BitterSweetLife

Shadows and light make for detonation.

There's a time-honored tradition in Christian thought that looks absolutely ludicrous to most outsiders, and, ironically, to most insiders as well. What fuels the trend? In a word, pride. Of course, if pride was the only driving force, we would all be participating in this strange movement—except those of us who have mastered our tendency to think that we assert a kind of planetary gravity; those who've taken the I'm-the-axis-of-the-world idea and pounded it into the ground with graceful, even strokes. To those of us who have done such things, this post will be so boring. You should probably skip it.

But the bizarre tradition is fueled by a kind of latent, persistent conceit. Our observable vanity provides the raw fuel. We climb into the personal vehicle, presumably to drive to work, and find ourselves sailing down the freeway on another ego-trip. Or we do something really kind and thoughtful, and walk away deeply moved at the sight of our own generosity. Internal strutting, if you will. Pride is the catch-all word I'm using to describe all this. I'm going so far to suggest that everyone has it. Well, almost everyone. As I said earlier, a few of you will hopefully have given up on this post by now, realizing it doesn't really resonate.

But now for the next step. The weird, National Geographic-worthy part.

Pride provides an abundance of fuel for the reaction that I'm about to describe. Picture the human heart as a reservoir of untapped fossil fuel the size of Alaska, but the dark, oozing fluid is actually pride. The potential for a huge flare-up is obvious. When a spark is introduced, the ensuing explosion is massive. Massive, and very puzzling to onlookers. The spark, a paradoxical flame that flourishes underground, is called humility. When humility is introduced to pride, the spontaneous reaction rocks the continent.

It's this reaction, the deliberate admixture of pride and humility, that tends to beggar belief in bystanders. Why would anyone light a match in such a dangerously charged atmosphere? Why would anyone strike up humility in a pride-soaked heart? Still, some Christians persist in doing it. G.K. Chesterton, for example, was always one to rock the boat. When the London Times published a series of cultured essays on an interesting humanitarian question, Chesterton wasn't satisfied with the answers he read. "What is wrong with the world today?" queried the Times. G.K. found himself rushing to his writing desk. Grabbing a pencil, he scratched out:

Dear Sirs, What is wrong with the world today? I am.
Sincerely, G.K. Chesterton.

The other authors, I presume, were slightly disconcerted. Chesterton's answer provided a depth of insight that was asymptomatic of society at large. But of course, the man was right. He had done the unthinkable, ugly thing, swallowing humility down, making himself look bad—but yes, he was right.

One of the strangest things we can see, I think, is someone deliberately administering humility to himself. It's almost embarrassing to watch. Part of us is repulsed; in fact, most of us avoid the sight at all costs. It seems like a fantastic, Christian kind of tribal ritual.

A few of us take note. We notice that after the medicine is introduced to the blood stream, the resulting explosions are so much grander than the normal, run-of-the-mill type that pride causes. When pride goes off, we have the sensation that something vital and good is being reduced to ash right along with it. There's an acrid odor. When humility flares up, we're surprised to find that it smells like a rose garden and the afterglow is golden. Perhaps they're an acquired taste, but spiritual fireworks are beautiful.

I've been thinking lately of various ways to up my own humility dosage, and whether I really want to risk it.

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