Thoughts on the National Be Humble Day

Originally published on Medium on February 24, 2022

Yesterday an email I received from The Writing Cooperative mentioned that it was Be Humble Day — and that triggered something in me.

The National Day website explains that being humble is, in part:

more than not boasting about one’s own life and achievements, it is all about listening to others, accepting our errors and weaknesses, and working on them to get better. This is exactly what Be Humble Day advocates.

While that may all be well and good, encouraging humility can be dangerous when it is twisted and turned into degradation to crush the spirit.

For thirteen years, refrains like “pride will be your downfall” and “you need to learn humility” rang in my years.

The Curse of an IQ Test

The admonitions began when the Novice Mistress (the woman responsible for training and mentoring the young women who entered the convent to become Catholic sisters), allowed her biological sister to run a battery of psych tests on everyone under her care. This biological sister was a counselor-in-training, who needed test subjects for her aptitude and IQ testing protocol.

When my test results indicated a very high IQ, the Novice Mistress immediately sat me down to explain that although I was bright, I was still bound by the rules of obedience. Every time she disagreed with something I said or did, she would say, “You may be smart, but I said…”

At the same time, in a community of twenty-five women, all of them older than me, she assigned me to be responsible for managing the retreat house kitchen. So at 18, I did the menu planning, ordering, cooking and baking, and maintenance for an operation that fed twenty-six women three times a day and anywhere from 80–100 retreatants each weekend. Not to mention attending college courses and religious training classes at the convent. At the instruction of the Novice Mistress, I enrolled in the culinary arts and a nutrition program at the local community college.

To say I was busy would be an understatement.

Fully Present, Fully Alive

I suddenly felt completely alive. I balanced the infirmed Sisters’ diets using computer programs at the school, calculated the exact price per serving for each meal served for the retreats, introduced quiches, chef salads, and lasagnas to replace the twenty-year-old menus, and established rules and practices that aligned our kitchen with the standards of safety set by the local health codes.

My childhood dreams of owning my own bakery or a food truck were being channeled into baking 30–40 dozen cookies every Tuesday afternoon, picking and peeling apples from the orchard to make 15–20 pies each Friday, and creating delicious, nutritious meals — all under a limited budget.

For the month before Christmas, I rose an hour before Morning Prayer to start the yeast rising for 220 loaves of cinnamon bread we distributed to our benefactors. I poured over pot after pot of marshmallows, melting them quickly, adding green food coloring, tossing in Corn Flakes, and shaping them into Christmas wreaths for others.

I loved every minute of it.

My school portfolio of recipes, budgets, and menus overflowed with letters of thanks and appreciation from women who noticed differences in the food after years of attending retreats.

The morning of my cooking final at school, Sr. Thomas called me into her office just after morning Mass.

“Sit down. I need to speak with you.” Sister’s monotone voice betrayed no emotion, but I felt a tension in the room.

“Yes, Sister,” I said, completely unaware of any misconduct or misunderstanding that might make for a confrontational meeting.

“Beginning tomorrow, you will no longer be in charge of the kitchen. You have become proud and arrogant. Humility is your priority if you ever hope to make first vows.”

A blender on full speed would have caused less damage to my soul than the words spoken.

I sat stunned.

Questions cascaded through my brain. What had I done wrong? Who had I harmed? What did I miss? Why? Is it a sin to enjoy an assignment? Is it a sin to be good, very good, at what you do? Feeling like a boulder lodged in the pit of my stomach, I wanted to vomit, but barely mustered enough muscle to make my legs move.

I wobbled out in silence. I’d finally found a reason to be proud of myself and my pride had destroyed me. As my jaws clenched, I fought my anger. If being good at what I do is wrong, and being proud of myself is evil, being angry at my superior could never be right. Besides, I had no time to brood, I had a final to prepare for: chicken breast on a bed of wild rice, served with homemade mushroom sauce and a side of asparagus.

Sr. Thomas seemed to be the only person bothered by my success in the kitchen; everyone else sought my advice and continued to look to me for leadership in the weeks and months that followed. I returned to other tasks, desperately convincing myself Sr. Thomas knew best and that I needed humility, but nothing filled the void created by my loss. I convinced myself that I wanted only to do God’s will and I could find that only in Sr. Thomas’s decisions.

I had been unceremoniously and deceptively removed from my position managing the retreat house kitchen because I’d “gotten too proud.” Less than a year later, I was sent to the retreat house in Oregon, to assist an elderly sister who’d been running that kitchen for years. I was to assist her, and in the process, I would hopefully “learn humility.”

Three days after I arrived, the sister I was sent to assist boarded a plane to spend three months visiting her family in China. I was directed to take on all her responsibilities, but I was never to assume that I was “in charge” because that, according to my superiors, would make me proud.

A Litany of Humility

One of my most battered and torn prayer cards, given to me by Sr. Thomas, was the Litany of Humility. I committed it to memory and prayed in full or in part several times a day:

From the desire of being esteemed, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the desire of being loved, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the desire of being extolled, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the desire of being honored, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the desire of being praised, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the desire of being preferred to others, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the desire of being consulted, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the desire of being approved, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the fear of being humiliated, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the fear of being despised, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the fear of suffering rebukes, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the fear of being calumniated, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the fear of being forgotten, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the fear of being ridiculed, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the fear of being wronged, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the fear of being suspected, deliver me, O Jesus.
That others may be loved more than I, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.
That others may be esteemed more than I, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.
That, in the opinion of the world, others may increase and I may decrease,
Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.
That others may be chosen and I set aside, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.
That others may be praised and I go unnoticed, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.
That others may be preferred to me in everything, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.
That others may become holier than I, provided that I may become as holy as I should, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

The problem with this prayer is that it comes from a scarcity mindset. Is there not room enough for everyone to be loved, esteemed, and held in high regard? Can’t you be chosen along with others? Can’t others AND you be praised? Why must others ALWAYS come first?

I was continually reminded that no one is indispensable. When they pulled me from the kitchen, I was replaced. When the sister returned from China, I was replaced. Years later, when I was pulled from teaching sixth grade just before the Christmas holidays, I was replaced.

The constant reminder that my intelligence and capabilities would make me proud, and that pride would be my downfall, reinforced my sense of worthlessness. After years of believing that I was somehow the reason my father abandoned my mother, leaving her with eight children, I now embraced the falsehood that I would not only “lose my vocation” but was in danger of losing my soul.

I believed less and less in my inherent goodness.

What was lost in all these lessons in humility and dispensability was the absolute truth that no one is replaceable. Someone may be able to complete a task or do a job instead of me — and even better than me. But they cannot replace me. No one should welcome humiliation, rebuke, and ridicule.

We are each a blessing and a gift to the world. Let’s not forget it. We must own and embrace our uniqueness, our truth, our beauty, and our gifts and talents.

For true humility is knowing that we are no MORE than we are in the sight of God — but we are also, NO LESS.