April, 2017
It seems a while ago that I stood in the chamber of Tomorrow and was stunned and then delighted by the sudden crack and subsequent light, felt the thrill of eager anticipation which gave lightness to my toes so that they could almost dance—but not quite. Rushing adrenaline is something that cannot last or be sustained (without consequence, at least), and so it eventually passed.
The crack in the wall is still there, to be sure, but… It’s funny, isn’t it, how we get used to one thing or another?
Sometimes it is in the changing of things that we take notice or feel deeply. It takes changes of situation or circumstances to make us realize that we had so much to appreciate before, and now it’s gone. It takes changes of seasons to help us appreciate the sultry warmth of summer or the nippy air of winter. It takes storms to make us appreciate a hot, lazy breeze. And sometimes it takes fighting for something worth dying for to remind us what’s worth living for. I think we instinctively know that change brings feelings of meaning, and that’s why some people pursue change for change’s sake. I myself love interpreting musical transitions in a piece. And yet a piece of music made up of transitions would have no melody, but would consist of fragments. I think the meaning has to come from appreciating the ordinary times—the times when it’s so easy to forget what is meaningful! This is not to say we should look back and regret our failure for not appreciating what we had, but we should take the lesson to heart and appreciate what has been, and what is now.
So I have forgotten to appreciate the crack in the wall and wonder at the unexplored garden beyond. It has become part of the layout of this underground tunnel. It has been added to the map. It is become ordinary.
After my last story installment, I waited around in that chamber for a while, but eventually wandered back into the main tunnel. A darkly lit room on my right attracted my attention. It did not look like it wanted to be explored. On the contrary, peering into it woke memories of past times in my life of questioning, criticizing, comparing, and generally examining too carefully every unhappy detail of life—my own, and other people’s.
The doorway was deep, and the room wasn’t completely dark, so I drew a step closer to peep inside. I was drawn into the room, even though I really didn’t want to. As I went in, greyish lights began to illuminate the place. The light was oppressively artificial—grey, hard on the eyes, creating a subconscious sense of discomfort and unease. The corners and floor of the room were piled deep with shadow. It was a small chamber set up with display windows carved into the grey stone walls, and a pedestal in the center of the room. I was bewildered to see that upon the pedestal was my Bible, and a set of scales.
I gradually realized that this room was an exhibition of every thing I tried to do to measure up in my life, of ways I had kept to stay on the straight and narrow path. Of course I had judged myself by the standard of the Bible—that is The Standard for life. I used to think I did pretty well, too. I read that Bible every single day for years, I disciplined myself to study schoolwork on my own, I would practice music to attain a high quality of excellence, I would (try to) adhere to a schedule. And yet, all I remember now was angst. When I had focused on these things, I automatically looked around at other people and criticized them for not doing what God laid out in the Bible. And then I would chide myself, “The Bible says not to judge: I am no better than they—I don’t even love like 1 Corinthians 13 says to do!” So I would blame myself to try to keep from making judgements on other people, even while wishing I could tell them what to do.
This was a room of problems, and I had tried to fix them. The result was obsession with myself—blaming myself and looking to myself for the will to do the right thing: “I’ve only failed because I really haven’t tried hard enough, because I’m lazy. I need to try harder before I can ask for help.”
After looking around for a time the dim light began to be aggravating and painful to my eyes. Rubbing them in annoyance, my thoughts also were put on edge. I felt ready to pounce on any mistake I saw—to condemn it and rant about every flaw. The word “pride” came to my mind and I began to examine it over and over obsessively. What is pride? What does it look like? Why is it one of the cardinal sins? What does it do to the one who has it? After much time I concluded that since writers have said (—ok, it was C.S. Lewis, again. I really should stop coming back to him. Surely he has said something somewhere that is inaccurate—I’ll have to look for it.): since ‘Humility is not thinking less of yourself, but thinking of yourself less’, then it stands to reason that pride must not necessarily be thinking a lot of yourself, but thinking of yourself a lot.
With that thought a hard, cynical laugh burst from my lips. “Oh, the irony. Here I am thinking obsessively of myself, my actions, my thoughts, analyzing everything. I am full of pride. And to think I thought I had fought that battle last year!”
Reason then reminds me that life has many layers, and while God dealt with one layer of pride a year ago, such a deeply rooted thing cannot be undone so quickly: it must necessarily come around again.
Cynicism then asks why it seems that every spring brings another round of turmoil. Shouldn’t it bring delight instead? Irony again. But then again, it stands to reason that Spring must have some pretty extreme growing pains, don’t you think?
And so I argued feverishly with myself until my energy was sapped and gone.
This was the room which held a museum of standards by which I measured myself. This was the room of my Pride. In some instances I measured up, and in others I didn’t, but the overall effect was stunting and isolating because I wanted others to be held by the same standards (—because, in themselves, they were indeed good standards.) Pride sets up walls between people. It is a place of holding yourself to a standard—whether good or bad—and being satisfied with yourself for succeeding or kicking yourself when you fail. A place of keeping up appearances, of not wanting to look like a fool. A place of doing things just so, just because that is the way to do them. Of being consumed with the self. “Measure upon measure, line upon line.” *
Oh, the angst, the turmoil, the judgement! The atmosphere in the room eventually seeped into my bones, settling within me like a weight so I couldn’t move: a cold, hard, numb feeling of inadequacy, helplessness, and isolation. I suddenly realized my friends the birds were nowhere around, and I was stuck—trapped—in the room alone. I could not even call for help. Not that I would call out, anyway. I could not deign to cry or ask for any help to get out of here, because I am not worthy: I deserve to be stuck here. I slumped down on my knees, no strength left.
And then, in the moment of being trapped by Pride—was Grace: A bird chirped to me from out in the Hall. It was enough. I got to my feet and stumbled my way to the door, toward the clean air of the main hall. The doorway was deep, chiseled through probably a foot or two of stone wall. As I approached it I saw a measuring stick on one side, marked similarly to the way we mark when children grow. Something in my muddled brain tried to make me stop: I did not—cannot—measure up! I have not passed my exams, I have no right to leave here. Oh, but now I have to get out. I have tasted refreshing grace and I can leave. Jesus saved me from this room before—there’s no reason he would condemn me to it again! His joy and peace are not here. I don’t belong here. I vaguely realize I have a choice to make: I can take the lifeline that Grace threw to me, or refuse it and keep trying in my own strength. I’ll take the lifeline! I reach the exit. The lighter, purer air from the main tunnel reaches me, and I can breathe a little easier.
Glancing upward before I walk out, I see a sign over the doorway on the inside of the room, bestowing upon it its name. The sign said simply, “Pride.”
*Isaiah 28:13
Threads of Truth: 