Applause

Should all the poor know my name, 

And all my gentle mercies every heart proclaim

Should by my own two hands all this world be changed, 

This truth will yet remain:

My only victory is Jesus! His life and death and resurrection!

- Justin McRoberts, “My Only Victory”

I first read Jeremy Taylor’s nineteen points on humility* in my high school small group. I remember it so distinctly: sitting there, growing increasingly chagrined as I realized every example of pride he provided was visible somehow in my life. In fact, I pulled out my copy today to see if my memory had exaggerated, but no—every single section has underlines and notes to myself inspired by my smitten conscience.

Every section, that is, except one.

Ah, point twelve. I remember how glad I was to find it—a brief reprieve for my soul as I squirmed through the other eighteen.

Twelfth: Do not entertain any of the devil’s whispers of pride, such as that of Nebuchadnezzar: “Is this not great Babylon, which I have built for the honor of my name, and the might of my majesty, and the power of my kingdom?” Some people spend their time dreaming of greatness, envisioning theaters full of people applauding them, imagining themselves giving great speeches . . . All of this is nothing but the fumes of pride . . .

“Here at last!” I thought. “Fame. One I don’t have to worry about. Thank God for introverted-ness—I’m off the hook.”

My sinful self, however, is crafty.

It knows that outright fame is not the lure for me. Were the devil to dangle forbidden fruit in front of me, promising celebrity or publicity or far-reaching influence as the prize if I’d only eat, I don’t think it would even count as a temptation. My introverted heart would naturally balk and I’d gladly turn him down. (Although I’d probably feel sort of smug about so easily “resisting,” so I guess he’d still get a point. Darn.)

Here’s how crafty that fallen man inside me is: Over the years I’ve increasingly seen in my heart a desire to be famous for (get ready) not desiring to be famous. 

I don’t crave the spotlight myself—that’s usually true enough. But I want people who are in the spotlight to admire and discuss and point out my lack of spotlight-seeking and how awesome my selflessness, humility, wisdom, [fill-in-virtue-of-your-choice-here] are. I don’t even really care if my name is mentioned. In a twisted way, my pride could be even more gratified in anonymity. As long as (in my fantasies) people are nodding admiringly, and as long as I know they’re really talking about me, it’s enough.

At it’s root (and, let’s be honest, only barely disguised), it’s exactly the same as Taylor’s twelfth point I so eagerly excused myself from in high school. I do dream of theaters full of people applauding me—I’m just not on the stage myself to blush and stammer in front of them. In my dream I'm unseen, but basking in the applause just as much.

I struggle with this—with wanting to live a life that other people admire while not looking like I want their admiration—every single day.

God has spent years loosening my grip on all sorts of things I grasp at to define who I am and why I matter. Almost always, I persist in using other humans as my reference point for that: Who I am in the midst of the billions of other people around and before and coming after me. Why I matter to them, or don’t, or should, or shouldn’t. Why I matter to God, or don’t, in comparison to them.  

He has shown me—as even this blog can attest—again and again and again that He is sufficient for me. He has reminded me that I don’t have to prove myself to Him, or to do something extraordinary to get Him to notice me or use me or want to keep me around. And He has reminded me that since I matter to Him, then it really doesn’t matter whether people are applauding.

I am free to be bold, to throw myself into the wave, to risk—in obedience to Him—what earthly eyes would see as failure or humiliation or unimportance or loss. Free to see that everything earthly I have earned or accomplished is in fact already loss, and in that truth to rest—to breathe without the pressure of having to do and accomplish more and more and more.

There is so much freedom available to me. Yet I perversely persist in re-shackling myself to the fear of man and desire for human validation. Humans, in all their frailty and imperfection. Humans, who are nothing but a breath—here, then gone. I remind myself again that that famous question is meant to be rhetorical: What can man do to me? The answer: Nothing. People—their applause or disapproval or misunderstanding or criticism—can ultimately do nothing to you when you belong to God.

Of course, as we walk (sometimes trudge) through this broken world, what people think seems to matter a lot. How we compare feels important. Words can grievously wound.  Hooray, then, for a God who knows that, and comforts us and is patient with us and heals us and—even if it feels oh so slow—transforms us so these things matter to us less and less.

Living here, trying to listen and figure out what God is leading me to do with my time and energy, when to wait and when to act, seeing increasingly that I’m not as visibly needed or important as I expected to be (even if I hadn’t quite admitted those expectations to myself), I hope that transformation happens ever more quickly.

Grant me never to lose sight of

the exceeding sinfulness of sin,

the exceeding righteousness of salvation,

the exceeding glory of Christ,

the exceeding beauty of holiness,

the exceeding wonder of grace.

(from "Continual Repentance," The Valley of Vision)

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* Excerpted from his "The Rule and Exercises of Holy Living" in Richard Foster's Devotional Classics.