I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but something in our common life feels fractured. Like a spoiled child flinging away the dummy, we insist on having things our own way, often without a second glance at our neighbour. Everyone is grasping, demanding, defending. And it leaves me wondering—where are we heading?
Into that noise comes a quiet, easily overlooked word: ταπείνωσις (tapeínōsis). It is usually translated as humility or lowliness, but those words can mislead us if we imagine weakness, self-erasure, or a timid shrinking back. In Scripture, tapeínōsis is not imposed; it is chosen. It is a refusal to grasp for status, a willingness to become small that rises not from shame, but from strength. It belongs to someone who does not need to insist on their importance. In the Christian imagination, humility is not thinking less of oneself, but needing to prove oneself less.
The Apostle Paul gives this vision clear shape in Philippians 2:3–5:
“Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves. Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others. Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus.”
Here, the word translated as “humility” is ταπεινοφροσύνη (tapeinophrosýnē)—a lowliness of mind, an inward posture rather than a public performance.
Jane Austen offers us a negative mirror of this truth in Pride and Prejudice, through the unforgettable figure of Mr. Collins. He speaks the language of humility fluently, but he has no tapeínōsis at all. In his proposal of marriage, he explains:
“My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example of matrimony in his parish; secondly, that I am convinced it will add very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly—which perhaps I ought to have mentioned earlier—that it is the particular advice and recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling patroness.”
The speech is funny, but its humour is moral. Mr. Collins is full—full of himself, full of borrowed importance, full of anxious self-regard. He cannot empty himself enough even to see the person before him. Everything becomes status, obligation, performance. Austen shows us that pride does not always shout; sometimes it bows, flatters, and disguises itself as duty.
What Mr. Collins lacks is not confidence, but chosen smallness. He cannot release rank, reputation, or self-justification, and so he never becomes fully human to those around him. His world is crowded with himself, and for that reason, he is curiously alone.
Τapeínōsis invites us into a different way of being. It asks us to step down without fear, to loosen our grip, to trust that our worth does not disappear when we relinquish control. The word shows us that humility is not the loss of glory, but the way glory is transfigured into love. And Austen, with her quiet irony, reminds us what happens when we refuse that path: we may be respectable, even admired, and yet remain strangely, painfully absurd—and alone.
Words That Deserve Our Attention: Tapeínōsis
Words That Deserve Our Attention: Tapeínōsis
I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but something in our common life feels fractured. Like a spoiled child flinging away the dummy, we insist on having things our own way, often without a second glance at our neighbour. Everyone is grasping, demanding, defending. And it leaves me wondering—where are we heading?
Into that noise comes a quiet, easily overlooked word: ταπείνωσις (tapeínōsis). It is usually translated as humility or lowliness, but those words can mislead us if we imagine weakness, self-erasure, or a timid shrinking back. In Scripture, tapeínōsis is not imposed; it is chosen. It is a refusal to grasp for status, a willingness to become small that rises not from shame, but from strength. It belongs to someone who does not need to insist on their importance. In the Christian imagination, humility is not thinking less of oneself, but needing to prove oneself less.
The Apostle Paul gives this vision clear shape in Philippians 2:3–5:
“Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves.
Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others.
Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus.”
Here, the word translated as “humility” is ταπεινοφροσύνη (tapeinophrosýnē)—a lowliness of mind, an inward posture rather than a public performance.
Jane Austen offers us a negative mirror of this truth in Pride and Prejudice, through the unforgettable figure of Mr. Collins. He speaks the language of humility fluently, but he has no tapeínōsis at all. In his proposal of marriage, he explains:
“My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example of matrimony in his parish; secondly, that I am convinced it will add very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly—which perhaps I ought to have mentioned earlier—that it is the particular advice and recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling patroness.”
The speech is funny, but its humour is moral. Mr. Collins is full—full of himself, full of borrowed importance, full of anxious self-regard. He cannot empty himself enough even to see the person before him. Everything becomes status, obligation, performance. Austen shows us that pride does not always shout; sometimes it bows, flatters, and disguises itself as duty.
What Mr. Collins lacks is not confidence, but chosen smallness. He cannot release rank, reputation, or self-justification, and so he never becomes fully human to those around him. His world is crowded with himself, and for that reason, he is curiously alone.
Τapeínōsis invites us into a different way of being. It asks us to step down without fear, to loosen our grip, to trust that our worth does not disappear when we relinquish control. The word shows us that humility is not the loss of glory, but the way glory is transfigured into love. And Austen, with her quiet irony, reminds us what happens when we refuse that path: we may be respectable, even admired, and yet remain strangely, painfully absurd—and alone.
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