What’s your preference? Eating a can of worms or humble pie?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You misunderstood me.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You’re being too sensitive,” or “You’re reading too much into this.”
“How could you think such a thing about me? I’m so hurt” (or offended, or whatever).
“I would NEVER do that to you!”
These statements are often coupled with non-verbal communication such as tears (genuine or contrived), nervous laughter, silence, eye rolling, etc., in order to confuse or minimize the other person.
Have you had similar interactions with another person? Surely, we all participate in comparable exchanges as speaker and listener. Perhaps we speak these words with integrity and honesty. Or, we might speak them dishonestly and manipulatively. When speaking to deflect and manipulate, we’re often serving our own interests at the expense of another person. We do this for a variety reasons:
- to control another person
- to attain, retain, or increase personal status and power
- to deny wrong doing
- to shift blame
- to undermine another person’s credibility
- to gaslight another person (questioning and denying another person’s reality or perceptions)
These manipulative behaviors are used as defensive and offensive maneuvers in interpersonal conflict. We all utilize them (in varying degrees) because they often work—in the short term. A long term reliance on these strategies undermines and eventually destroys relationships.
We can condense manipulative, dishonest behaviors into two words: denial and pride.
My previous post highlighted conflict, its aftermath, and the journey toward forgiveness. I also outlined the subsequent harms when viewing and posturing the self (or others) as a perpetual victim. (I don’t include victims of abuse from parents, family members, or other abusive relationships.)
In this post, I define denial, pretense, and pride as strategies in interpersonal conflict. I connect these strategies with the inability to forgive and find lasting personal peace. The scriptures speak about Christ’s “peace that surpasses all understanding.” Obviously, I lack lots of understanding, but I do feel greater peace trying to chip at bits and pieces of my denial and pride and replacing them with trust in the Savior. Christ lovingly reveals our weaknesses while teaching how to overcome them. His role of Savior and Redeemer assures our compassionate nourishment and increased spiritual strength when we willingly partake of Christ’s “humble pie.”
I’m not implying that there isn’t an orderly system comprising of the physical universe and functioning according to natural laws—including the hierarchical order of all living things. Obviously, natural law necessitates competition, contrast, and comparison between humans and other species—partly as navigational tools for self measurement, growth, and spiritual balance. Again, I am writing this post only to spotlight some of the hindrances and dangers of dichotomous reasoning, mindsets, and judgments.
“The Denial of St. Peter” by Gerit Van Honthorst
Denial and Pride
Life is hard. To help manage life’s difficulties, we might pretend to live in an alternate reality or deny our self-defeating behaviors. Hiding in the shadows of denial and pretense helps in avoiding painful realities about ourselves and others—while trying to keep our pride intact. That way, we avoid the dirty work of self-examination and self-correction. Comparable to the above strategies, the pretenses involved in denial and “saving face” may work in the short term. In the long term, however, lost opportunities for spiritual and emotional growth sabotage relationships with self, others, and God—hindering our journey to the promised land. By its very nature, the path to the promised land offers abundant fruits along the way: the fruits of personal integrity, increased spirituality, inner peace, forgiveness, love, and healthier relationships—to name a few.
Psychologist Scott Peck defines the intersection of denial and laziness and how both are forms of pride. He writes, “. . . all sins are reparable except the sin of believing one is without sin” (People of the Lie, 1983, p. 73). In his writings, he often interchanges the words “pride” and “evil” when referring to sin. We might bristle at the word “evil” because it sounds so harsh. Still, if we cast aside our pride—for a moment—we might see bits and pieces of ourselves within the following paragraphs:
The Pharisees were the fat cats of Jesus’ day. They didn’t feel poor in spirit. They felt they had it all together . . . who deserved to be the culture leaders in Jerusalem and Palestine. And they were the ones who murdered Jesus. The poor in spirit to do not commit [pure] evil. Evil is not committed by people who feel uncertain about their righteousness, who question their own motives, who worry about betraying themselves. The evil in this world is committed by the spiritual fat cats, by the Pharisees of our own day, the self-righteous who think they are without sin because they are unwilling to suffer the discomfort of significant self-examination. Strangely enough, evil people are often destructive because they are attempting to destroy evil. The problem is that they misplace the locus of the evil. Instead of destroying [or hurting] others they should be destroying the sickness within themselves. As life often threatens their image of self-perfection, they are often busily engaged in hating and destroying that life—usually in the name of righteousness“
(p. 76).
Dr. Peck continues:
Utterly dedicated to preserving their self-image of perfection, they are unceasingly engaged in the effort to maintain the appearance of moral purity. They worry about this a great deal. They are acutely sensitive to social norms and what others might think of them. They dress well, go to work on time, pay their taxes, and outwardly seem to live lives that are above reproach. The words ‘image,’ ‘appearance,’ and ‘outwardly’ are crucial to understanding the morality of evil. [Evil people] intensely desire to appear good. Their ‘goodness’ is all on a level of pretense. It is, in effect, a lie. That is why they are the ‘people of the lie.’ Actually, the lie is designed not so much to deceive others as to deceive themselves. They cannot or will not tolerate the pain of self-reproach. The decorum with which they lead their lives is maintained as a mirror in which they can see themselves reflected righteously. Yet the self-deceit would be unnecessary if the evil had no sense of right and wrong. We lie only when we are attempting to cover up something we know to be illicit.
Some rudimentary form of conscience must precede the act of lying. There is no need to hide unless we first feel that something needs to be hidden. For everything they do . . . they [have] a rationalization. The problem is not a defect of conscience but the effort to deny the conscience its due. We become evil by attempting to hide from ourselves. The wickedness of the evil is not committed directly, but indirectly as a part of this cover-up process. Evil originates not in the absence of guilt but in the effort to escape it. Here we are talking about avoidance and evasion of pain. [Prideful and] evil people are likely to exert themselves more than most in their continuing effort to obtain and maintain an image of high respectability. They may willingly, even eagerly, undergo great hardships in their search for status. It is only one particular kind of pain they cannot tolerate: the pain of their own conscience, the pain of the realization of their own sinfulness and imperfection. They hate the light that shows them up, the light of scrutiny that exposes them, the light of truth that penetrates their deception. The submission to the discipline of self-observation required by psychoanalysis does, in fact, seem to them like suicide”
(p. 77).
“Blessed Are They,” by Kirk Richards
Obviously, we need not write ourselves off as hopelessly evil. People can become incrementally evil, as we all know, but they are anomalies. The Prophet Joseph Smith taught that mortals are not born inherently evil. After Adam and Eve partook of the forbidden fruit, mortals were subsequently exposed and susceptible to the spectrum of sin and evil. Christ’s Atonement offers redemption from sin through repentance and seeking His forgiveness. Humility strengthens our resistance to temptation. In other words, we starve our sinful natures while feeding our humility. This process fortifies inner peace while providing an increased ability to forgive self and others.
Comparison and Humility Cannot Co-Exist
The book, The Spirituality of Imperfection, provides a helpful study in humility, repentance, and forgiveness. Written by Dr. Ernest Kurtz and Dr. Katherine Ketcham, it emphasizes humility’s centrality to spiritual growth:
St. Bernard, when asked to list the four cardinal virtues, answered: “Humility, humility, humility, and humility” (1992, p. 185).
Another pearl of wisdom: A man went to Wahab Imri and said: “Teach me humility.” Wahab answered: “I cannot do that, because humility is a teacher of itself. It is learnt by means of its practice. If you cannot practice it, you cannot learn it” (p. 185).
Drs. Kurtz and Ketchum connect self-acceptance to heightened spirituality:
Humility signifies, simply, the acceptance of being. It is the embrace of the both-and-ness, both saint and sinner, both beast and angel, that constitutes our very be-ing as human. Beginning with the acceptance that being human—being mixed (and therefore sometimes mixed-up)—is good enough, humility involves learning how to live with and take joy in that reality. Humility is above all, honesty. True humility neither exaggerates nor minimizes but accepts“
(p. 186).
Sounds simple enough. Until we read what’s next:
To be humble is not to make comparisons. Comparisons are dangerous and foolish; the problem with both ‘first’ and ‘last’ as goals is that both are extremes. The humility of ‘both/and’….begins with the acceptance that we are neither uniquely ‘very special’ nor absolutely ‘worm.’ The humility of ‘both/and’ refuses precisely the kind of uniqueness the claim to be exceptional that is the ‘either/or’ demand. [Yet], we try, even demand, to be ‘all-or-nothing'”
(p. 187).
Surely, referencing ourselves and others through a narrow “either/or” frame generates impossible standards and expectations. Arbitrary, illogical, and unreasonable rules and assumptions result in deep wells of personal anxiety, guilt, and condemnation. Still, dichotomous lenses are not inherently wrong. God’s commandments are framed in obvious dichotomies that admonish the forsaking of sin and becoming perfected in Christ.
Regardless of noxious outcomes, we all tend to reason and judge dichotomously. The simplicity of “either/or” reasoning provides a quick and easy process for interpreting information about people, places, and events. Our personal subjectivity, however, filters our perception with faulty logic, causing inaccuracies in our concluding judgments. Individual levels of pride and denial foment faulty logic as well. An excess of pride or denial proportionally increases our errors in judgment. In turn, these excesses and errors manifest themselves in behavioral patterns. For example, the “win/lose” proposition is a common form of dichotomous reasoning exhibited in behaviors. This mindset produces self-aggrandizing behavioral patterns due to its predicated and unwritten rule that says: In order for me to feel good about myself, I must win and you must lose. There can only be one winner—and it’s not you.
The “win/lose” mindset might be expressed consciously or unconsciously. Either way, this strategical mindset seeks to control and dominate others by framing them as inferior. In turn, competitive individuals often posture themselves as morally superior; they and their opinions are “right” and “good.” The typical storyline goes like this: In order to infer or proclaim superiority, Person X maximizes his personal accomplishments and moral character when interacting with Person Y. At the same time, Person X minimizes or denies these traits in Person Y in attempts to make Person Y feel inferior to Person X. Additionally, Person X simultaneously minimizes or denies his own weaknesses and imperfections to maximize his feelings of superiority. Inversely, Person X has impossible expectations of himself. He defines himself as a failure by magnifying his weaknesses or “badness” while minimizing or denying his accomplishments and “goodness.” In the end, most people become increasingly conscious and aware when interacting with a “competitive” person. When judged as “inferior,” “less than,” or “sinner,” we feel the sting.
Unquestionably, pride and denial are determining factors in our attitudes and behaviors. The “win/lose” dichotomy requires and produces enormous amounts of negative energy; it presumes acidic behavior stemming from anger, resentment, distrust, jealousy, envy, etc. These poisons taint and even destroy family systems, friendships, and relationships. (This includes abusive or well-meaning parents who dichotomously define their children.)
The longer we slog around in demeaning and demoralizing dichotomies, the more likely we become entrapped in a quagmire of shame, blame, resentment, and anger because of our inability to adapt healthy perspectives. These pernicious mindsets also detract and diminish the redemptive role of the Savior.
In previous posts, I’ve shared a few of my vulnerabilities and struggles as a younger woman. Like all younger people, I have learned painful lessons when comparing myself to others—and when others had compared themselves to me. In the next section of this post, I share some personal experiences from a difficult friendship. My purpose isn’t to condemn my former friend (or my former self). Rather, I share my experience because it’s relatable and exemplifies the themes in this post.
“Plotting Mischief” by Frank Stone
Can’t mend it? Maybe, it’s time to end it.
Elder Neil L. Andersen teaches:
We need to withdraw ourselves from anger and contention, whether that means leaving the presence of some people, or leaving certain situations. We cannot be a peacemaker when we have anger and contention in our hearts and minds.
Jesus taught us to withdraw from the circle of anger and contention. In one example, after the Pharisees confronted Jesus and counseled how they might destroy Him, the scriptures say that Jesus withdrew Himself from them, and miracles occurred as ‘great multitudes followed Him, and He healed them all.
(“Following Jesus: Being a Peacemaker,” General Conference, April 2022).
A few years ago, I ended an unhealthy friendship—for the second time—with a woman I’ll call Sarah. During the 25 years I had known her, Sarah had repeatedly jeopardized and twice gambled away my friendship. From my perspective, she often compared herself to me and framed our interactions with a competitive win/lose perspective. Eventually, I felt reduced to Sarah’s “measuring tool,” not her friend. (In fairness to Sarah, I obviously write from my own perspective. Sarah speaks about our conflict in starkly different terms.)
Over the years, my attempts at honest conversation and genuine interaction provided little relief for either of us. Despite the obvious tension between us, Sarah’s denial and dismissive responses always surprised me. She told me I was misinterpreting our interactions. She insisted she felt no strain between us, so I must be overthinking. When I would point out specific examples of her manipulative behavior, Sarah’s denial was adamant. Ironically, the few times I highlighted—what I believed to be—her manipulations, Sarah’s subsequent behavior toward me instantly changed; her passive-aggression transformed into kindly acts of service. Within a short time, however, our previous win/lose dynamic resurfaced. To keep the peace, I foolishly “went along to get along.”
Our patched-up but perpetually patchy friendship cobbled onward as our mutual agitation festered. Repeatedly, I would ask myself: Why can’t Sarah and I openly and honestly discuss our differences like mature adults? Why can’t we find a permanent resolution? What does Sarah really want from me and for what purpose? How can I free myself from this negative, unhealthy dynamic and find peaceful resolution? Clearly, both Sarah and I were experiencing emotional pain and feeling victimized by each other. I wondered if Sarah’s “everything-is-fine” pretense was her coping mechanism—or maybe a useful strategy in her conflicts with me or others.
Prolonged peace-keeping is unproductive. Christ admonishes us to be peacemakers, not peace-keepers. Peacemakers collaborate with others in helping to set healthy relationship parameters. Peacekeepers tend to do the opposite and are often acted upon or acting within parameters set the other person.
When I told Sarah (for the second time) that our friendship wasn’t working for me, I set my own parameters: If she wished to continue our friendship, we would need open and honest communication. Sarah’s predictable “I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about” response struck the final blow. For her sake and mine, I “pulled the plug” and permanently ended our “friendship.” Ironically, my dichotomous offer seemed the only way to a complete and lasting peace for me. I hope Sarah has found peace too.
Living within the “either/or” paradox
My experience with Sarah illustrates the complexities involving “either/or” reasoning and its influence on intrapersonal (self-talk) and interpersonal communication. The dynamic of “good or bad, saint or sinner” role play can apply to my friendship with Sarah. (Please note: I write about this dynamic and role-play in theory only. I don’t claim the ability to read Sarah’s mind.) For example, in my “role-play” with Sarah, I felt tempted to cast myself in the role of “saint” or “concerned friend.” With no other available role, I could easily cast Sarah in the role of “manipulator” or “sinner.” On the other hand, Sarah, in her role play, could cast me in the role as “mean troublemaker” or “sinner” because I had confronted her. With no other available role, Sarah could easily cast herself in the role as “innocent victim” or “saint.” Certainly, dichotomous role play produces hard-to-accept realities: If I’m a sinner, how could I possibly be a saint? If I’m a saint, how could I possibly be a sinner?
American culture encourages this dichotomous mindset. Hollywood movies and the media fixate on the “good guys” versus “bad guys” narrative. Don’t we all aspire to be the “the good guy?” This role, however, requires referencing and categorizing ourselves and others in the “either/or” and “win/lose” dichotomies. Thus, In failing to acknowledge our capacity for wrongdoing, we easily relegate the “bad guy” or “sinner” role to others. Realistically, we all act the part of “good guy,” and though hard to admit, we also play the “bad guy.” This truth reveals our inevitable roles as both saint and sinner. Accepting this truth provides us with an emotionally healthier, more spiritually balanced approach instead of slogging around in toxic relationships. Slogging around might be easier in the short term, but long term slogging exacts a tremendous personal price—as do our loved ones and children. The hard work of pulling ourselves out of toxic quagmires is worth the effort, however. As we readjust, redefine, and refine our perceptions of reality, of ourselves and others, we enjoy a fruitful journey to our promised lands.
The “Kill with Kindness” Pretense
I stated earlier that the two times I ended my friendship with Sarah, her antagonistic behavior immediately transformed into acts of kindness. I believe that Sarah’s sudden kindness signaled her desire in maintaining some sort of connection to me. In time, however, her motives for wanting connection no longer mattered to me. I no longer trusted Sarah or her motives. Whatever her reasons, Sarah’s suddenly kind actions (along with her friendship) came with too many strings attached. I also suspected that Sarah’s newfound kindness seemed to be an opportunistic smoke screen for her role play as both “victim” and “kind saint.” Whatever the case, Sarah’s sudden kindness was obviously well-timed and felt very insincere. I could and did forgive Sarah and hope she has forgiven me.
The “kill with kindness” approach is commonly used in conflict. Weaponized kindness (between individuals or groups) is a strategical power play. Its purpose is to attain the moral high ground for control and domination. Undoubtedly, this strategy is an oxymoron: to “kill with kindness” necessitates playing the manipulative role of “kind killer” while assigning the “bad guy” role to the opponent/s. Consequently, the “kind killer’s” sense of self is reinforced along with his or her “goodly” reputation or public image. But no matter how it’s packaged, “killing with kindness,” is a covert, self-serving counterfeit because it relies on consistent deception and subterfuge. The “kind killer” tells us, “See how kind I am to you even though you are so mean to me? This makes me a better person than you are, and I’m going to make sure everyone else knows this too.”
Conclusion
In the end, role-play in the “either/or” theatre means living a masked life on a marked stage while speaking well-rehearsed lines. We get distracted, demoralized, and delusional despite the oft-times heady applause of our audience after our performance. But, sooner or later, the lights turn off, the curtain comes down, and we’re left alone on a dark stage. Reality and truth are often difficult taskmasters, but their fruits surely “set us free.” Who wouldn’t enjoy the fruits of a clear conscience, self-respect, a healthier self-perception, happier relationships, and lasting peace? For our own sakes, let’s consider our next acts: take off the mask, trash the script, fire the director, clean up our acts, clear the stage, lower the curtain, exit the theater, and get out of show business. And, in the process, be patient with ourselves.
“Home is the place where we can be ourselves and accept ourselves as both good and bad, beast and angel, saint and sinner” (p. 191).
Home is where we are safely ensconced in the Savior’s arms. Christ’s love is not dichotomous. No matter how saintly and sinful we are, He loves us, meeting us where we’re at. As mortals, we’re learning how to make Christ our home. In this undertaking, we’re neither complete saints nor complete sinners. When handing our vulnerability over to Christ, we become vessels for increased grace, humility, spirituality, and power. And our ability to forgive ourselves and others proportionally increases.
More humble pie, please,
Julie
