From the first pages of Scripture we see mankind as the apex of God's creation. Of no other being--even angels--does God say "they are made in My image." Like a masterpiece, God declares later that we were made for His glory! God made mankind so that when we were considered we would conclude that God was glorious. Nevertheless, throughout the remaining pages, we see the toxic effects of pride.
Pride is the chief source of sin in our lives, and God clearly hates it:
"I hate pride and arrogance."
"God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble."
So how can we reconcile what seems to be man's privileged standing of cosmic significance with the what seems to be an equally strong biblical inveigh against pride. Have we reason for pride or not? If not, what is the real significance of such towering statements about our standing. Do we take these with a grain of salt? Or do we whole-heartedly embrace them?
This paradox stems largely from our confusion of pride and dignity. Dignity is the holding high of one's head, without the looking down of one's nose. Dignity owes its force to what is inherent in one's being, without reference to another. Pride is the exaltation of one's self over another; even God. Pride can only be established at the expense of another. To recognize the power of one's innate dignity in no way detracts from the innate dignity of another. In fact it elevates it.
Dignity fuels and supports love and even humility. Pride is the ruin of them both. The gospel perfectly restores out dignity, while perfectly extinguishing our pride. Why would God send His Son to die for one who had no worth in His sight? This infuses us with a sense of personal awe stemming from God's words and actions. Why would He need to send His Son to die? This humbles and devastated our arrogance.
This power is seen throughout the pages of Victor Hugo's Les Miserables.
Jean Valjean is a hardened convict, having just completed 19 years of hard labor. When he enters the town, no inn keeper or family will give Him lodging. Even the jail keeper will not allow him to sleep in a cell. He is denied food and is cast out of one place after another, until he enters the home of the bishop Muriel. Immediately the bishop astounds him by referring to him as "monsieur" (basically calling him "sir").
"Every time he said this word monsieur, with his gently solemn, and heartily hospitable voice, the man's countenance lighted up. Monsieur to a convict, is a glass of water to a man dying of thirst at sea. Ignominy thirsts for respect."
As they continue the meal Jean Valjean demands of the bishop (mistakingly calling him Cure, for he thinks he is only a monk) an explanation:
"'Monsiere Cure,' said the man, 'you are good; you don't despise me. You take me into your house; you light your candles for me, and I hav'n't hid from you where I come from, and how miserable I am.'
The bishop, who was sitting near him, touched his hand gently and said, 'You need not tell me who you are. This is not my house; it is the house of Christ. It does not ask any comer whether he has a name, but whether he has an affliction. You are suffering; you are hungry and thirsty; be welcome. And do not thank me; do not tell me that I take you into my house. this is the home of no man, except him who needs an asylum. I tell you, who are a traveller, that you are more at home here than I; whatever is her is yours. What need have I to know your name? Besides, before you told me, I knew it.'
The man opened his eyes in astonishment:
'Really? You knew my name?'
'Yes,' answered the bishop, 'your name is my brother.'"
The healing and restorative effects of this encounter will eventually transform Valjean indelibly. They sit down to a grand meal, and the bishop has a habit of always serving guests on their finest settings.
"Suddenly the bishop said: 'It seems to me something is lacking on the table.'
The fact was, that Madame Magloire had set out only the three plates which were necessary. Now it was the custom of the house when the bishop had any one to supper, to set all size of the silver plates on the table, and innocent display. This graceful appearance of luxury was a sort of childlikeness which was full of charm in this gentle but austere household, which elevated poverty to dignity."
This act was deeply significant. The table was to be set to its fullest splendor, even though certain settings were entirely superfluous. The point had nothing to do with the function of eating, but the function of restoring dignity.
Earlier the bishop's manner of life was expressed thus:
"As we see, he had a strange and peculiar way of judging things. I suspect that he acquired it from the Gospel."
To be a Christian is to embrace our dignity and reject our pride. It is to fight and labor for the restored dignity of those we encounter as well. This is evangelism. This is discipleship. It is going to the Scripture and discovering the sense of deep dignity which alone can dispel arrogance and haughtiness; which alone can enable love and humility.
If we reject this dignity, thinking it to be pride, we will forfeit the very thing that God has most endowed us with and we will find ourselves forever struggling to find the strength or resolve or joy to be God's agents in this world. Jesus was a man deeply in touch with His dignity, and He was the only person in history who was without a shred of pride. He loved and served like no other, and, if we are to walk in His footsteps, we too must reckon with our staggering, God-ordained dignity.
Consider what Henri Houwen wrote:
"The Christian leader is called to help other affirm this great news, and to make visible in daily events the fact that behind the dirty curtain of our painful symptoms there is something great to be seen: the face of Him in whose image we are shaped."
