So, how am I helped by circumstances, events, words, people that humble (or even humiliate) me in some way? My May 1st entry provides some context for this question, just in case you haven’t read that yet. Consider this: for much of my life I have been reminded by others both in friendly ways and in not so friendly ways that I am a rather skinny individual. The fact is that at one point or another in virtually every day of my life, I think about this physical attribute and often wish that it was different.
About a year ago, I was strangely encouraged during an interview with Chris Rock (African American comedian and actor for those who may not recognize the name) that I heard on National Public Radio’s daily program “Fresh Air.” Terry Gross, who was conducting the interview, acknowledged the fact that Chris is a skinny man, and asked him if he thinks much about it. In one of the very few serious statements that he made in the interview, Chris told Terry that he thinks about it every day.
This admission made me wonder if perhaps many or even most people think in a dissatisfied way about some aspect of their physical appearance regularly, if not daily. I was comforted to think that I am not alone in this particular insecurity, but also disturbed at the realization that this self-awareness occupies so much of my thought life. When I started to explore the idea that “what humbles me helps me,” I immediately turned my attention to this arena of physical insecurity.
I definitely feel lowered each time I think of my own appearance in comparison with any number of toned, muscular men that cross my path either in the world of entertainment or in real life. And there is no getting around the fact that our culture elevates the buff and humiliates the bony (with the possible exception of runway models . . . though even they have taken some flack for their appearance in recent months). The fact is that there are loads of physical attributes displayed in the appearance of most normal men and women that don’t fit with the commonly held cultural ideal of beauty. Given the standards of a pop culture that seems to scream at us wherever we turn, it is unsurprising that many people don’t feel very sexy at all most of the time.
So how does this sentiment help? Although it must be acknowledged that these standards are rooted in a false vision of beauty, and that our physical attributes were fixed in the sovereign will of God long before we were born, for the average Joe and Jane, these truths supply little comfort when one is faced with his or her own likeness in the mirror every day. But, for the person pursuing humility, this encounter with my own physical “flaws” can serve as a daily dose of antibiotic for the ailment of pride.
Though some may feel uncomfortable with drawing spiritual benefit from a lie (specifically the lie that I am physically flawed, or that physical appearance even matters much at all), and although it would clearly be preferable to simply convince yourself of the truth (that God made you the way you are and that you are beautiful to him and to your mother, and that inner beauty is more important anyway), I am becoming convinced that one way to weaken the effect of a persistent form of self-deception in my life is to see how I can use it as a springboard toward holiness; in this case manifested as humility. (I apologize for the super-long sentence . . . my high school English teacher, Ms. Barton, would be horrified.)
So I’m looking in the mirror and I’m thinking, “Boy, are you skinny!” And at that moment, I have at least two options in front of me. I can carry that thought with me into the day, letting the pride within me that desperately longs to be seen and admired and considered attractive keep me feeling like a lanky loser. Or, I can decide to dance . . . the dance of lowliness that is. I can acknowledge the obvious, that I’m not the
And as I pummel my pride a bit with this thought process, I can turn to the cross once again and remind myself of the awesome image of the only man in all of history who was anything more than an average Joe. What he came to offer had nothing to do with anything so shallow or fleeting as physical appearance or sex appeal. He walked among us as one from whom springs of living water flowed. Unlike me, he could satisfy the deep longings of the men and women with whom he interacted. He could see beneath the surface of things, completely ignoring what people and society tried to demand of him, and recognizing instead the great joy that accompanied obedience to his Father.
And so, what humbles me helps me. Awareness of my physical flaws can remind me that I still don’t see with the eyes of Christ quite yet; that what I value doesn’t always line up with what he values; that my longings can still be shallow and misplaced; that my Redeemer still has a lot of redeeming to do. If I choose to dance the dance of lowliness and gladly welcome those things that lower me, occasional reminders of my less attractive attributes may serve as healthy blows to pride and helpful building blocks for humility in my life.
Lord, may it be so for me today.
