On Pride (or, Round And Round And Round She Goes)

I was homeless for a lot of years. In January of 2011 I was living on the street in Wheeling, West Virginia. That was a bitter winter. A labor pool across the river in Steubenville had gotten me a temp job at a factory in Wheeling: one week on the 4pm to 2am shift, feeding huge metal sheets into huge metal sheet-folding machines. That week, my only desire in this world was to save up enough for a bus ticket to someplace warm.

So one morning I was in the nearest Catholic church, I forget the name of the place, using their bathroom because it was warm and low-traffic. I brushed my teeth and washed my armpits in the sink, and I was just changing into some fresh socks when this old man walked in. Not a priest or a janitor, just some random parishioner in a ball cap. And he saw me sitting on the floor tying my shoes—saw my duffel bag and my three coats and my two weeks worth of stubble—and he said, "Where you workin'?" And because I was taken off-guard and I felt like I'd somehow done something wrong, I said, "Factory up the street." And that was the whole conversation. He stood there looking down at me and I got up and walked past him and left. I don't know why he said that. I don't know what was in his heart. But my heart heard him saying, "Lazy no-good bum oughtta get hisself a job like the rest of us decent God-fearin' folk." What I can say for sure is that he did not turn as I left and say, "Hey, kid—you need any help?"

It's sorrowful to think of my mom lying awake scathed with worry for me. It's terrifying to think of my child walking a path like mine. But I guess at the end of the day I'd rather see her a derelict with charity in her heart than a safe and successful woman who looks down on those around her.

Humility isn't only a virtue, it's also a recognition of facts. We're none of us self-created or self-sustaining. We didn't earn our conception or oversee our births, we don't weave the oxygen or stoke the sunfire. A man who rises in his profession has no doubt worked hard and seized his opportunities, and that's cause to hold his head up; but he's also been so fortunate as not to suffer from cerebral palsy, not to have been hit by a truck or knifed by a mugger, not to have grown up in a country where his only professional options are begging or eking in the mud. Nothing engenders the absurd illusion of superiority like the absurd illusion of security.

But here's the thing. In denouncing pride in others, note what I'm indulging in myself. In looking up from the floor at someone whom I judge to be prideful, I'm looking down my nose at a man whose inner mortifications are hidden from me. In the very moment of taking gratification in my own humility, I destroy it.

While we stand on a spinning orb, there's no respite from the tendency to bend back in on ourselves. After Purgatory, a straight line upwards; for now, at best, rising spirals. Prayer and mental habit and constant vigilance can keep us turning towards humility, but every turn will mean a fresh impetus towards pride. The good news is, He knows we're trying. And who can say?—maybe we're doing better than we think.