I do some things I don’t want to do. And I just feel or think about some others, as well. So do you. We all suffer at the hands of a human nature that just won’t evolve fast enough, change completely enough, that we might more consistently live by the moral and ethical standards of our place and time: our cultures and societies, our philosophies and faiths. Our individual personalities, the realities of people living, struggling in society—the ways of the world—continually bend us and move us in directions we’d rather not go, cause us instinctively, or at least involuntarily, to think, feel, or respond in disheartening ways that shame us (even if only privately), that cause us to wonder if we are frauds to ourselves as well as others.
Anger has its place, I guess—a useful place in limiting aggressive or hurtful behavior wrongly directed against others. And then there is that “righteous anger” that calls the self-righteous, judgmental, or superficially faithful to authentic life in God. But so much of all anger is unnecessary, misdirected or dysfunctional, and it usually creates more hurt and does more harm than it curtails. And even if outwardly suppressed or managed, it still contaminates and consumes us from the inside out. If only we could more instinctively, earnestly forgive, find empathy, and move on.
Resentfulness often takes us by another path to the same sad end, lost to love and joy, lost to ourselves and others. And this is especially true when born of the jealous, worldly or carnal desires of our eyes and hearts, desires which in themselves move us to thought or action that inevitably produces guilt or sadness. If we could only more instinctively be accepting of who we are and grateful for our place in life, our opportunities and limits, the cards we’ve been dealt. If only we could be more instinctively motivated by gratitude, love and caring. (And if we could also more often forgive ourselves.)
And then there is pride. What more can be written about pride? Of course, we’re not talking of a healthy sense of self-respect or confidence. We’re not talking of a healthy element of joy and happiness. We’re talking of the inability of one to feel fulfilled or successful or accomplished unless someone else feels less so, about not being able to feel good about ourselves unless someone else feels worse. At the extreme, we’re talking of arrogant presumptuousness, hubris.
But pride can also be a deceiving, seductive quality. Rationalization and denial are its servants. As with so many other subtle enemies of our self, it’s so much easier for others to see in us excessive pride, when we cannot see it or admit it to ourselves. Oh sure, we recognize those occasions when our reactions, or at least our thoughts, go over the edge. We are a little guilty about it, too, of course. After all, it’s demeaning to others, makes them feel like less than they should, and visits more harm on them than good on us. But those are infrequent, exceptional circumstances and don’t define who we really are, right? Right? If only we could be more instinctively humble and compassionate in relationship with others.
The Christian Apostle Paul poignantly acknowledges in the 7th chapter of his letter to the Romans that these are troubling issues of identity that mankind has wrestled with through the ages. Without hesitation or excuse he confesses, “For that which I am doing, I do not understand; for I am not practicing what I would like to do, but doing the very thing I hate.” But then he begins the 8th chapter offering absolution, freedom: “There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” I don’t know if the span of my life is enough time to understand all this, and to fully appreciate this promise.
First written: October 2007
© Gregory E. Hudson 2007
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