for the parable seems to be saying, “If
you want to get to the top, don’t do it blatantly; instead be more tricky and
clever about it.” The parable ends again with that exhortation of Jesus:
“Whoever exalts self shall be humbled, and whoever humbles self shall be
exalted" (Lk 14: 7-11). There’s nothing tricky or clever about that.
Citing the example of Christ, Christianity has always exalted humility. And no one does that more eloquently than St. Paul:
"He
humbled himself becoming obedient,
Obedient
unto death,
Yes,
death on the cross.
Wherefore
God hath exalted him,
And
hath given him a name
Above
every other name."
(Phil 2:8-9)
(and
the “dummies”)
This exalted sense of humility, for which Christianity is famous but also infamous, is offensive to human nature. It is especially offensive to our culture today, which simply exalts the exalted and humbles the humble. Period.
We are an admiration society. We stand in insane admiration of our “cultural stars,” those great “all-stars” of ours who are as numerous as the stars in the sky: rock stars, body stars, money star, so-called rap stars, movie stars, golf stars, football stars, basketball stars, soccer stars. Insane indeed is our adoration of them. So in a soccer game in Liverpool, England, or in a rock concert in Madison, Wisconsin, hoards of so-called human beings can slip into a stampede mode, and trample to death or to desperation scores and scores of fellow fans.
Our admiration society divides us (or better yet, “programs us”) into the “stars,” on the one hand, who are to be adored, and on the other hand, into the “non-stars” (that’s you and me) who are to do the adoring. And we, great “non-stars,” dummies that we are, and for the most part financially poor, -- we pour wheel-barrels full of dollar bills into the coffers of the “all-stars.” We, great “non-stars,” dummies that we are, and perhaps low on self-esteem, -- we bestow heaps of adulation upon the all-stars whose egos already have more than they can handle. In such a culture, surfeited with insane adoration of the all-stars, humility does not fare well.
In opposition to our cultural
all-stars (those guys who shine with
“me, me, me”) there stand the Gospel all-stars (those guys
and gals who shine with humility). Those Gospel all-stars shining with
humility aren’t wimpy or shy. Nor do
they make us feel uncomfortable as we notice them trying very hard not to be
noticed as they seek the lowest place at the banquet. Gospel all-stars shining with humility aren’t great
because they made a million bucks or produced one of the ten top favorite hits
or won an Oscar. They’re not great
because they sport pretty faces or sexy bodies. They’re not great because they wield a
mighty gulf club. They are great for great reasons. They are great for good
reasons. And most of the time they are great for little reasons that
aren’t very showy at all and often are even unnoticed.
I cite immediately the
example of Mother Theresa of Calcutta (this coming Wednesday, Sept 5th, is the
fourth anniversary of her death). That
little wrinkled up old lady was not great because of her pretty Oil of Olay face.
She was great for nothing more nor less than this: that Good Samaritan picked
up dying people off the Streets of
India whom others were passing by on their way to Jericho. There was no show in that except perhaps the
show she was staging for a society of human beings who don’t care for other
human beings. She’s a gospel star
shining with humility but she doesn’t shine in our cultural sky. Oh, our
culture will toss her a moment or two in the evening news, which will even make
us say, “Oh, she’s such a dear.” But
that’s light years away from the celebration our culture accords Madonna.
When you cite an example as singular as that
of Mother Theresa, you run the risk of giving the impression that a Gospel
all-star is a diamond as rare as the great “Star of India.” That’s not true.
Like our cultural stars, they too are as numerous as the stars in the heavens,
but they don’t shine in our cultural sky.
But they’re there, and we have only to look up to see them.
Not long ago, I was speaking with a young man
who is, in fact, a soccer all-star. He wants to prepare for marriage next fall.
I know his father well for many years. He is my mentor for my web-site, and he
keeps my nose to the grind. He has a marvelous array of unselfish interests. He
teaches at the University, and for years has helped out at St. Benedict’s
Community Meal, and he makes St. Vincent de Paul visits to the needy. As we
were talking I could not resist the temptation to ask the young man: “Do you
realize what a terrific father you have?” (Sometimes kids don’t.) When he immediately
answered “yes” (with no pause to look for the answer) I immediately knew that I
had not asked the wrong question.
(Sometimes kids know something about their parents that we don’t know.)
I had been talking mostly about his father because I deal mostly with him, but
then he interrupted saying, “My mother too is terrific.” Then, indeed, I knew
that I had not asked the wrong question.
Again, Gospel all-stars shining with humility but not shining in our
cultural sky.
I don’t know where I
picked up this anecdote; all I know is that I sucked it up like a sponge when I
came upon it, remembering nothing else.
A dental professor was giving his students an exam. First Q: How many teeth do we humans have in
a lifetime? A: 20 primary and 32
permanent teeth, 52 in all. Second Q:
What are the front teeth called and why? A: “Incisors” because that are for
biting into. Third Q: Why are teeth important?
Etc. etc. Finally there came the last question. It came not from the
book of dentistry but from the book of life:
“What is the name of the cleaning lady who has kept this classroom clean
for us all year long?” It was a clever message for the kids before him in whose
sky only the cultural stars shine. It was a clever message about being not just
a successful dentist but also and especially about being a successful human
being.
Critical self -esteem
In our admiration
society, the all-stars, those “me, me, me boys,” lead you and me to themselves.
They say, “Look, here I am! Look, see
how good I am! Look, see what I can do and you can’t!” That can only make us dummies feel even
dummier still. All the really important people in our lives did not lead
us to themselves but rather to ourselves. They said to you and me, “Look, there you
are! Look, see how good you are! Look, see what you can do!” The really
important people in our lives affirmed not themselves but us. And that
leads to good self-esteem, which is really a gift that the people around
us, especially our parents and siblings, kiss into us. They hug it into us
(“Have you hugged your kids today?”).
Self-esteem (that good feeling of feeling good about ourselves) is absolutely critical. If we have it, we have everything, though we might perhaps have very little else. If we don’t have it, though we might have everything else, we don’t have much at all. So give your kids a good education, a nice home to live in, good food to eat, the latest electronic toys, but, for God’s sake, give them first and foremost good self-esteem. And if that’s about all you can afford to give them, don’t worry: by hook or by crook they will manage to survive and they will survive well.
When we feel good about
ourselves, we don’t need to lengthen the tassels on our prayer shawls or bedeck
ourselves with expensive designer clothes and smudge our faces with layers of
make-up. When we feel good about ourselves, we don’t need to sit in the
important places at banquets or in synagogues nor do we need to sit in
important Alfa Romeo’s or Porsches. Through
self-esteem our hearts know that what’s important is already in us. All that is so freeing.
At the end of the day,
after all is said and done, we come to this strange bottom line: true humility
is born not out of a low opinion of our self but out of good self-esteem.
(T’was
the lack of a kiss)
Self-esteem is critical and its stakes are high. They can range from a petty disorder, like needing to brag that you are “not like the rest of men,” to a disorder so great as to require detention.
A poem read many years
ago, whose name and author is lost in the dim corridors of my memory, has a
father walking with his son in hand, across the sprawling campus of a mental
institution in Boston, Mass. It stretches on and on, as does the huge building
housing hundreds and hundreds and maybe thousands of poor dear
"crazy" people. (They were called “crazy houses” in those days.) As
they're walking along, the father’s thoughts are saying to himself: "My
son has the strangest dogma in his little head; he believes that every ache and
pain, every scratch and wound can be healed by a kiss! Such funny thoughts in
little people!" But suddenly the father stops, he pauses and wonders
whether perhaps he son isn't right after all. His wonderment is packed into the
last line:
"I
wonder whether
'Twas
the lack of a kiss,
That
made the State of Mass.
Need
a house like this!"
T’was
the lack of a kiss
That
made the Pharisee
Brag
like this.