Day Two: "The Donkey"

"The Donkey"

When fishes flew and forests walked
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood
Then surely I was born.
With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings,
The devil's walking parody
On all four-footed things.
The tatter'd outlaw of the earth
Of ancient crooked will
Starve, scourge, deride me, I am dumb
I keep my secret still.
Fools!For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet

--G.K. Chesterton

I have more than my share of pride. I'm learning this. Oh, I'm a progressive academic. I strive to be color-blind, non-gender judgmental, and open minded to all orientations; it’s part of the job description.

What a lie.

I have pride in a multi-pack: Pride in my intellect, pride in my accomplishments, pride in my social class, what I’ve achieved. I write this not boasting, but with an edge of nausea. I fool myself that I'm a nice person. What a shock when I realize that’s not always true.

Tonight after work I went to a charity meeting. I hadn’t wanted to go. I only went out of obligation, a promise made in a moment of weakness.

Once there I sat off to the side, sighing with my date book open on my lap, feeling far too busy for all this, far too important. I looked around at all the "salt of the earth" people and thought, “I am not like them.”

As the meeting progressed, and I heard what many of these people had accomplished for this charity and how they interacted with each other, I realized I'm the one who is lacking here. Not them. I felt my pride deflate, and I felt ashamed.

In “The Donkey,” G.K Chesterton shows us that at our most significant moments the most insignificant amongst us may hold true power. Paul tells us that each of us carries both the death and life of Christ inside us, and that gives us all a great power, but he warns us against pride, telling us we carry this power in "clay jars." By accepting that we are only fragile clay, we learn what grace really is: Not booming spectacle but the still small voice. And if we can quiet the din of our pride, we just might hear it.