Radical Spirit

by Joan Chittister

  Everyone in my novitiate had been irreversibly marked by a rising culture of independence and individualism, whatever the standard hierarchies of life and family and community said to the contrary. Of course those ideas of rank and place, of the limitations of natural gifts were all true, we knew. But a new question, in this new era of psychology and personalism, was emerging. How could you have anything stable and strong that didn’t begin with individuals who were themselves stable and strong—self-identified and self-directed?

  And yet here in the Rule upon which I was planning to base my life, I was required “not only to say but believe” that I was “inferior to all” and of less value. The very words galled even the most pious of us. It was a kind of spiritual schizophrenia. Both positions I knew were true—but one of them, the notion of equality and opportunity, we did not talk about.

  I looked to the real world and found ready confirmation. It was the fifties. Everything around me seemed to concur: Such a so-called spirituality of inferiority had to be wrong, maybe even destructive of personal growth. The world had never been better, had it? A globe ravaged by the worst war of all time was now, because of us, over. The world was finally at peace. Evil had been defeated. We were the saviors of the twentieth century.

  And then it all began to unravel. One decade at a time.

  First, the labor unions erupted in the late 1940s. By the mid-fifties, racism had reared its ugly head again. In the sixties, in Vietnam, in wars of our own era, it was we who napalmed babies. In the seventies, women’s liberation, which had begun for this generation in the munitions factories of World War II, made great gains and then broke out in a war against women that is with us still in gang rapes, domestic abuse, victim blaming, unequal wages, and unequal representation everywhere. In the eighties Reaganomics divided the country financially—irrevocably. In the nineties the Middle East became a local, soul-searing issue. In the new millennium, the simmering poor are becoming restless, becoming resistant, becoming refugees, becoming terrorists.

  The whole charade of a perfect world with perfect people was crumbling before our eyes. The end of World War II had not brought either national superiority or perfect human community. Someplace within each of us, as well as around the globe, another war, the search for equality—the war we’d ignored—was beginning to seethe.

  I began over the years to consider three things I had never before even thought about. First, I wondered, was humility the missing virtue of the modern world, where clamor and competition had become the demons of the time? Second, were women victims of the abuse of humility? And third, was it time, perhaps, as the seventh step of humility says, to admit that we really hadn’t evolved into as high a degree of humanity as we had been led to think? What if we really were still inferior, hard as that would be to admit?

  Indeed, the memorization of the chapter on humility was only the beginning. Now came years of contending with it, one step at a time. The results turned my cultural formation inside out. My view of the world and the spirituality it needed began to change. Here was a spirituality that started where all the catechism I had ever been taught ended.

  Benedict’s steps of humility began with the notion that we already had God. I had been taught for years that we had to earn God, however impossible that might be.

  I had been taught that the spiritual life is about “becoming perfect.” The Rule of Benedict was equally clear: There is no such thing as “perfection.” There is only the recognition that God is God and we are not. After that admission, everything else about the spiritual life, the Rule implied, follows in order:

  Our relationship to authority figures must be more than mere submission.

  The expectations we ourselves have a right to impose on the rest of the universe have as much to do with the needs of others as with our own.

  The delusion of grandeur that comes from a sense of entitlement is groundless.

  And, finally, our attitude toward others cannot be based on superiority of any kind.

  Indeed, little by little I came to understand that the seventh step of humility was written for me.

  I, who had declared myself publicly to be a religious, failed always to do it right: either ritual or righteousness. I went to prayer but daydreamed through it far too often. I worked with children and failed to be as compassionate as they were forgiving of my insistence that they be more perfect than I was. I knew all the rules and cleverly avoided many of them. Until then, I had accepted submission of women to men as a synonym for humility and so actually participated in the skewing of human development and human relations.

  No doubt about it: The seventh step of humility didn’t talk about sweet things like the mystery that is God or the blessing of obedience. The seventh step of humility talked about giving up the arrogant untruth of my white superiority as well as claiming my equality as a woman.

  Just as the Rule reminds us, I came to understand that there is no thing, however base, of which I myself am not capable. The anger that ends in murder has a seed in me, too. The deceit that fuels dishonesty niggles at my soul. The arrogance that dares to judge others despite my own pleas for mercy is forever alive and well. They are all proof of the depth of my own need to scale the heights of humility, where honesty will keep me humble forever.

  All of the dimensions of Benedictine spirituality, it became more and more clear as the years went by, cascaded directly from the first step of humility. It taught me that the spiritual life is about being willing to immerse ourselves in the heart and will of God. Then, knowing that God is God, we will know just as clearly that we, on the other hand, are only human. More than that, we realize now in the most palpable of ways that we ourselves are clearly capable of anything under the sun.

  Why, it was becoming clear, given the humility it takes to accept my own weaknesses, I might someday find enough understanding and even compassion for others who are struggling with theirs.

  What is the underlying issue?

  In a society that glorifies achievement and success, the very thought of a spiritual life based on what appears to be groundless deference and debasement of self is totally unacceptable. How such a posture might possibly be mentally healthy, let alone socially sound, baffles us. It is simply out of temper with the times. It challenges all the conventional wisdom of the day. It leads to a kind of quiet suspicion of spirituality itself. Why would anyone buy into a philosophy of self-destructive self-doubt? What can anyone mean by such a posture? And, most of all, what good can such a position possibly achieve?

  And yet, on the other hand, how can the exaggeration of the self which this society engenders—its moral righteousness, its social inequities, its racism and sexism and genocide, its pathetic self-centeredness, and its ecological indifference—possibly be good for any of us?

  These questions about the role of the human in creation have agitated the soul of the world for centuries. History is filled with figures who in their greatness have alarmed us: the emperors of Rome who subjected and exploited one people after another; Alexander the Great, who set out to conquer the whole known world; Christopher Columbus, who plundered and pillaged the new world into the submission of Native Americans to the white West; Adolf Hitler, one of the madmen of our own times, who launched international genocide; Joseph Stalin, who murdered and enslaved millions of his own people; Saddam Hussein, who intimidated and enslaved his country into consent.

  But at the same time, history is filled with figures whose greatness of soul has given us hope, has given us models, has given us confidence that the world will not crumble into its own egomania, blustering as it sinks into oblivion: Jesus, who spent his life raising up the poor and abandoned in the face of oppression by both synagogue and state; the Buddha, who taught the world compassion; Francis of Assisi, who confronted ruthless capitalism with the face of poverty; Frances of Rome, a wealthy woman who cared for the poor and inspired other wealthy women to do the same; Harriet Tubman, American slave woman who, at risk of her own life, le
d other slaves to freedom; Mother Jones, a founding member of the American labor movement; Mahatma Gandhi, who led a people out from under Western domination without taking a single life; Oskar Schindler, who saved the children of the hated Jews in Nazi Germany; Mother Teresa, who brought the attention of the world to the destitute and homeless; Dorothy Day, who called the whole church to deal with poverty and peace.

  How do we account for such a stark difference, and what does that difference have to do with the seventh step of humility? Which sense of greatness must we cultivate now, in our own time? What kind of greatness does the seventh step of humility set out to develop?

  The distance between these two kinds of greatness is arrogance in all its forms: personal and national. Arrogance is a land beyond a normal and sound sense of self. Narcissism, its extreme, is a sense of superiority on steroids.

  Narcissists make themselves the center of the world. And they expect other people to keep them there. Which means they expect special attention at all times, in all relationships. They keep the focus on themselves at all times. They can—and do—change any conversation back to themselves in order to satisfy their insatiable lust for admiration. Self-centeredness oozes out of their bones. Power is their drug of choice. Grandiosity is their basic behavioral flair and defensiveness their armor. These are people whose empathy level, whose sensitivity and care for others is close to zero, whose shrines are to themselves, who are their own gods.

  And we all have a touch of that narcissism.

  Which is another way of saying that we can all struggle, at least from time to time, with the touch of narcissism left over in us from childhood and early adolescence. If not noted and checked, our own ability to develop authentic and growthful relationships may well dissolve into the most pernicious kind of self-love, tragic both for us and for those around us.

  This disordered sense of self manifests itself from flashes of haughtiness to surges of superiority. It ranges from being dismissive of other people to being totally indifferent to other people’s feelings. It begins with boastfulness—the notion that I am better, brighter, bigger than all these other people—and can exhibit itself all the way from pure bluster to a grandiose sense of personal preeminence. It can be a personality flaw or a character flaw. Wherever it arises and whatever it does, it introduces social chaos—forever trumpeting itself like elephants braying in an empty forest, demanding attention, threatening danger.

  In an era of ecological ruin, the privileging of the human race—at least some parts of the human race—actually threatens what it sets out to enhance. In such a climate, the seventh step of humility is a welcome addition to the moral fiber of the world. It requires us to distinguish between healthy self-esteem—an honest awareness of accomplishments and personal gifts—and the pathology of self-love.

  The narcissist sets out to eclipse the gifts and contributions of everyone else, and becomes, ironically, his or her own worst enemy. Such narcissism is grandiosity at its grandest. It stamps the life out of everything it touches and sucks in all the air in the room. It is a danger to us all in every category: In religion, it makes itself conscience. In government, it makes itself a citizen king. In the human community, it sets out to stamp out competition everywhere, to outshine the entire glistening world.

  It is at this point that humility is its only antidote.

  Benedict’s chapter on humility, written in a period of decline and transition in Rome, was written for Roman males in a society that had always privileged Roman males. Benedict saw arrogance and narcissism at the center of the empire and discounted both. Instead, he began his work of spiritual renewal by making humility the very heart of his spirituality. The kind of greatness Benedict offered was the greatness at the heart of the Gospel. It was a life dedicated to God, to growth, to peace, and to community rather than to the aggrandizement of the self.

  It was an entirely new way of being alive. It takes us to another level of humanity—the humanity that lives as much for the development of the human community as for the development of the self. It is at this point that we begin to realize that as humans we, too, are capable of the worst, “not even human,” as the psalmist says. We come to know, then, in the deepest part of ourselves, that becoming humanely and humbly human, becoming spiritually evolved, is the goal of life.

  It is precisely that to which the Twelve Steps of Humility are designed to lead us.

  What are the spiritual implications of this step of humility?

  The seventh step is a kind of crossover point in Benedict’s Twelve Steps of Humility. In a way it is this seventh step of humility—the one that brings me face-to-face with myself—that tests the first six.

  The progress of spiritual growth in the steps of humility is a slow and steady one. Each step builds on the one before it. Each of them, we come to realize, is another level of depth in our relationship with God and the full flowering of the spiritual self.

  The first step of humility brings me head-on with the Divine Center of my life. It confronts me with the ultimate reality: God is God, creator of the universe, and giver of life. All life. The implications are clear: No life, not even my own, can begin and end with nothing else but me and my agendas, me and my hurts, me and my goals.

  The second step of humility brings me to plot my path through life—and the direction, if not the route, is plain: If God is God, then the true north of my life cannot be gods of my choosing. We are here for a reason, yes, but we are not here to do our own will. We are here to do the will of God. We are here, in fact, to align our will with the will of God.

  The third step of humility brings me to seek wisdom in others who have gone before. We are brought to accept direction, to be willing to be led, to grow, to develop into more than we are at present.

  The fourth step of humility reminds me that the way to fullness of life is long and the path is steep, but that is no reason to forsake it. Endurance itself, the Rule teaches, is an essential part of the process. Every spiritual life has its plains and highlands, its straight-faced mountaintops and deep dark valleys. What is worth seeking, the Rule argues, is worth pursuing to the end. Otherwise, my life can never become what it is really capable of being.

  The fifth step of humility urges us to unburden ourselves for the climb. By stripping myself of all the masks and trappings I have collected, I can move more quickly, more freely, more joyfully through life.

  The sixth step of humility challenges me to free myself now of hopes for prestige and status, for attention and special treatment. It invites me simply to be myself and to let that be enough for me. It is a call to simplicity and authenticity.

  Then, with this seventh step of humility, I am faced with the moment of truth: Indeed, I am “inferior to all.” A truth from which we all shrink in horror. And yet, given the time and the social system in which it was written, Benedict’s Rule is a spiritual revolution. Both then and now, grandiosity was the climate of the day.

  In each of us roars a zero-sum game of superiority that no one wins, but nothing ends it. All the evil such an attitude unleashes only makes the world around us a more dangerous place to be. To consider ourselves to be “superior to any” is to give ourselves the right to dispose of those who are lesser than we, in any way we like.

  In our century, those who consider themselves superior assume that they can deport anyone they like from the very visible members of society. They can wall some in or keep others out. They can exclude the ones they call inferior socially and financially. They can write different laws for them according to their sex, their color, their religion.

  But only those who know themselves to be inferior to someone somewhere on whatever basis—national standards or social status or intellectual gifts or simple, sheer lack of professional preparation—can honestly understand the pain of exclusion and suppression, injustice and discrimination. Only those who understand the public price to be paid as a result of their own inferiority can bring the balm and the empathy needed to make the hu
man community a community.

  The temptation to be faced in reading this seventh step of humility over fifteen hundred years after it was written is to dismiss it as bad psychology. After all, we live in a world of self-esteem. At least some of us do—in some places for some people. The truth is, however, that this step is, at bottom, the best possible psychology. When we believe that we have to be the best, we can never truly be ourselves. And worst, we tend then to overlook—to reject—the gifts and insights of others. We isolate one part of the human race from another.

  Benedict wants to form in us the kind of greatness that opens its arms to the world. He wants soulfulness that transcends differences made to be boundaries. He prepares us to give ourselves as bridges to the rest of the world, intent on healing the wounds and divisions of the planet. He wants us to be big enough to recognize and accept the gifts others offer to our own growth.

  This kind of humility enables us to take criticism without rage or indifference and so become more than we ever thought we could be. When we are willing to take criticism we are able to learn, to develop, to not only come to know the self but be compassionate with others as well. We know all about hurting now, and so we can finally feel for those who are hurting around us.

  Then we are able to admit and to embrace our own humanity. Then we realize that there is no reason for, nothing at all to gain by, playing superwoman or the next male god. When we understand our own limitations, we come to respect the greatness of others.

  We can own our own struggles now. No reason to be perfect—since we know finally that there is no such thing. On the contrary. We realize that it is actually the pitfalls we’ve survived, the pain we refused to hide, that makes it possible to share our scars. And not be scarred again by doing it.