Home » pride

Tag: pride

The Mark of Hell

Milton’s devils, by their grandeur and high poetry, have done great harm, and his angels owe too much to Homer and Raphael. But the really pernicious image is Goethe’s Mephistopheles. It is Faust, not he, who really exhibits the ruthless, sleepless, unsmiling concentration upon self which is the mark of hell. The humorous, civilized, sensible, adaptable Mephistopheles has helped to strengthen the illusion that evil is liberating.

-C.S. Lewis, from the original preface to The Screwtape Letters

And that’s as good a definition of pride as I’ve seen: “…the ruthless, sleepless, unsmiling concentration upon self…”

Your Name at the Top of the Page

I know well enough that very few people who are supposedly interested in writing are interested in writing well. They are interested in publishing something, and if possible in making a ‘killing.’ They are interested in being a writer, not in writing. They are interested in seeing their names at the top of something printed, it matters not what. And they seem to feel that this can be accomplished by learning certain things about working habits and about markets and about what subjects are currently acceptable.

-Flannery O’Connor, The Nature and Aim of Fiction, from Mystery and Manners, p.64

I found a lot of Ms. O’Connor’s points to be applicable to preaching and preachers as well. This is only the first example. Everybody wants a paycheck; not everybody wants to work. Everybody wants notoriety; not everybody wants to take notes. Everybody wants a gimmick. Everybody wants to figure out the market and opt for the easy thing that evokes some sort of reaction.

I’m reading nothing these days on the internet other than tirades – from both sides – about a trans on a magazine cover. That’s way too easy. Write something that will change people’s lives. Write something that will make people think. But, wait, that would actually take some hard work.

I say this as a note to self, really.

On Talking About Yourself

The Apostles Creed begins with the pronoun “I”; but it goes on to rather more important nouns and names.

-G.K. Chesterton, The Well and the Shallows

One of my rules of thumb about preachers is that you can almost immediately tell what kind of preacher they are by the introduction of a sermon. If they start out talking about themselves, you might as well run away, and fast. But that’s not always true. There is still a chance that they can move on from the “I.” A small chance, but a chance.

Do you know people who constantly talk about themselves? Are you one of those people yourself? Here’s the question: does the talking get beyond the “I” to ‘rather more important nouns and names’? Notice also the percentage of the Creed devoted to “I” versus the more important nouns and names.

Here’s a goal (for me, but you can use it if you like): always try to move from the “I” to rather more important nouns and names. And try to do it in similar percentage to the Creed.

Self-Preservation: Methuselahitism

A man was enlisting as a soldier at Portsmouth, and some form was put before him to be filled up, common, I suppose, to all such cases, in which was, among other things, an inquiry about what was his religion. With an equal and ceremonial gravity the man wrote down the word “Methuselahite.” Whoever looks over such papers must, I should imagine, have seen some rum religions in his time; unless the Army is going to the dogs. But with all his specialist knowledge he could not “place” Methuselahism among what Bossuet called the variations of Protestantism. He felt a fervid curiosity about the tenets and tendencies of the sect; and he asked the soldier what it meant. The soldier replied that it was his religion “to live as long as he could.”

-G.K. Chesterton, The Methuselahite, from All Things Considered

Methuselah was the oldest man recorded in the Bible – get it?

Whether it is survival of the fittest, questionable medical practice, or a thousand other means of self-preservation, we must be careful that we do not exalt the preservation of (our own) life to deity. We must be careful that our self-preservation does not become the law-keeping of the man-made religion of Methuselatism – which gives us the great commandments of Thou shalt preserve yourself at all costs and Thou shalt fear death above all.

Recent Reading: The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, by L. Frank Baum

I am not going to write anything in depth or profound here, just a couple of takeaways.

First, my kids love this book. My wife has read it to them before, but this is my first time reading it. Second, the movie was more different from the book than I imagined possible. Third, I’m struck mostly in the book by how Baum portrays the humility of some of the main characters.

The Wizard himself is far from humble. He is a liar, a huckster, a shyster, and a scam artist. Yet the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodsman, and the Lion (and Dorothy) all trust him in spite of the fact that they know this. Despite the amount of wrong that he inflicts on them, and to Dorothy most of all, they forgive him. And not only do they forgive him, they still look to him as though he had something genuine to offer them.

And while the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodsman, and the Lion see nothing but the best in the Wizard despite his flaws, they see nothing but the worst in themselves. The Scarecrow is perhaps the brain of the group, yet he insists that he is brainless and hopeless. The Tin Woodsman is loving and merciful and kind, and a persistent crier, yet he yearns for a heart. And the Cowardly Lion is the bravest of any character in the story, all without the courage that he covets. They see the best in others, and the worst in themselves. They are poor in spirit, which makes them rich characters and eager to gain what others can give.

While it is certainly not wrong to call a con-man a con-man, we could still learn some lessons from our friends here, such as In humility count others as more significant than yourselves, and Remove the 2 x 4 out of your own eye before you try to take the toothpick out of someone else’s. If you do so, you will be a very endearing character.

Anthropomorphism, Unlikeness, and Reality in Fiction: Opening the Eyes of the Blind

This is a follow up to my post on the Wind in the Willows.

I didn’t want to include this line of thought in my initial thoughts on the Wind in the Willows. I think it deserves its own post, so here goes.

I often reference C.S. Lewis’ statement to the effect that fantasy literature does not make children (and I would say adults as well, so long as they’re not prone to pure escapism) forget, or despise, the real world. He said basically that a child who reads of an enchanted forest does not thereby begin to hate real forests. Instead all forests take on some of this enchantment. For instance, I’ve never thought of forests in the same way since reading the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings. I’ve never looked at peaceful walks the same since I read the Princess and the Goblin (I’m always ready to sing a goblin song should the proper situation arise). I’ve never looked at lions the same since reading the Chronicles of Narnia. I could go on, but I won’t.

I bring this up here because one might think of a story about a bunch of animals with human characteristics as mere silliness and entertainment (the Narnia books should show the falsity of such a notion). The Wind in the Willows is a perfect example of how a work of fiction (and impossible fiction at that) can actually tune us in to reality in a way, perhaps, more significant than if the book were ‘realistic.’

In Orthodoxy, Chesterton wrote (I’m paraphrasing) that we sometimes need to read of golden apples to remind us that apples are really green (or red, or yellow), and of rivers of wine to remind us that rivers are, in fact, filled with water. In our position, taking these things for granted, we tend to forget such wonderful facts.

In the case of the Wind in the Willows we get anthropomorphism as well as sheer unlikeness, for the animals are made human-like, and yet are utterly different because they remain animals. Yet, taking Chesteron’s point, it is precisely in this fact – the animals are different from us, and yet the same as us (because of the anthropomorphism) – that we are led to see actual reality more clearly. In other words, to paraphrase Chesterton again, sometimes we need prideful, idolatrous toads to remind us that humans are prideful and idolatrous.

It’s absurd to think of a toad obsessed with cars. It’s laugh out loud funny. But we wouldn’t laugh so hard if he were a human. Perhaps then we should be laughing at more humans.

It’s absurd to think of a toad who is arrogant and self-absorbed, always wanting the attention focused on him. It’s hilarious. But it’s not as funny when we see a prideful man. Perhaps it should be.

Idolatry and pride are, you guessed it, idolatry and pride – no matter the situation. They are scandalous regardless of the person or circumstances. Sometimes it takes fantasy (say, talking animals) to point this out to us. When I laugh at toad, when I think of his pomposity and absurdity, I’m laughing at myself – and so are you. The question is, do you realize it? You are that guy.

David had a ‘Wind in the Willows’ moment before the prophet Nathan. We all need moments like that. Sometimes it takes a story that takes us completely out of our comfortable context for it to happen.

2 Samuel 12:7 ¶ Nathan said to David, “You are the man!