What Should I Tip for a Good Humiliation?

Saint Francis of Assisi prayed for one humiliation a day.

He was not a masochist. He did not seek out suffering. He was not an out-of-touch ascetic who thought pain in and of itself united one to God.

Francis knew that humiliation and embarrassment touched something within him to which he was attached . . . some image of himself that was important to his sense of self, yet was actually unrealistic or untrue. Humiliation would strike at the inner person, the areas where he was heavily invested and highly defended, and "bring him down a notch."

Francis also knew that his band of brothers tended to idealize his life, tended to make an idol of him as their leader. He knew that their deification of him was misplaced; thus, humiliation for him was a doorway into humility. (It's no accident that "humiliation" and "humility" both derive from the same root, humus, which means soil, dirt, or earth.)

Embarrassment works the same way. A person has an image that is projected outward, the way we want others to see us. Then something happens in our life-world that suggests we are not who we thought we were, or not who we have wanted others to believe we are. Embarrassment. Red-faced, we limp toward reality.

So here's my story:

Over a week ago, I went to the lady who has been cutting my hair for about 6 years now. An immigrant from Vietnam, she and her family have made a life for themselves in the United States. Her elementary-aged daughter is often in the shop, reading books or working on coloring books. I have come to know her and her family, even through the challenges of language and cultural mores.

I'm an easy hair-cut. #3 clippers on the top, #2 on the sides. Years ago I gave up on styling my hair . . . just cut it down short, and I'll never have to see a comb or hairbrush for the rest of my days. The whole process, from getting into the barber's chair to shaking off the hair and moving on, takes about 7 minutes on a good day.

On this day, I slid into the chair and she began to pump the foot pedal to lower the chair -- this happens every time -- as low as it would go in order to #3 me evenly across the top. Only this time, when she got the chair as low as it would go, she said, "I need you to be lower in the chair."

In 6 years, I'd never needed to be lower before. But I accommodated her, scrunching down in the chair as much as possible. (You gotta get that #3 even on top, dontcha know?) Making conversation, I said -- good-naturedly, I might add -- "What happened? Did I grow taller?"

She said, "No, just fatter."

I was a little shocked. Didn't expect THAT! I mumbled something like, "Yeah, I've gained some weight," hoping we could move on to something else, like what was coming up after the commercial on "General Hospital."

She charged on. "Do you like being fat?"

"Not really."

"Does it make you uncomfortable, like when you try to sleep at night? How does it feel?"

"Uh, not very good, I guess." By this time, I'm tiny in the chair, a seven-year old could not have been hunkered down lower. "I know that I need to lose some weight," I whispered.

"You should try eating less."

The last 6 minutes, 30 seconds of the haircut went on in silence.

Then the moment of decision: Because the haircut is fairly inexpensive, I usually give her a substantial tip. So what should I do this day? A sizable tip, and a "Thanks for the humiliation"? Or -- as per usual -- puff up, say nothing, pay only for the haircut (and NOT the humiliation), and sulk home?

My friend -- and she IS my friend! -- gave me something to carry along for several days. Why did her comments feel so offensive? humiliating? embarrassing? The truth is, I've put on over 20 pounds in a relatively short period of time. I know it's a problem, and certainly the people around me know that it's a problem, but she is the first and only person to say something about it. And I know I should eat less, but I don't.

My first response to this humiliation -- it really is a MINOR humiliation on the grander scale of things -- was to eat a huge basket of onion rings that night. I showed her!

Over the next several days, though, I remembered Francis and his words about humiliation and embarrassment, about how humiliation often comes from very public assaults on our pride and ego, about how embarrassments often take our heads out of the clouds and ground us in our fundamental humanity.

The ego-self (self-interested, self-referenced, self-centered) is a ruthless dictator. Easily offended, it wants to defend its ground, to stake its selfish claims. But St. Francis knew that a small, undefended ego is very difficult to embarrass and almost impossible to humiliate. The large ego projects an image of ourselves (how we see ourselves or how we want to be seen), and when that image is shattered, we feel humiliated. But with the small ego, there is no image to protect or defend. Security and esteem do not come from outside ourselves.

So sitting in the barber's chair that Friday, I was humiliated to hear the truth. My clothing tells me that she is right. The mirror tells me that she is spot-on. I'm just not accustomed to someone coming right out with the obvious. She touched a place where I feel a little prickly (and vulnerable, and even helpless on some days). It's not that what she said was untrue or offensive, only that it struck at my large ego, my inflated sense of self, the self I want to believe in and the image I want to project to others.

How do you tip for that kind of humiliation?

I'm trying to imagine what St. Francis would do.

All Mercy, All the Time

In his merciful way, our good Lord always leads us as long as we inhabit this impermanent life. I saw no anger other than humanity’s, and God forgives us that. . . . The ground of mercy is love, and the ministry of mercy is to preserve us in love. For mercy works in love, with generosity, compassion, and sweetness. And mercy labors within us, preserving us, and converting everything to the good. Through love, mercy allows us to fail, at least in part, and to the extent that we fail, we fall. To the extent that we fall, we die. For we die without fail when we no longer see and feel God, who is life. Our failure is frightful, our falling inglorious, our dying wretched. Yet never does love’s compassionate eye turn from us, nor does the operation of mercy cease.
(Julian of Norwich, All Will Be Well: 30 Days with a Great Spiritual Teacher, Ave Maria Press)


Last Thursday, May 8, was the Feast Day of Julian of Norwich. I’ve long been drawn to Julian for several reasons, not the least of which is my close friend, Peter of Norwich, who grew up in Julian’s English city. She is most famous – besides residing in the city of Peter of Norwich – as the recipient and conveyor of 14 visions, given to her by God, and called “shewings” (showings or revelations).

The showings are known as “revelations of Divine love.” And so they are. This year, I have been struck most by Julian’s capacity to see deep into the heart of God, and to find there all love, all the time. She writes about God’s mercy and compassion, God’s tenderness and kinship with us. In fact, she says at one point that if there is any anger or malice present, they come from humans. God is all mercy.

It is important to note that she did this in an era of plague and death, war among nations, and sharp divisions within the Church. In other words, during a season in which most people were drawing lines, labeling some as comrades and others as enemies, and attributing the devastation of the days to God’s wrathful vengeance, Julian saw that God was only mercy, tenderness, and sweetness.

Further, Julian reports these things in a way that few male mystics can, or do. Historically, male writers made magisterial pronouncements about God, drew lines to delineate the outsiders from the insiders, speaking of holiness, godliness, and righteousness as something earned, a status symbol of the moral life.

[Francis of Assisi is the notable male exception to this bias. He is more closely associated with the female mystics in his heart of tender compassion. It is evidenced, not only in his relationships with people, but also in his connection to the created world. He tenderly accepted what seemed outrageous, even vile, in the created world (the wolf at Gubbio, for example, and the leper on the road).]

Julian didn’t witness to a God who made decrees or a God who was busily angry with humans for their failings.


This is the great act intended by our Lord God from eternity, treasured and hidden in his heart, known only to himself. By this act he will make all things well. For just as the blessed Trinity made everything from nothing,
just so will the same Trinity make everything wrong to be well. And I was overcome with wonder at this: our faith is grounded in God’s word, and whoever believes in that word will be preserved completely. Now holy doctrine tells us that many creatures will be damned. And if this is true, it seemed impossible to me that everything should be well, as our Lord had shown me by revelation. And in regard to this I had no other answer but this: “What is impossible for you is not impossible for me. I shall honor my word in everything, and I shall make everything well.” So I was instructed by God’s grace to hold steadfastly to the faith, and, at the same time, to believe firmly that everything will turn out for the best. For this is the great action that our Lord will accomplish, and in this action he will keep his word entirely. And what is not well shall be made well.
(Julian of Norwich, All Will Be Well: 30 Days with a Great Spiritual Teacher, Ave Maria Press)


Remarkable! This one woman, much given to sickness, who lived in a small room at the base of the church in Norwich, stood against the official doctrine of the entire Church, speaking for a way of love, mercy, and tenderness, rather than judgment, self-vindication, and works righteousness.

In modern times, I hear echoes of Julian in someone like Greg Boyle, the Jesuit priest who has invested his life in inner city Los Angeles among street gangs. Boyle doesn’t carry a message of judgment to the homies who are gangbanging in the barrios of LA. He simply lives among them in tenderness and kinship, mercifully offering second, ninth, and twenty-seventh chances to those who feel like failures.

This is the kind of mercy and tenderness to which I aspire. It’s both what I want to convey from my life, and it’s what I want to experience within myself. But as my Mercy Street friend Gregg says often, “If this is what I so desperately want, why do I continually choose to live in some other reality, governed by fear and anger, judgment and worthiness?”


We are blessed through mercy and grace. . . . So Jesus is our mother. We owe him our very being for this motherhood and all the delightful protection that follows after. For as surely as God is father, so surely is God also mother. He shows this in all, but particularly in these sweet words: “I am the strength and goodness of the father, I am the wisdom of the mother, I am light, grace, and lovely love, I am Trinity and unity; I am the innate goodness of every creature, I draw you toward love, I endow you with longing; I am the endless completion of all desiring.” So Jesus is our true mother by nature because he has created us. He is also our mother by grace, for he took our created nature upon himself. All the lovely deeds and tender services of motherhood may be seen in him.
(Julian of Norwich, All Will Be Well: 30 Days with a Great Spiritual Teacher, Ave Maria Press)