Mugged by pride
Meeting up with some old school pals in London, I was eagerly looking forward to our annual connection. Inevitably, the conversation would meander into bygone days. We’d recall the classes we’d loved and loathed, the girls we’d fancied, the pranks we’d played.
Our gaggle of teachers included a few rather odd characters. There was the chemistry teacher who lectured us endlessly about safety, who also had a very oddly shaped head, a souvenir from a bungled laboratory experiment. We had a french teacher who was nicknamed breath of death. A genius with languages, when he opened his mouth to speak them, the halitosis fuelled blast was unbearable.
And I especially remember the head of history, a gentlemen with severely crossed eyes. I openly mocked him; if you’re wondering, this was in my pre-Christian days, but I’m still ashamed of my unkindness to this day. Exasperated, he invited me to stay behind after class for a little chat, which included him punching me hard in the stomach. Back then I shrugged it off; these days he would be snacking on prison food.
As I boarded the London bound train, I suddenly realised a very odd trait in me, one I’m embarrassed to admit. I felt a ridiculous pressure to impress my friends. This was surely pride thinly disguised.
All four of us were 11 plus failures, but my chums had all enjoyed very successful careers. A high level business administrator, a recording studio owner and a BBC producer, their accomplishments were very tangible. Demonstrating any measurable achievement in Christian leadership isn’t so easy.
Sadly, the drive to impress others is a virus that can infect all of us, especially in our spirituality. Jesus repeatedly warned His followers to avoid the temptation to show off with our prayers, fasting and giving. Gerard Kelly brilliantly describes the antics of the posturing Pharisees as ‘pray and display’.
As the train rumbled on, I remembered the telling insight of David Foster Wallace, who exposes the fallacy of living our lives endlessly fretting about how others view us. ‘We’d worry less about what people think about us when we realise how seldom they do’. I decided to discard my ridiculous intentions to impress.
And it was then another memory surfaced from those long-lost school days. It was of Mrs Richardson, our Religious Education teacher. As a passionate Christian married to a local minister, she was endlessly generous, kind and caring. Always dashing around the school at speed, she was surely put upon by other staff members, pressured to shoulder extra tasks that nobody else wanted. But noticing my troubled teenaged soul, she gave time that she didn’t really have to encourage me, often forgiving my classroom cheekiness with a momentary look of disapproval followed by a warm smile. When I became curious about faith, I turned to her for answers. Her genuine humility was so impactful, not least because she was so impressive, but seemed oblivious to any need to impress.
Across the UK, there are surely huge numbers of believers who love Jesus and because they do, they quietly serve others. Oblivious to a desire for applause, and often unappreciated, they soldier on. If you are one of those who keep showing up, thank you. And if you are a teacher, charged with the heavy task of shaping and influencing young hearts and minds in the challenging culture that we live in, may you be encouraged that your life well-lived can turn heads and hearts.
An hour later, I sat in a London pub and reminded my friends about Mrs. Richardson, who changed my life with her beautiful example. After a brave battle with cancer, she is now safe at home with Christ.
She was surely not perfect, but close to it in my eyes. Put simply, she was very much like the Jesus she loved.
And that, to the bewildered, confused lad that was me, was really impressive.