I grew up in a weathered New England farmhouse that had been quartered into apartments, one of which housed our gruff but kindhearted landlord, Norman, and his wife, Mary. Together, they tended the property’s resplendent yard and gardens.
This aging pair faithfully shoveled wheelbarrows of heaped compost—leaves, kitchen scraps, coffee grounds, grass clippings—and spread these dark layers thickly over every inch of their vegetable garden: efforts that rendered fertile soil. Pressing thumb to dirt, they sowed the seed, backs hunched while sprinkling tiny kernels row by row, tucking and patting each one safely beneath a blanket of earth, before drizzling the soil with ice-cold well water.
The seeds quickened, poking through the rich compost, sprouts taking firm root, thereby yielding robust produce bursting with vibrancy: raspberries, blackberries, tomatoes, squash, beans, cucumbers, peas, zucchini, potatoes, pumpkins, and corn.
For hours each day, Norman and Mary worked faithfully as they hoed, raked, and weeded, then plucked beetles, worms, and bugs from their plantings. In the months that followed, the fruit of their labors filled bushel baskets heavy with harvest, food they washed and scattered across their kitchen table, while they set vats of water to boil. Mary canned it all, lining jars across the wooden shelves in their root cellar. They shared God’s bounty with friends and neighbors—hearty food that nourished many through winter’s long, intractable chill.
There was one problem. A midnight thief was stealing corn from their beloved garden. Norman discovered raccoon tracks in the soil, but although he owned a shotgun, he could not bring himself to exterminate God’s creature, even one bent on destruction.
Our landlord stood guard one night, firing a shot skyward with high hopes of scaring the critter away. The ringtail did not cooperate but returned, night after night, pilfering corn.
After contemplation and study, Norman sketched blueprints. He measured twice, cut once, and nailed wood and screen together. Blowing off sawdust, he set the trap one evening by the light of the harvest moon.
In the pitch of night, he bolted upright, awakened by bloodcurdling screams. Jumping into faded overalls, he seized his shotgun and lumbered to the garden, where he was greeted by one jailed raccoon, who hissed and snarled a violent warning.
Raccoons are enamored by all things sparkly, which had prompted Norman to roll a ball of aluminum foil as bait. Moonbeams had caught the shine, enticing the creature to reach his tiny paw through the trap’s narrow hole, greedy for this glittery prize, which he grabbed but could not retrieve, given that it was larger than the hole his paw had entered.
He was trapped.
And here is the stunner: to gain freedom, the raccoon needed only to release the foil and run away. A slave to desire, he refused, stood his ground, and shrieked. The worthless foil was a prize he would not relinquish.
Norman locked the crate, heaved it into the bed of his pickup, and drove twenty miles to a patch of conservation land, where he freed the thief, who returned to the garden the following week, only to be trapped again.
Lured Away
As Christians, we long to bear the Spirit’s fruit of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.
Yet how often are we raccoons, hungry, yet lured away, enticed by desire, trading spiritual fruit for the sparkly offerings of this world? When caught, why do we lash out, refusing to spear our selfish pride?
The answer is simple but not easy.
We have neglected to dress the soil of our hearts in humility.
It is good to travel through the pages of Scripture, paying careful attention to God’s words regarding both humility and pride—that ugly viper of the heart that expels all meekness.
James, the brother of Jesus, does not mince words: “God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble” (James 4:6 ESV).
Stiff-arming humility in favor of pride is an invitation to bear rotten fruit. In contrast, Jesus, in Matthew 5:3, calls those who are “poor in spirit”—meaning the humble—a people who are blessed and recipients of heaven.
Pride’s Bitter Poison
A prideful spirit yields bitter poison. To walk in pride is to go to war against God. And to war against our perfect, mighty, sovereign Creator is the most terrifying, foolish, and eternally destructive battle of all. If haughtiness is the soil bedding our heart, good fruit will never grow, as pride quenches and grieves the Holy Spirit. Those who live like this will not inherit the kingdom of God.
Judah’s King Uzziah served God until he embraced pride.
“But when he was strong, he grew proud, to his destruction. For he was unfaithful to the LORD his God and entered the temple of the LORD to burn incense on the altar of incense” (2 Chron. 26:16 ESV).
Burning incense was an act restricted to priests, and when these men tried to remove Uzziah from the temple, he grew angry. God immediately struck him with leprosy, for life.
Another example of pride’s destruction is King Nebuchadnezzar, who strolled his rooftop and gave himself all credit for building the great city of Babylon by his own mighty power, for the glory and fame of himself (Dan. 4:30).
God swiftly humbled him, making him crawl among oxen, eating grass in fields until he acknowledged God as sovereign. In time, and after much humiliation, Nebuchadnezzar repented and only then did God graciously restore him.
“Now I, Nebuchadnezzar, praise and extol and honor the King of heaven, for all his works are right and his ways are just; and those who walk in pride he is able to humble.” (Daniel 4:37 ESV)
The New Testament’s King Herod Agrippa was another pride-saturated ruler.
On an appointed day Herod put on his royal robes, took his seat upon the throne, and delivered an oration to them. And the people were shouting, “The voice of a god, and not of a man!” Immediately an angel of the Lord struck him down, because he did not give God the glory, and he was eaten by worms and breathed his last. (Acts 12:21–23 ESV)
By accepting the adulation of the crowd, rather than correcting them and humbly paying homage to God, Herod was killed.
The Sweet Fruit of Humility
How encouraging to ponder the beautiful ways God exalts humble-hearted people!
Moses, according to Numbers 12:3, was the meekest man on earth. He was bold for God, yet mild in defending himself, as shown when Aaron and Miriam spoke against him. Moses was humble because he knew God to be guardian of his reputation.
Mary, the mother of Christ, was a woman cloaked in humility. When the angel Gabriel approached her to announce that she, a virgin, would give birth to the Savior of the world, his salutation was:“Greetings, O favored one, the Lord is with you!” (Luke 1:28 ESV) Favor means grace—God’s gift to the humble-hearted.
Mary’s humility shines throughout her prayer. “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked on the humble estate of his servant. For behold, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for he who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is his name” (Luke 1:46-49 ESV).
There is no greater example of humility, however, than Jesus, God’s Son, who crouched in the dirt of the Garden of Gethsemane, sweating drops of blood, agonizing over his unimaginable suffering to come. He knelt in lowly submission before his Father and prayed, “Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me. Nevertheless, not my will, but yours, be done” (Luke 22:42 ESV).
Such a heart cry is humility on fire, singeing all pride to ashes.
As Christians, we long to be like Christ, but if we are honest, we are often raccoons, clenching in our fists the trappings of this perishing world. The raccoon of my childhood had acres of fine dining at his fingertips: crayfish, nuts, and wild grapes. But pride invited him to clutch shiny foil, which meant banishment from the great kingdom of Norman’s garden. Our own unrepentant pride will result in the same (Gal. 5:19–21).
To walk victoriously in the garden of humility requires a Gethsemane “nevertheless” song of soul, denying ourselves and obeying God. There is neither romance nor ambiguity in killing pride and pressing into humility.
Philippians 2:3 says, “Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves” (ESV).
As Christian women, how does our humility flesh out in daily life?
A humble woman thinks less of herself and more of others.
A humble woman embraces happy surrender to God, serving her family, friends, and church with joy.
A humble woman is quick to exchange bucket lists for quiet service and self-agendas for opportunities to give to and bless others.
A humble woman is content to receive nothing in return for her labors save the joy of pleasing the Lord.
Harvest Time
Just as Norman and Mary heaped and spread compost over their garden’s soil in preparation for an abundant harvest, so must we blanket our souls in humility before reaping the Spirit’s fruit: a harvest of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.
Editor’s note: Read more from Kristin on this topic in her newest book, Deep Roots, Good Fruit.
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