The Arrogance Paradox

The Arrogance Paradox

Arrogance is a quality best left to the humble. Only the humble can feel arrogant with impunity and not actually become arrogant. This great paradox (we shall call it the “Arrogance Paradox”) profoundly mystifies me.

Being arrogantly humble or humbly arrogant is balance. The arrogant are unbalanced, as are the humble. However, those fortunate few who have both are to be envied above all. They neither puff the chest nor bow the head. They are a breed apart and live on a plane to be admired.

My own unbalance became evident as my hubris blossomed. Privilege, career, knowledge, intelligence, all became a curse worse than death. Only if none of these existed a happier man would I be. Not without reason the Scripture “Pride is before a crash.” (Parenthetically, the proud are unable to see the existence of their pride. Cursed again!) If only. Only if. A thousand wounds might have been averted.

Effort, success, recognition, admiration, confidence, self-assuredness, arrogance! Mine was a life ripe with all the right ingredients. Little reason did there seem to concern myself over much more than continuing the success that had come my way. I reasoned, “Why would God allow such success if not for his unwavering approval of my course of action? After all 'God opposes the haughty.' says the Scripture." My faculties told me plain as plain that I felt no such opposition. On the contrary, it seemed that God blessed my every endeavor.

Little went awry and when something did, I attributed the mishap to someone else’s lack of God’s blessing rather than my own. I just happened to be part of God’s vengeance toward them and I was happy to be used in some way as part of God’s swift sword of vengeance even if some discomfort came to me along the way.

It was in my forty-fifth year that a great wind of change began to blow from the remotest part of the north. A smite came such that I cannot bear to let pass through my lips to this very moment. Suffice it to say that it was a watershed moment such that comes along once in a lifetime, thank the Maker! With that singular calamity began the collapse of what I now know to be the house of cards that was my life.

A house of cards looks so majestic, so ornate, so colorful. It looks somewhat like a grand palace of a mighty king. What a “grand” illusion this pretentious structure! So beautiful and symmetrical a structure sadly has the inevitable fate of crumbling into a wretched pile of discordant rubble with the movement of one seemingly insignificant card.

My card was jarred and my house fell in the blink of an eye. From prince to pauper, from king to joker. To many, just rewards for pride personified. Now I am glad to have satisfied their revenge. They deserve their moment of catharsis. Once again I found solace in being God’s instrument. Only this time my downfall was their comfort. So many injured by me now cheered my demise. Glad they were that the “mighty hath fallen.” Glad so was I now deep down inside. Sad though that this be transcribed from within a shelter for itinerant refugees.

I gaze once again with a degree of unwarranted arrogance at the dregs of humanity I share my existence with. “What a pathetic lot these many throw-aways,” I soliloquize. “The one over in the corner obviously is an alcoholic. That one is strung out on drugs. She looks like a prostitute. This one next to me is mental.
What’s with that pitiful creature all the way across the room? His hair’s a tangled mess. Looks like he hasn’t bathed in weeks. He’s . . "

Wait a minute . . . He has the same clothes on as I do. The same shirt, the same tattered old coat. In fact, he looks just like I remember that I looked when I last saw myself. My dear God in heaven!! That pathetic creature I see in the reflection is me! How in God’s name could my hubris have reared its ugly head now? I am no more than a servant to a worm. My empire has fallen.

As I shuffle aimlessly out of the shelter I desperately search for a solitary alcove whence my final words can be documented in peace. Ah! Here is a spot where I can sit and contemplate my last thoughts and words.

The weather is frigid and grey. How appropriate for my final hours. Even now God sends me on my way without any ray of hope. If only I had the courage, the nerve, the gumption, to end this now you would not have to read of my prolonged, gradual suicide. But alas, I lay down quietly in an alley all alone, temperature far below freezing. My recollection surfaces that freezing is one of the most painless of all demises. You simply fall gently asleep in death.

My dear gentle readers, please do not mourn my loss. I had my moment in the sun, my fifteen minutes of fame, if you will. My own bloody arrogance ultimately brought about my leaving this world alone.

My body is now reacting to the extreme cold. It feels as though every muscle in my body is shivering violently in a vain attempt to stave off the impending doom. I find myself growing increasingly fatigued. My eyelids are far heavier than ever before. I grow weary of fighting slumber. And yet, as I have nodded off a time or two I have shaken desperately back to consciousness with a dreamy thought that sleep means death.

My survival instinct is fading. I am so tired. Please allow me a few minutes alone to prepare for my final sleep. My apologies to all . . . good night.