A good dictionary will tell us that humility has several different meanings: The first is “the quality of being humble,” which makes me look up humble: “not proud or arrogant, modest”; the second definition listed for humility is “having a feeling of insignificance, inferiority,” and the third is “being courteously respectful.”
So humility can mean anything from “not arrogant” to “feeling inferior” to “being polite,” but that lexicographical diversity doesn’t help me know what the goodness of humility could look like in my life, so I get out the Bible and Andrew Murray’s humility and Benedict’s Rule as practical guidelines.
In the Bible I read that I am supposed to “walk humbly with . . . God” (Micah 6:8), that I am supposed to confess my sin to God, that I should take being wronged patiently, that I should submit to authority, that I should be corrected graciously, that I should accept a lowly place, that I should be grateful for my blessings, that I should forgive, that I should love all people, that I should serve others, and that I should always value Christ above all else.
Andrew Murray writes that humility is a “continuous” and “entire dependence on God.”
And Benedict devotes his longest chapter (seven) to this spiritual discipline. He writes: “The first degree of humility is obedience without delay. This is the virtue of those who hold nothing dearer to them than Christ.”
I am thankful for such good teachers because over the years they have helped to correct my erroneous understanding of humility. I got stuck in definition number two: “a feeling of insignificance, inferiority.”
I used to think that humility was hating my self. No matter how many sermons I heard or how many books I read in which the virtues of my unique, snowflake-like soul’s beauty were extolled, I never quite internally got with that “God-loves-you-and-you’re-beautiful-in-his-sight” program.
I don’t know why, either. I suppose I could flatten myself against a wise counselor’s couch for a few decades and analyze my childhood and my psyche and come up with some sinewy ideas of “why.”
But I suspect that the main reason is that I am a rather tender-hearted human being and therefore I find plenty of reasons to feel uncomfortable with myself just because I am alive and breathing.
I mean—I sometimes forget about the plight of those in Haiti. How can I put one foot in front of the other while there is such suffering in Haiti? Sure, I can donate to the point of not buying cafe lattes at Starbucks for a few weeks, but still.
I mean—how can I for even a moment forget the hungry in my own town and drive down the highway to my various appointments totally immersed in the awesome sounds of Owl City, especially track seven of Ocean Eyes, to the obsessive point that my daughter said to me recently, “Mom, you know I like Owl City, but I’m kind of getting tired of it.”
I mean—I often make mistakes. I can be short with my husband or my children. I can complain about coffee stains left NOT BY ME on my white kitchen countertops.
And, even more incriminating, I often think wrong things inside myself. And I don’t mean “wrong things” in the sense of the-world-tells-me-they-are-wrong. I mean “wrong” in the sense that all human decency and all that is healthy and joyful in this world and the gentle and firm voice of Christ in me says, “Woah, Girlfriend, not good—let go of that poison. Why are you dealing in hatred [or self-pity or criticism of others or envy or grudge-clinging or fear]?”
But now I see that humility is not a total faith in my own lack of worth but is instead a complete dependence on God.
Humility is also not a lack of confidence. It is not self-hatred of any sort. It is also not inviting bullies to turn your heart into a shuttlecock and smack it laughingly over the net of daily life. No.
It is also not selling yourself short inside your soul in soundbites like this: I’m not smart. I’m stupid. I’m worthless. I’m pathetic. I deserve nothing good.
Now I see such thoughts as useless. They aren’t to be condemned as “bad”; they are to be neglected because they are boring and useless. Why did I ever find them interesting? They are as surely a sign of self-absorption as the ugly, strutting kind of arrogance is.
My friend D. W. told me once that if self-absorption were a stick, at one end we find self-loathing and at the other end, arrogance. But both are self-absorption. And neither is a particularly joyful state.
I used to think to myself, Well, at least I’m not arrogant, but now I see that self-loathing is just as awful. I don’t know why I ever found it attractive.
Humility is instead resting in Christ. It is becoming the nothing of love in order to receive the everything of God. It is true intimacy with the divine mystery who is a Person whom we can all know.
Humility is being willing to be taught. Humility is being willing to be open. It is being willing to forgive my self and others, too. It is being willing to remain vulnerable, no matter how often my own immaturity injures me and no matter how many times others accidentally or purposefully wound my heart.
It is so easy to close up then. But I want the humility of a broken, open heart. I crave the humility of the loving, aching soul.
So humility must also be servanthood, the willingness to serve others in love.
This servanthood is not the same as “helping” others. Who wants to be “helped”? I have been helped before when I was down and struggling.
I prefer to be “loved” every time. Love comes alongside you. “Help” comes from above, from a supposedly “superior” creature, but no human being is superior to another. We are all in the same boat, rowing against the wind, trying to love each other in the process.
I want, in short, yes, to be like Jesus, but also to be like my son, John. He is eight. When he was four, I would say to him, “John, you sure are handsome.”
He would answer without hesitation, “I know.” And then he was off to play or to be kind to his sister or to offer to help me take the clothes out of the dryer or to give me a hug, his admission forgotten.
I would marvel. I would contemplate why he could say that with such confidence and with such a lack of self-consciousness. In my friendship with God I have long longed to have such a combination of confidence and un-self-consciousness as my son has in the love my husband and I have for him.
John can answer in that simple but profound statement, “I know,” because he feels completely loved. He totally trusts his father and me. He feels safe in the knowledge that he is part of (yes, imperfect but) a very caring family.
So humility is accepting love. It is considering life from another person’s perspective. Humility is embracing that I am one member of God’s global, non-exclusive family.
Humility is not bitterly grimacing and putting up the neon “CLOSED” sign on my heart. It is accepting moment by moment that God loves me and being kind to my own self. It is also reaching out through my own pain as God nudges me, to love others. It is also not accepting abuse but respecting my self and having healthy boundaries because God loves me.
So “be humble” is an invitation to intimacy with Christ. It is also (to my student’s mind) a huge assignment from the greatest teacher, God. It’s like daily homework. Thankfully, the Holy Spirit is here to help me. Whenever I consider how important humility is and how much I have to learn about it, I realize that humility is the foundation of everything good in this world and that humility is another way of pronouncing the word love.