(My over-the-new-year run with brother Sarge
was absolutely hilarious! I'll have more on it later.)
Just a bit more on humility; there are further
aspects of Jesus' birth and role that we should be looking at as well.
The word "humility" ultimately comes
from Latin humus (well, the Greek χαμαι, khamai), meaning "earth/dirt/soil" – in the
sense that the truly humble person will readily bow so low her/his
face/forehead is to the ground.
Also from humus – besides the obvious English word "humus" itself, for you
gardeners – comes our word "human"; remember that in Genesis
we are told that God formed humans (well, men, anyway – women got the
slightly-better part of the arrangement) from the dirt of the earth… a state
from which we men rarely rise, I might add.
Regardless of whether there ever really was an
actual, green and verdant Garden of Eden, the tale/account/parable is a lesson
in humility itself: that ultimately we do indeed derive, and thrive, from the
soil. When we someday move into space and onto new worlds, we'll take that much
of the earth – of the Earth – with us.
Jesus was human and humble; period. As in one of
the prophecies
("The Suffering Servant") written of Him, He did indeed willingly
give His back to those who beat Him, His face to those who tore at His beard,
nor shield it from their blows and spittle. He said
once that the meek were destined to inherit the earth (and Robert Heinlein
snorted, and quipped, sure – in plots about six-foot by three). Jesus' own life
was not one of meekness alone – even while the whips struck at Him again and
again – since, when the occasion warranted, He was certainly not above raising
His voice while overturning a few tables.
Back to humility. The most humble man I know
personally is our (co-)pastor, who is slowly losing his battle to cancer. He is
genuinely untroubled by his looming death, and begrudges only the energy the
chemotherapy periodically saps from him – he is a tall man of ringing baritone,
beautifully accessible theology, liberal (yet obedient) application of his
faith, and masses (pardon me) of seemingly endless energy.
At Confession last spring, I asked him to keep me
(and my vocational discernment) in his prayers once he's passed into the next
world, and he heartily agreed. About his inevitably succumbing to his cancer,
he smiled when I mentioned it and said matter-of-factly, "Oh, there's no
doubt about that." He might simply have been agreeably confirming how day
follows night, or autumn the summer.
We made him cry this Advent!! A couple
weeks ago, after Mass was finished but before he blessed and dismissed us, he
read some parish/community announcements, reaching a point where he grumbled
that one of our other priests hadn't shown up to read this last one for him. He
was obviously extremely reluctant to mention it, but knew he had to: it was an
announcement of a special gathering in his honor, later this month, to
celebrate both the forty-fifth anniversary of his ordination, and his
seventieth birthday. Father is not one to crow or blast a horn about himself;
never. His whole being spoke real discomfort at this spotlight.
The entire congregation stood and clapped loud
and long; Father – still seated – first turned very red in the face, and rubbed
his eyes, and soon very obviously was actually sobbing (he'd switched off his
clip-on microphone). The applause only got louder.
This past Sunday, before Mass, I was talking with
him in passing as he got on his robe, and I was gathering a few remaining items
for Eucharist. One of us did mention something about humility, and I tossed him
an EWTN priest's quote that got him laughing robustly.
I'd said something to the effect that it's
oxymoronic to try to be humble, but rather one should simply work to follow in
the actions of the humble. And as that other priest pointed out in one of his
many rousing talks: Once you realize you've got humility, you've lost it.
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