In The Sovereignty of Good, Iris Murdoch described humility as “one of the most difficult and central of all virtues”, but many people today would hardly consider humility a virtue at all, but rather a kind of character flaw, a meanness of spirit.
Aristotle, one of the first philosophers to systematically explore the virtues, certainly viewed it this way, and exalted pride or “greatness of soul,” and held the proud man’s quest for honour as one of the highest goods one can aim for. “Humility,” he writes, “is more opposed to pride than vanity is; for it is both commoner and worse.”
Humility, seen as one of the highest virtues, is a consequence of both Judaism and Christianity. Thomas Aquinas argued that Aristotle’s discussion of the virtues was in terms of social and political life which has to do with subordination and rank in society. Christian humility, however, concerns our relationship with God, and the great model here is the Gospel depiction of Jesus. Our humility must be a pattern of his.
Yet for many today, humility carries mainly a negative charge. The humble person is not merely self-effacing but abject, slavish, obsequious. This understanding of humility was brilliantly captured by Charles Dickens’s David Copperfield in the figure of Uriah Heap, whose constant refrain of “I’m ever so ‘umble”, while he plots against his employer, has resulted in humility being equated with insincere grovelling and hypocrisy.
But even without Uriah Heap, humility has picked up a host of unfortunate associations. As a word denoting social status, we speak of a ‘humble’ birth or a ‘humble’ dwelling, meaning ‘poor’ in the economic sense. But, with a grim inevitability, humble came to mean ‘passive’, ‘lowly’, and ‘submissive’. And then there is that decidedly unpleasant word, ‘humilitation’, where to ‘humiliate’ someone is to bring them down, to cause them mental and even physical suffering, and to make them subject to a superior, either physically or socially. And as Western and Western-influenced society regards any sort of subordination, ranking or hierarchy as completely unacceptable, as demeaning to ‘self-esteem’, humility in any positive sense is dismissed out of hand.
So what does Iris Murdoch mean when she describes humility as “one of the most difficult and central of all virtues”. Is it possible to find for humility a positive meaning, avoiding the negative connotations summed up in the odious figure of Uriah Heap? In an increasingly secular society, when the traditional Christian meaning of subordination to God has become unavailable for many people, can the word be given a sense for those put off by what they see as a low and mean-spirited attribute?
The Latin root of humility is humus, referring to the earth beneath us. We speak of someone as being “down to earth”, that is, without pretence, realistic, honest, and truthful. The Latin root also connects humility with ‘humanity’, what we share with all other people.
And this fits well with Murdoch’s full definition, “Humility is not a peculiar habit of self-effacement ... rather it is a selfless respect for reality”, and it is in that sense that she declares it to be “one of the most difficult and central of all virtues”. Further, she writes that “the humble man ... can see other things as they are … And although he is not by definition the good man perhaps he is the kind of man who is most likely of all to become good.” In another place, she gives a practical example of what she means, arguing that “the honesty and humility required of the student—not to pretend to know what one does not know—is the preparation for the honesty and humility of the scholar who does not even feel tempted to suppress the fact which damns his theory.”
Humility, then, is a form of radical self awareness and entails a thorough-going honesty with regard to ourself and others. It acts as a check on egotism by reminding us of our all-too-human limitations. But it implies no demeaning of our abilities, rather a balanced assessment of our strengths and weaknesses. And this means being honest about the negative aspects of our character. At the conclusion of Shakespeare’s Tempest, Prospero admits of Caliban, the deceitful and vicious creature he found on the island where he has been exiled, “this thing of darkness I own as mine”, recognising the shadow side of himself.
Finally, the highest kind of positive humility is the awareness of something outside of and greater than us, bringing home both our dependence and our limitations, a reminder that we are not gods, and that the partner of humility is wisdom.
Barnaby ffrench
