“Jesus addressed this parable
to those who were convinced of their own righteousness
and despised everyone else.”
Humility is something of a catch-22. If I’m convinced of my own humility, it indicates my pridefulness. Likewise, if I ask mercy for my pridefulness, it indicates my humility. We get a humorous understanding of this when we recognize the irony of the old country song by Mac Davis, “O Lord, it’s hard to be humble, when you’re perfect in every way.” This conundrum is spelled out by C. S. Lewis in Mere Christianity. I quote him at length (emphasis mine):
“Do not imagine that if you meet a really humble man he will be what most people call ‘humble’ nowadays: he will not be a sort of greasy, smarmy person, who is always telling you that, of course, he is nobody. Probably all you will think about him is that he seemed a cheerful, intelligent chap who took a real interest in what you said to him. If you do dislike him it will be because you feel a little envious of anyone who seems to enjoy life so easily. He will not be thinking about humility: he will not be thinking about himself at all.
If anyone would like to acquire humility, I can, I think, tell him the first step. The first step is to realise that one is proud. And a biggish step, too. At least, nothing whatever can be done before it. If you think you are not conceited, it means you are very conceited indeed.”
In homage to Lewis, Rick Warren is credited for, “Humility is not thinking less of yourself, but thinking of yourself less.” There is a tension in this, too. If we’re not thinking about ourselves, how do we recognize our own pride? I have had, and still do have, quite a bit of pride. In the Air Force, a common saying was, “God is my copilot.” I may have even said it a time or two, until a fellow officer pointed out the conceit of the arrangement. God should be my pilot. I laughed—and I never said it again. Yet, without reflecting on our lives, even examining our consciences, we remain unaware of our own reality: we are sinners in need of God. True self knowledge and recognition of our dependence on God, our right relationship with God in love, are core to spirituality.
And, so, I return again to St. Teresa of Avila, Doctor of the Church, from her Interior Castle, “Self knowledge is so important that, even if you were raised right up to the heavens, I should like you never to relax your cultivation of it; so long as we are on this earth, nothing matters more to us than humility.” True self knowledge is humility. In a very profound sense, seeing things as they really are is humility. Truly seeing ourselves and our relationship to God is humility. Pride is a lie. How do we know the difference?
Jesus is the one who reveals this reality to us. As the Second Vatican Council stated, “Christ the new Adam, in the very revelation of the mystery of the Father and of his love, fully reveals man to himself and brings to light his most high calling.” St. John Paul II expanded the meaning of this revelation: “Man cannot live without love. He remains a being that is incomprehensible for himself, his life is senseless, if love is not revealed to him, if he does not encounter love, if he does not experience it and make it his own, if he does not participate intimately in it.” This is where the Pharisee and the tax collector are at odds. The Pharisee places himself at the center and is far from love. The tax collector places God at the center and is close to love. The Pharisee believes a lie. The tax collector knows the truth. The Pharisee is full of pride. The tax collector, humble. With the tax collector, we can take the first, and perhaps most significant, step toward humility, “O God, be merciful to me a sinner.” Ain’t that the truth?