By Emily LaFave — from her series on sin, originally posted on her Facebook page.
“God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble.” – James 4:6
Part 3 – Pride: I am qualified to determine what is good.
Pride is easy to recognize when it is loud. The person who needs everyone to know what they own, what they have done, what they know, how important they are. Loud pride is easy to spot because it announces itself. Quiet pride is harder, because it does not announce itself. It whispers. It suggests. It implies. It operates in the background, shaping our judgments, our relationships, and our sense of self without ever raising its voice.
That makes pride difficult to examine in ourselves because it doesn’t always sound like, “I am better than you.” Sometimes it sounds like, “I know better than you.” Sometimes it sounds like, “I would never do that.” Sometimes it sounds like, “I understand this in a way they don’t.” Sometimes it sounds like concern, like discernment, like wisdom, like being helpful. Pride is fluent in the language of virtue, which is why it is so difficult to detect in ourselves.
Insecurity is fertile ground for it. Thinking poorly of ourselves is not humility. A mind consumed with its own inadequacy is still consumed with itself. It is still self-focused, still self-referential, still measuring everything by how it reflects on us. True humility is not thinking less of ourselves. It is thinking of ourselves less. It is the freedom to not be the reference point for every judgment, every interaction, every evaluation.
Humility is not pretending I have no strengths. It isn’t diminishing competence, refusing compliments, or apologizing for what God has given me. Humility is knowing the truth about myself, good and bad, and refusing to make either into an identity. It is the ability to receive praise without worshipping it, and to receive criticism without being destroyed by it. It is the freedom to be honest about who I am without needing to be more or less than I am.
Nebuchadnezzar learned that distinction rather dramatically. He was the powerful king of Babylon, ruler of an empire, builder of wonders, and he credited himself for all of it. He looked at what he had built and said, in effect, “I did this. This is mine. This is because of me.” God humbled him, not as punishment alone, but as correction, as a way to restore him to reality. He lived as an animal until he recognized that his kingdom, his power, his achievements were not his own, but given. When he finally acknowledged God, he was restored. Not diminished. Restored to truth.
That story lands differently for anyone accustomed to competence. “I can handle it” has probably been true for most of my life, in most areas, and that competence can become a trap. It can convince me that I do not need help, that I do not need God, that I do not need other people, that I can manage on my own. Competence, unexamined, becomes self-sufficiency, and self-sufficiency becomes pride, because it makes me the source of my own security.
Control belongs somewhere in this conversation too. There is a version of control that masquerades as responsibility, as stewardship, as being organized, as being prepared. But underneath it is often pride: the belief that if I just manage everything well enough, if I just plan carefully enough, if I just work hard enough, I can secure outcomes that only God can secure. Control becomes a way to avoid trusting God, a way to avoid vulnerability, a way to maintain the illusion that I am in charge.
One of the clearest expressions of pride is the sentence we rarely say aloud: “I know better”. Better than God. Better than Scripture. Better than tradition. Better than other people. Better than the people who disagree with me. That sentence, unspoken, shapes more decisions than we admit. It shapes how we interpret Scripture, how we judge other people, how we make choices, how we respond to correction. It makes us into judges, and judges rarely need grace, because judges are the ones who dispense it.
I spent years living that sentence without believing in the God I was saying it to. My atheist years were not primarily about intellectual objections, though I had those. They were about autonomy. I did not want a God who would tell me what was good, because I wanted to determine that for myself. I wanted to be the arbiter of my own morality, the author of my own meaning, the judge of my own life. That autonomy felt like freedom. It was actually pride, because it placed me in a position only God can occupy.
Good intentions are remarkably useful when you appoint yourself judge. I could justify almost anything by appealing to my intentions. I meant well. I was trying to help. I was being honest. I was being authentic. Intentions became a shield against correction, a way to dismiss feedback, a way to maintain the story that I was a good person making good choices, even when those choices were harming myself or others.
That may be one of the purest forms pride took in my life. I didn’t need to believe I was better than other people. I just needed to believe I was qualified to determine what was good, for myself and for others, without reference to God. That qualification, assumed rather than given, is pride in its most subtle and dangerous form, because it does not feel like pride. It feels like independence. It feels like maturity. It feels like thinking for yourself.
Freedom without truth gave me an extraordinary amount of permission and very little direction. I could do anything, but I did not know what was worth doing. I could choose anything, but I did not know what was good. I could define myself however I wanted, but that definition kept changing, because it had no anchor outside myself. Freedom without truth is not freedom. It is drift, and drift, over time, becomes despair.
That is the part of pride I understand differently now. “I know better” doesn’t require shaking a fist at God. It can be quiet, reasonable, even humble-sounding. It can sound like, “I’m just following my conscience,” or “I’m just being authentic,” or “I’m just doing what feels right.” But if conscience is not formed by truth, if authenticity is not anchored in God, if feeling right is not tested against what is actually right, then “I know better” is still pride, still placing my judgment above God’s, still making myself into the measure of all things.
Lust distorted the size of the thing I desired. Pride distorts the size of me. Both interfere with seeing reality clearly. Lust makes a created thing look larger than it is. Pride makes me look larger than I am. Both are problems of scale, of proportion, of worship. Both make something created — a desire, a self — into something ultimate, something that deserves worship, something that can satisfy or secure.
Humility may have far less to do with thinking less of ourselves than with finally seeing ourselves accurately: small, beloved, gifted, broken, dependent, and held by a God who is infinitely larger than we are. Humility is not self-deprecation. It is self-forgetfulness in the presence of God, the freedom to stop being the measure, to stop being the judge, to stop being the source, and to rest in being a creature, loved by a Creator who knows better than we do, and who gives grace to those who admit it.
And still not God.
— Emily LaFave · Follow her writing on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/feral.fave
Part 3 of 10.
