PRIDE IS MY PROBLEM
I know it isn’t just my problem; it is my part of our problem that is so difficult to admit to and then change. I cannot fathom why I have a pride problem. I mean, I’ve failed more than I’ve succeeded. I am now well into my final quarter of life. I haven’t the energy, the money, the network, or the hair I once possessed. And yet, there it is – AS BIG AS THE SUN – pride. It is as American as Chevrolet, apple pie, and July Fourth.
Pride, in its subtle guise, can often be seen parading through the competitive corridors of sports. It manifests as a player trumpeting their imminent victory, believing their prowess alone guarantees triumph. Yet, time and again, the world witnesses these self-assured declarations evaporate as swiftly as they are proclaimed, leaving the orator grappling with humility’s sour taste. There always seems to be that moment on the field where a player, immersed in self-adulation, misjudges their capabilities. Perhaps they are convinced of their skill to the point that they begin to celebrate prematurely—a high-stepping prance toward the end zone. Spectators can feel the thrill as they sprint away from defenders, only for that fleeting moment of glory to collapse as the ball slips from their grasp mere yards from victory. The assured touchdown dissolves into a collective gasp of disbelief in a heartbeat.
Such spectacles are not confined to the physical realm but echo through time and parables. The teachings of Jesus, recounted in Luke 18:9-14, present a powerful example. In this narrative, two men enter the sacred grounds of the Temple. There stands the Pharisee, a noteworthy religious figure whose prayer is little more than an exercise in self-exaltation. “Thank you, God,” he intones, “for not making me like those sinners.” His words are a reflection not of gratitude but of vanity, a declaration meant more for the ears of those around him than for the heavens.
Meanwhile, a tax collector bares his soul in sorrow apart and unassuming, seeking divine mercy for his acknowledged transgressions. To the crowd’s astonishment, the humble tax collector, not the boastful Pharisee, earns divine justification.
This theme of humility over pride mirrors the very beginnings of Jesus’ own life. Born not in a grand palace befitting a king but in the humblest of abodes—a stable—his birth narrative is a testament to the transformative power of humility. Surrounded by livestock rather than luxury, Jesus entered the world in conditions that starkly contrasted with the grandiose expectations of a messiah. This humble birth underscores a profound message: greatness is not defined by material opulence but by spirit and purpose.
It is a compelling reminder that the most authentic marks of a leader are found not in wealth or status but in the depth of empathy and humility they carry within their hearts.
These narratives remind us that pride indeed comes before a fall, a concept echoed through the ages. In the wisdom of Proverbs 29:23, we find a similar sentiment: “Pride ends in humiliation, while humility brings honor.” These words serve as a timeless reminder that the path of humility often leads to genuine respect and recognition.
Yet, introspection reveals that the urge to draw attention to ourselves is a universal temptation. At some point or another, many have caught themselves acting with a “look at me” attitude. It is a scenario that feels all too familiar, each of us perhaps being the player on the field, the Pharisee in prayer, hoping to bask in the flicker of admiration. But when that moment of self-congratulation is met with misstep and misjudgment, the fall is both humbling and edifying.
I’ve had this “look at me” attitude, and you probably have as well. But in this insanely me-first moment in time, can we not stop the showboating and simply choose the path of Jesus? Placing others ahead of ourselves.
In pondering why such overconfidence leads to downfall, one might consider Galatians 6:3, which admonishes, “If you think you are too important to help someone, you are only fooling yourself.” This verse reveals a crucial aspect of pride—its ability to delude us into a false sense of grandeur, separating us from the collaborative spirit of humanity. It suggests that in elevating oneself without regard for others, one risks losing touch with the foundation of success: community and humility.
As this narrative unfolds, it becomes increasingly clear that touchdowns or accolades don’t measure life’s true victories but by the quiet grace of humility. The lesson transcends sports, seeping into the everyday tapestry of human experience. Can we not reflect on our own lives in this exploration of pride and humility? Have there been moments when ambition overshadowed gratitude when the desire for acknowledgment clouded the essence of genuine accomplishment?
The history of human endeavor is replete with tales of leaders brought back to earth by their hubris and the quiet rise of those who sought service over applause. Reflecting on these stories, we can find that humility is not only a virtue but a guiding principle that unlocks personal and collective growth.
Understanding the balance between confidence and humility can be transformative for those navigating life’s challenges. Embracing humility does not diminish skill or silence ambition; instead, it frames them within a context that values integrity and respect for others. Doing so paves a path that honors both self and community.
The theme woven through these scriptures highlights a profound and universal truth: Humility is indeed more powerful than pride. Whether on the playing field, in the Church, or within our day-to-day interactions, embracing humility paves the way for true victory, measured not by self-proclaimed success but by the esteem of others and the richness of simple human connection.
This Christmas season, let’s allow our actions to speak with sincerity and celebrate our victories with gratitude. There is wisdom and a lasting legacy in this, echoing the truth that honor and exaltation belong to those who understand the strength found in humility’s quiet grace.
Go in Peace, Chuck
