The Humility Spiral
Link to video: https://www.facebook.com/138797592802860/videos/980121995835979/
Clare L. Hickman
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church
September 27, 2020—Proper 21A
Phil 2:1-13; Matt 21:23-32
Hear the word of Paul to the church at Philippi: There is encouragement in Christ; there is consolation in love; there is union in the Spirit; and compassion and sympathy in all three. So, make my joy complete: enter into Christ. Enter into love. Enter into the Spirit, so that you too might be filled with these things, and be bound together in one body! (Phil 2:1)
The word of Paul to Philippi. The word of Paul to us, as he explains how to do this: Live in Christ, and allow him to teach you how on earth you might (let’s see, what was that?) “do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves” (Phil 2:3).
I don’t know about you, but it’s definitely going to require living in Jesus and having him live in me to get that done! Because humility is a tricky one, and many of us are more likely to ricochet between pridefulness and shame than to manage the kind of self-emptying that Paul is talking about, the kind of self-emptying which then gets filled with God.
When I’ve talked about this before, I’ve used the example of athletes who point to the skies after they score, to give God the credit for their prowess. Which is great, but I think it only hits half the equation. I wish they would also point to the heavens after they fumble, to remind themselves and us that everything we do rests in God’s glory and God’s mercy. We are blessed, we are forgiven, we are challenged, we are loved.
To allow the humility of Jesus to dwell in us, we need to surrender both halves: the part of our identity tied too closely to our successes, and the part of our identity tied too closely to our failures.
Again, easier said than done. Maybe another example will be helpful: a non-sports one this time.
Liz James, a writer who lives with her two bright, articulate, somewhat sarcastic sons, describes her inner dialogue one day. Her older son proclaimed that he had an assignment to write about something that happened in his life, and he was writing about “that time we all got Hepatitis.” She thought to herself, If I were a self-differentiated, not anxious mother, I’d say “That’s nice, honey.” Or … if I were a controlling but in a goodish way mother, I might say, “That’s nice, honey. You know what I was thinking about? Do you remember that time we all went on that family train trip filled with love? Or when I chased those robbers?”
What she actually said was: “Make sure you write that it was Hepatitis A. The ‘A’ part is important. And write about how we didn’t spread it despite all the people we had over for dinner while contagious.”
And then she thought, “At least he’s not writing about the bed bugs, too.” At which point her younger son piped up: “I’m writing about the bed bugs.”
(Of course he is).
Well … “Be sure to say how they were here when we moved in. They’re not our bed bugs.” Which prompted the unanswerable response: “Whose bed bugs are they?”[i]
Whose indeed? We certainly don’t want to claim ownership of such things, but we do have responsibility to do something about them, for our own sake and for others as well. That goes for literal bedbugs, and more metaphorical ones, like forgetfulness, or disorganization, or a tendency to blurt out opinions that hurt other people’s feelings. You have custody of those things, but they don’t have to be fully yours, to the extent that they become the measure of your worth (that they become YOU).
Same goes with good things. Liz goes on to talk about her lifelong discomfort at accepting compliments on her talents or appearance. I didn’t create these things, she thought, so I don’t really deserve the credit. It helped her to think about those bedbugs: like them, her talent wasn’t exactly hers. But she did have custody of it, and the responsibility to make something of it, for her own sake and that of others.[ii]
Custody. But not sole custody. Everything we are also rests in God. So in a way, what we have is joint custody, of both our gifts and our … bedbugs. I like that. It helps. It feels spacious somehow. So that I am holding it all more lightly, and making more room for Christ within me. Which is good, because more Jesus will help me continue holding things lightly, not taking too much credit or too much blame for it all.
Which is really good, because when I break my obsession with how I am doing and how that reflects on my worth, I am turned outwards toward the world. As Paul continues in his letter, “Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others” (Phil 2:4). This is the unity and compassion that grow from a healthy humility. And it’s the kind of active, servant love that helps keep us from returning to a destructive focus on our own ups and downs. It’s a spiral. Like a shame spiral, except the polar opposite. It’s a humility spiral, as your sense of Jesus within you emboldens you to release your death grip on your successes, release your death grip on your failures; and that creates space within you for Jesus to dwell more fully; and that fills you with his love that calls us to concern for others before concern for ourselves; and that in turn reminds us how non-essential our successes and failings were in the first place.
A humility spiral. Catching us up in to the mind and the heart of Christ. Filling us with encouragement and consolation and sharing and sympathy and joy. Thanks be to God, and thanks be to Paul, for this timeless word to the church. May it be so. Amen.
[i] Liz James, blog post https://rebelwithalabelmaker.com/2012/10/18/lessons-from-the-bedbugs-on-how-to-accept-compliments/
[ii] Ibid