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!”
For additional affect, the above claims are often accompanied by non-verbal communication such as tears (genuine or contrived), nervous laughter, silence, and other actions in attempts to confuse or minimize the inquiring person’s concerns.
Dear readers, have you ever said these words or made these claims to another person? Has anyone ever said these words or made these claims to you? I’m confident that every person on this planet has had (or will have) this type of dialogue both as speaker and as listener. Why? Because these claims are commonly used as defensive maneuvers in interpersonal conflict, confrontation, and in their aftermath. We might speak these words honestly and with integrity. Other times, we might speak them dishonestly for many purposes: gaslighting, passive-aggression, covert bullying, self-serving subterfuge, stonewalling, and invalidation—to name a few. When engaging in the latter, we seek to gain coercive control and power to ultimately dominate another person and/or relationship.
Ironically, people who routinely use these manipulative strategies will often “play the victim” when confronted by the person/s they’re attempting to control or dominate. In doing so, they project their negative intentions and behaviors onto their targeted friend, co-worker, spouse, and/or family member. In the aftermath of confrontation, these manipulators often employ a particularly useful strategy in their strivings to dominate their adversaries: They claim to be the victim when telling their “sob story” to others. They do this in efforts to “control the narrative” by gaining support and sympathy from anyone who will listen. Sympathizers, especially, help to feed and/or justify the manipulator’s negative behaviors which feeds his or her denial or self-pretense—including pretense around others.
We can condense these self-serving, dishonest behaviors into one word: denial.
As I said, we all engage in various forms of these behaviors and in varying degrees at one time or another during our lives. Because it works in the short term. Living in pretense and denial seems easy enough. Hiding in the shadows of our denial, we hide ourselves from ourselves and others. Thus, we keep our pride intact while avoiding the dirty work of self-examination and self-correction. However, if we routinely rely on denial in the long term, we fool ourselves into believing that we are “saving face.” And that’s fine. But, in doing so, we’ll never arrive in the promised land of personal integrity, inner peace, forgiveness, and healthy relationships.
“The Denial of St. Peter” by Gerit Van Honthorst
My previous post discussed the aftermath of conflict and our journey toward forgiveness. I also pointed out the danger of viewing ourselves as perpetual victims. When we choose the path of perpetual victimhood, we choose to stay stuck in a place of unforgiveness and unrest. (I’m not talking about those who have or are enduring severe forms of emotional, sexual, verbal, or physical abuse from childhood or other abusive relationships; this type of pain is in its own category.) In this post, I will discuss the connections between comparison, pride, manipulative pretense, denial, and the inability to forgive. So, how do we redeem ourselves and find forgiveness—for ourselves and others? We know the ultimate answer: through our Savior, Jesus Christ. The scriptures repeatedly emphasize that “Christ’s peace passeth all understanding,” partly because attaining greater peace in Christ is a very personal journey involving our willingness to trust Him with our weaknesses and vulnerabilities. If we let Him, Jesus Christ will lovingly serve us a steady diet of “humble pie” which will emotionally and spiritually strengthen and nourish us.
Pride and Denial
Psychologist Scott Peck suggests that pride, and especially laziness, are the most basic sins “because all sins are reparable except the sin of believing one is without sin” (People of the Lie, p. 73). Thus, pride and laziness are the root of all evil. Dr. Peck often uses the words “pride” and “evil” interchangeably when referring to sinners. We might bristle at the word “evil” because it sounds harsh. But if we can cast aside our pride—for just a moment—we can see ourselves in varying degrees while reading the following paragraphs from his book:
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, there’s no need to write ourselves off as hopelessly evil. Thoroughly evil people are, thankfully, a rarity. No one is born inherently evil, but as we know, Adam and Eve’s transgression and subsequent Fall introduced humans’ susceptibility to evil and therefore to sin. With our Savior’s help, we starve the sinfulness and feed the humility. In feeding our humility, we find forgiveness and peace from God, within ourselves, and with greater ability to forgive others. In the rest of this post, I share the observations of Drs. Ernest Kurtz and Katherine Ketcham from their book The Spirituality of Imperfection. Over the years, I have used their book as a tool in helping me to more fully learn and understand (just a little) some of the many dimensions of humility, repentance, and forgiveness. (And my learning curve will stretch well into the eternities.)
Comparison and Humility Cannot Co-Exist
St. Bernard, when asked to list the four cardinal virtues, answered: “Humility, humility, humility, and humility” (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).
Time and again, Drs. Kurtz and Ketchum implore us to find some sort of self-acceptance. Without it, we limit our 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).
This 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).
I still struggle to free myself from this “either/or” dichotomous mindset. Its tenacious grip demeans and demoralizes. What’s more, its perniciousness detracts and diminishes the redemptive role of the Savior. When allowing this “either/or” fallacy to ferment, we foster a sense of denial. In turn, our denial prevents us from fully recognizing our own goodness or “badness.” And, not surprisingly, our relationships with Christ, with ourselves, and with others become increasingly tainted. The “either/or” proposition can take many forms. For instance, family and friends often relate to each other in a “win/lose” dynamic. The unwritten rule is this: 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. This “either/or” proposition exists in varying degrees from mild infection to the demise of the relationship.
“Plotting Mischief” by Frank Stone
Can’t mend it? Maybe, it’s time to end it.
President Russel M. Nelson has advised us to “withdraw” (even as Christ “withdrew”) from unhealthy and overly contentious situations, environments, and relationships. For these reasons, I ended a friendship for the second time with a woman a few years ago. (I’ll call her Sarah.) During the 25 years I had known her, I felt that Sarah had repeatedly jeopardized and twice gambled away my friendship due to her continued manipulative behavior toward me—which seemed to coincide with her apparent need to compare herself to me. From my perspective, she framed nearly every interaction between us through a competitive “either/or – win/lose” lens. And I increasingly resented it. (For the record, and in all fairness to Sarah, I obviously write this post from my own point of view. I have learned that when Sarah talks to others about me, her perspective is the complete opposite of mine. I will add that Sarah has admirable qualities and her friends view her as genuine and sincere.) Notwithstanding, and with mutual effort on both our parts, I thought Sarah and I had reconciled our initial differences. Unfortunately, our “mended fences” did not last. The negative dynamics between us resurfaced again and again; I felt reduced to nothing more than a “measuring tool” for Sarah to gauge her own success.
Over the years, my repeated attempts at honest dialogue between Sarah and I provided little relief for either of us. Sarah always denied any tension between us but continued her manipulative behavior toward me resulting in an underlying and mutual hostility. I went along with the pretense to “keep the peace” but eventually concluded that this, too, was demeaning to me. I also decided that denial and pretense seemed to be Sarah’s coping mechanisms (at least when around me) while using passive-aggression as a weapon against me.
In any case, after years of this dynamic, I realized that Sarah could not (or would not) ever acknowledge any kind of tension between us. Neither would Sarah ever acknowledge any negative feelings toward me despite her obvious anger and hostility. I also suspect Sarah’s continued denial was her way of avoiding ownership and accountability for her consistently calculated behavior and resentment. Clearly, Sarah wanted to stay connected to me—or so she said. And clearly, Sarah’s definition of “friendship” was very different than mine.
Certainly, Sarah and I were in obvious emotional pain and feeling victimized by each other. Repeatedly, I asked myself: Why can’t we openly and honestly discuss our differences like mature adults? Why can’t we find permanent resolution? So, what does Sarah really want from me? And for what purpose? How can I extricate myself from this negative dynamic and find healthy resolution? Finally, having run out of options and determined to find some sort of resolution, I gave Sarah an ultimatum: Either we communicate openly and honestly, or we don’t communicate at all. (Ironically, I had to propose and enforce my own “either/or” proposition in order to create for myself a “separate peace.”) Sarah’s predictable “I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about” response struck the final blow. For her sake and mine, I permanently pulled the plug on our “friendship.” The right thing to do is often the hard thing to do. I have since lived in peace and hope Sarah has (or will find) peace too.
As I stated earlier, the “either/or” proposition takes many forms. When using this toxic staple, we also tend to posture ourselves as a saint or a sinner when interpersonal difficulties arise. Oftentimes, we have difficulty in defining ourselves as both saint and sinner. If we’re a saint, how could we possibly be a sinner? If we’re a sinner, how could we possibly be a saint? In attempting to deny our sinner selves, we tend to relegate the role of sinner to “the other guy.” But here’s the irony of it all: Every single person is both saint and sinner; we are all born with the light of Christ but we still inevitably sin. Our denial of this fact prevents us from viewing ourselves and others through a healthy emotional and spiritual lens. Thus, our inability or refusal to define ourselves (or others) in any other way can keep us mired in emotional and spiritual quagmires. We slog around in toxic relationships with ourselves and with others until we die—unless or until we can muster the will to pull ourselves out.
So it was with Sarah and I. In my attempts at truth telling (or telling my truth to Sarah), I was tempted to cast myself in the role of “saint.” With no other role left to play, Sarah could be relegated to the role of “sinner” due to her passive-aggression. Conversely, Sarah (using her denial and manipulation) could cast me in the role of “sinner” or “troublemaker” because I had confronted her. Thus, with no other role available, Sarah could cast herself as the “saint” by denying her hostility and passive-aggression. Even more, I believe Sarah uses denial and passive-aggression to further define herself as “saint” while aiming to “kill me with kindness.” Nonetheless, her methods and behavior were not kind; they were manipulative.
Dear readers, I want to underscore the negative undercurrent involving the “kill them with kindness” approach: The act of genuine kindness is not the same as the manipulative act of “killing with kindness.” Even the phrase is an oxymoron: How can we engage in Christlike behavior while simultaneously trying to “kill” or injure another person using “kindness” as some sort of weapon? This strategy is a self-serving counterfeit to genuine kindness because its methods rely on consistent covertness and subterfuge. The “kind killer” tends to be motivated by a desire for control and domination by attaining and maintaining a goodly reputation or public image. In short, 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.”
Like I said, at times, we’re all guilty of this in varying degrees; people wouldn’t behave this way if it didn’t work on some level. In the long term, however, pretended kindness (no matter how it’s packaged) boils down to an adversarial or mean-spirited intention; any form of false or insincere diplomacy is a smokescreen.
So, dear readers, in my times of pain and angst, I have learned (and still learning) this hard lesson: When we mask or deny reality and/or honesty while promoting or engaging in self-serving pretense, our role play inevitably generates negative energy leading to counterfeit, toxic, and demoralizing relationships. Living a masked life on a marked stage while speaking well rehearsed lines feeds delusion while hindering emotional and spiritual growth. Reality is truth. And although reality and truth can be difficult taskmasters, they ultimately offer a clear conscience, healthier relationships, and lasting peace. So, for our own sakes, we might want to cautiously proceed by taking these steps: 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 . . . be patient with ourselves in the process.
“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).
This home is where we are safely ensconced in the arms of Jesus Christ. He doesn’t judge us through a dichotomous lens. He loves us no matter how saintly and sinful we are. We can be the vilest of sinners, and it doesn’t matter; He is right there to meet us where we’re at. In making the Savior our home, we can view ourselves as neither complete saints nor complete sinners. We can choose to cast away our denial and become completely vulnerable and accountable in our dual identities. (Besides, the Savior knows everything about us anyway.) As we give our vulnerability to Christ, we become vessels for increased grace, humility, spirituality, and power. And our ability to forgive ourselves and others proportionally increases.
So, please pass me some more humble pie,
Julie