Pride

A New Spiritual Discipline

“‘Well done, good and faithful servant!...Come and share your master’s happiness!’”

~ Matthew 25:21 ~

Why do I feel ashamed for what I’ve accomplished? When did I become conditioned to downplay what I finish?

I will toil and churn a project for months, sometimes years, relentlessly persist past every obstacle, whether self-inflicted or outside my choice, defy my lack of confidence or the odds others placed on me to fail, fight through fatigue and confusion, confront my will’s defiance and conquer it with strain bolstered by divine strength, only to finish and feel foolish of the pride that starts to swell. My wife or close friend will say, “Shane, well done. Seriously, that’s not small. Well done!” But I reject the compliment in service of something holier. (Or so I think). Something more along the lines of humility. (Or so I hope). I refuse their overtures with a smug religiosity that pompously proclaims, “Celebrate a victory? I would never. Could never. For I am a child of God. And we look down our nose at those that need something as trivial as satisfaction over a job well done.”

And yet, I’m beginning to learn that such a rejection of pride in projects accomplished and tasks overcome is anything but holy. Anything but “God-like.” I mean, in Genesis 1, the first freaking chapter of the Bible (for crying out loud), God gawks over his work without restraint and with a repetition often overlooked. And I’m not quite ready to accuse him of sin just yet.

In the beginning, when all was naught, canvassed with chaos and void of meaning, God pronounced the sacred canticle, “Let there be light.” Flickers as faint as fireflies slowly began to fan into flame the crucial elements essential for life to unfold. Light birthed from God’s words illumine his smile like faces strobing with the flames of a bonfire. His eyes widen as darkness humbly withdraws so light can shine center stage, graciously ceding the foundational division of “day” and “night,” evening and morning.

And then, God reflected. Stood still for a divine moment. Took a breath, and with deep pride, pronounced that his work was “good” (Gen. 1:4).

A similar pattern unfolds in the six days that follow. Seven times, actually. God speaks “Let there be…” and his work unfurls with passion and purity, division and devotion, creativity and creation upon creation, prompting God to marvel. To smile at his deeds. To proclaim in sacred scripture the sanctimonious refrain, “And God saw that it was good.” And even once, that it was “very good” (Gen. 1:31).

How should we respond to such elaborate and persistent displays of arrogance? Or should I say holiness? Are we confused? Or is he?

I don’t remember being rebuked as a child for being proud of what I created or what I accomplished. I don’t remember coming home from Sunday school with a picture smattered with colors unencumbered by the thick black lines crafted, probably by an adult, to guide me with boundaries. Or should I say confine me? Either way, when I sat in the backseat of my car recounting the lesson from children’s church and then offering my masterpiece as evidence of the tale, my mother not once remarked, “Well, Shane, don’t get too excited. First of all, your coloring is remarkably chaotic and unrealistic. And more importantly, don’t celebrate what you accomplish, otherwise you cultivate pride that will send you straight into the fires of hell.”

No. She tenderly lied to me. Graciously sowed seeds of pride ever deeper into my malleable mind saying, “Well my goodness, son! This is wonderful! Did you do all of this yourself? Wow, look at all those colors. Great job, Shane! I am so proud of you son.”

She’d hold the picture close to her chin, inspecting each scribble, and then, beyond belief, when we got home, she’d take my artwork and affix it to our refrigerator with a magnet where for days and weeks on end my Sunday school coloring was museum-ed for all to see.

As a child, I felt loved by her praise. But as an adult, I’d have to confront it. Belittle it. Christian culture demands it. Such compliments and accolades must, now, be rejected to ensure all onlookers that I’ve not lost my divine humility to the all-consuming fire of pride. So, was my mom discipling me in holiness or deceiving me with sin? Cultivating divine qualities or sowing a sinister vice?

It’s often overlooked that there is a difference between pride and arrogance. Arrogance is the antithesis of depression. Depression suppresses how valuable you truly are, lowering yourself far beyond the worth God graced you with in Christ and in the beginning. Arrogance, on the other hand, exaggerates your worth, elevating yourself far beyond the worth God bestowed on you, which wasn’t small to begin with.

Both actions assail the self. Ignore God’s gift by distorting your worth. Both court sin. Both sourced by the same insecurity, or lack of confidence, in God’s word that ought to settle us into who we are in him: treasured, valued, worthy—whether we’re productive or not.

I think there is, in fact, more significance to this conversation than I first assumed. Because even to this day, as I sit squarely in mid-life, I find it hard to discern the difference between my work and me, from what flows out of me and myself.

For years I’ve struggled with seeing value in myself. Not sure where I belong. Or if I’m worthy of pursuit. I lambast myself for every misstep, believing this is what it means to be a good Christian. A good son. A good and faithful servant of Jesus Christ. Defining self-denial, to some extent, as self-loathing.

Now, this isn’t original to me, for the saints and sages who’ve shaped me most all tend to speak down about themselves and to themselves. They live in a “humility” that’s more like a divine depression, where the more harsh you are to yourself the more holy you become. Or at least appear.

Ironically, though, I never see in scripture where God agrees. Where God says the same disparaging things about me. About us. He seems to celebrate us, labeling us as “beloved” (Eph. 5:1), “co-heirs with Christ” (Rom. 8:17), and even “friends” (Jn. 15:15).

Even more intriguing, I never see God speak down about himself. Or to himself. Never mock or belittle his accomplishments, in Christ or before. God celebrates, often without restraint or apology.

But I’m not sure I have the courage to do the same. In our churches or in earshot of other Christians. Online or otherwise. I’m not brave enough to imitate God’s holy pride in his work.

In fact, three times or so I started to write a list of things I was proud of. Projects I’ve finished in the past few weeks, months, and years. Things like “building a Master’s program,” “publishing a couple of books,” “healing where I was broken,” “graduating my children into adulthood and ministry.” Yet each time I started, I stopped. Fearful. Afraid of how others would read it. Receive it. Perceive it. Judge it with familiar comments like:

“What an arrogant jerk.”

I know.

“What, does he think he’s better than everyone else?”

No, but I can see how it comes across that way.

“Wow, he really thinks he’s the hero of his story, doesn’t he?”

No. Actually quite the opposite. I’m conditioned, for better or worse, by a Christian culture that celebrates little, if anything. That downplays major victories. That transforms them into entry points of sin instead of celebration. That perpetuates a definition of humility that’s anything but holy. For in the beginning, God created and called it good. He worked, and then celebrated. Right?

I mean, I don’t know. Maybe this is all just a ridiculous ploy and a sinister plea to publicly advance my ego. An excuse to pander for praise and inflate my status.

Or maybe I just discovered a new spiritual discipline: pride. If so, I guess I ought to celebrate that.

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