According to the tradition of the Seven Deadly Sins, the worst of all sins is Pride, not because it’s morally more heinous, but because it’s behind, between, twisted up in each of the other six.
Dorothy Sayers referred to Pride, or Superbia, as “the head and origin of all sin”:
It is the sin of trying to be as God. It is the sin that proclaims that man can produce out of his own wits, and his own impulses, and his own imagination the standards by which he lives: that man is fitted to be his own judge. It is pride that turns man’s virtues into deadly sins by causing each self-sufficient virtue to issue in its own opposite, and as a grotesque and horrible travesty of itself… for the devilish strategy of pride is that it attacks us, not on our weak points, but on our strong. It is preeminently the sin of the noble mind—that corruptio optimi that works more evil in the world than all the deliberate vices.1
Her reference here to the ancient theory of sin, corruptio optima pessima (“nothing worse than the best gone wrong”), evokes not only the lost good of some better world we almost lived to see, but the untold evil wrought instead by the misused talent that might have brought about that good. There’s a lot of that in the air these days.

To write (or to make any sort of content, really) is to offer one’s talent for public scrutiny; and therein lies a delicate balancing act if one is to remain humble, especially with all of the analytics and stats that social media like Substack make available. (How eerie would it be if the seventeenth-century image of Superbia above were starting into a smartphone instead of a mirror?) To succeed out here, one has to believe one has something worthwhile to offer. And yet, as G. K. Chesterton once noted rather disconcertingly,
If you consulted your business experience instead of your ugly individualistic philosophy, you would know that believing in himself is one of the commonest signs of a rotter… It would be much truer to say that a man will certainly fail, because he believes in himself. Complete self-confidence is not merely a sin; complete self-confidence is a weakness.2
And so, several of us have collaborated, both with each other and with all of the minds whose work we have brought into our writing here. Any one of us, on our own, might have written a Lenten series on the Seven; but by collaborating, we sought to avoid Pride itself. There is something humbling about turning one’s writing over to collaborators before it sees the light of day, in saying, “I’ve written this; but I recognize that it might not be complete. What do you see when you read it? Where are its faults?”
As for those other minds we’ve brought along, they mark out a tradition of thinking about the Seven; and “Tradition means giving votes to the most obscure of all classes, our ancestors. It is the democracy of the dead. Tradition refuses to submit to the small and arrogant oligarchy of those who merely happen to be walking about.”3 Working together, with one another and with them, is an abjuration of Pride, an acknowledgement that others have something to say on a matter. And while it’s humbling (but not humiliating) to ask others to join and to share creative control, it’s life-giving also. Sharing creative control means relinquishing one’s own vision. But collaborating with others offers glimpses of a divine plan that includes each one of us.
I originally put this next point in parentheses, but it’s actually essential: we also collaborated because it’s fun. The joy that’s come from corresponding with these collaborators and—dare I say it?—these new friends has been its own reward. Save for
and , I’ve never met any of them. But I’ve grown fond of them. was one of the original welcome party here on Substack who platformed my earliest work over on Salvage when I joined in 2023. and brought amazing insight and humor to the workshop process. And in a totally unexpected twist, , who also teaches college-age learners, DMed me one day with a thought on teaching, to which I replied, “I’m driving. Call me.” And he did! We had a 45-minute-long conversation, our first, but it felt like talking with an old friend. Abby and I—we attend the same church—plan to keep the conversation on the Seven going between us. Friends, thanks to each of you for these gifts; I only hope what you’ve received in return is fair recompense.While I don’t know all of my collaborators super well, I can confidently say that each one of us is observing Christian Holy Week this week. One thing that strikes me as I reflect on Christ’s death and resurrection is the fact that, after enduring such pain, he shared creative control over the state of the world with humankind—specifically, with a group of twelve who had deserted him or even denied they knew him. If the Creator of the cosmos could share control over all creation with a species of creatures bearing His image, who am I to be precious about an essay here or there?
Anyway, since Pride is such a solitary sin, it seemed wrong to leave the work of writing this post to a single writer. So, in the convivial spirit of this collaboration, I wrote some questions about our experiences facing Pride as writers, to which a few of us responded. It’s our way of welcoming you to the conversation, which you can join via the comments on this or any of the other six posts.
Peace on Holy Week,
-Aaron Long, 2025
The Exchange
In 'The Seven Deadly Sins Today' Henry Fairlie validates "a reasonable and justified self-esteem" but then says that "is not what is meant by the sin of Pride." He goes on to cite the Oxford English Dictionary's definition: "An unreasonable conceit of superiority… an overweening opinion of one's own qualities."
Like any other art or craft, writing has the potential to be a very egocentric pursuit--especially on the Internet where engagement metrics draw our attention to the way our work is perceived. And yet, in many cases, writers must present their work--say, for editorial review--with "a reasonable and justified self-esteem."
How do you balance these two? How do you confidently offer your work while avoiding "an overweening opinion" of yourself or your work?
Jen Pollock Michel: To answer this, I can’t help but think of reading Matt Jensen’s monograph, The Gravity of Sin. One of his chapters explores a feminist critique of the assumption that pride is the root of all sin. Though I’m certainly not prepared to endorse the views represented in that chapter, I couldn’t help but agree that sometimes we diagnose the wrong problem—and thereby offer wrong solutions. Here’s Jensen’s point at the end of the chapter, as he interacts with some of these feminist theologians: “If egoism is at its heart a truly self-centeredness, there is every reason to include self-abasing sins with the already self-exalting ones.”
To be sure, like everyone, I fall prey to pride all the time. It matters inordinately what people think of my work, especially that they praise it. I must regular practice NOT looking at Amazon reviews and social media likes and subscriber numbers. These quantifiable metrics can puff up (or tear down), and ultimately, they distort the courage and clarity I’m always seeking as a writer who is a Christian.
But rather than giving into an “overweening opinion” of myself, my greater temptation is to devalue my work and debase my call. There are all kinds of reasons for this, but the point is that I have to pray to believe this is work God has given me to do and that in doing it faithfully, I am worshipping the God who has given me every skill, every capacity, every opportunity. I have to resist unhelpfully believing I am tamping down pride when I might ultimately be giving into acedia, or sloth—this refusal of God’s good. In a kind of counterfeit piety, I can be moved to renounce the risk of this work, and I think this is ultimately a sinful form of self-protection. I want to trust that the call of God is the equipping of God. He will form and transform me as I write, not as I wait for a spiritual readiness that is ultimately formed on the way. The human heart is complicated and contradicted, but that’s why I hope in the gospel, not in my perfect motives.
Griffin Gooch: In The Pale King, David Foster Wallace wrote that, "Mature people know it's possible for very different kinds of emotions to coexist in the human soul." This is gloriously true with writing, or really any kind of creation that involves putting your creation in front of other eyes. We might write for the sake of calling, or for generously sharing knowledge, or to scratch that itch that tells us we have to fix something broken in the world through organizing our thoughts about it into language. But there's also the vanity, vanity, vanity. In my own writing, it starts out with the vainglory, the arrogance. Joan Didion said that writing itself requires at least some form of aggression and arrogance and in my personal experience she's right. So in order to sanctify the arrogance out of the piece, I keep editing and editing until I can't detect it anymore, until it feels like a legitimate act of generosity. The vanity takes over again after I hit post, but still.
Jennifer Downer: For me, the balance lies in not over-evaluating my own work in either direction, if I can achieve it. The scariest thing about Pride for me is that the sense of superiority and the sense of inferiority might be intermingled, and both are aspects of Pride. This is an aspect of perfectionism. I have to guard against a sort of obsession about how my writing could possibly register from multiple points of view, or whether I’m appearing competent enough. There is a temptation to ogle my writing from possible antagonist perspectives. This sort of perfectionism can masquerade as humility, when really it is a tendency to measure myself externally. To say that “writing is a conversation” has become a bit of cliche, but the more I can think of my audience as conversation partners, rather than possible admirers, the better this gets.
Aaron Long: With or without the Internet, we live in a time when self-promotion is a professional norm, and Pride gets me in two moments that would exist with or without the Internet: when the proofs come in and the publication date is set, and when I update my CV. The satisfaction of a job well done is a wonderful thing; but in that satisfaction lies the vulnerability of self-satisfaction, of surveying the achievement and making the mistake of believing that it somehow tells me something about my worth.
I have to subvert self-satisfaction by remembering I’m a made being and our delight in what’s made is rightly expressed to its maker. If you’ve read any of my work, you know I teach at an art school. Among creatives I’ve learned that we, as makers of any sort—artists, writers, software devs, cooks, business owners, investors—have a tendency to find our worth in what we produce. But we are not what we own, whether we’ve made it or bought it. If I delight in a work of art I should tell its artist; but that person was made by God and I’m learning to thank God for artists, just as I thank artists for their art. When the art I’m grateful for is my own writing, the habit of thanking God for the artist introduces to the process a humbleness that brings joy and a self-effacing sense of humor about what’s not perfect in my work.
Fairlie points out that "The proud [person] sets [herself or] himself up and, in doing so, sets [herself or] himself apart." Pride, in other words, "makes a solitary world." And to this someone might say, "Yeah, so does writing."
How do you keep your writing process from teaching you the solitary, self-aggrandizing motions commonly associated with Pride? In other words, how do you keep the act of writing from malforming you?
Jen Pollock Michel: Early in my own writing journey, I heard a Calvin Seerveld lecture, in which he gave very simple advice: “Write for your neighbor.” That counsel has guided me now for many years. I don’t simply look to publish work; I look to write for my neighbors. When I have the opportunity to handwrite a card, compose a poem for a family birthday, write a liturgy for a celebration, even write an obituary, I try treasuring these small, sometimes secret forms of writing for my neighbor. It’s an antidote for the pressure to write for (and please) the crowd.
Griffin Gooch: Writing as a solitary act is a myth. You do the majority of it alone, yes. But the refining, the improvement, the honing the craft only comes through feedback. It takes a literal village. Personally, I invite peer-reviewers and beta-readers to look over everything I write before I put it out there. It's amazing how many errors they find. It's a perfect contraceptive against arrogance.
Jennifer Downer: I learned some of these lessons the hard way, while writing my dissertation. I had good colleagues, but academia can be an incredibly isolating experience—a long, dark tunnel to walk through. The topic you are studying can become so specialized that it can be easy to get lost in your own head, and it got to the point where I was chasing very specific resolutions to problems I could only really articulate to myself. I don’t think it’s good to place your identity in anything that requires proving yourself; what I do can’t come above the fact that I’m loved by God.
Aaron Long: For me, pride erupts into the writing process when I wall myself off from the people in my life, especially family, and demand the space to which I feel entitled. There’s this old Latin phrase that describes sin, cor incurvatus in se, “a heart turned inward on itself.” Sometimes, when I’m really chasing an idea, I do this.
Avoiding it is a delicate balance: sometimes I need to be left alone to write or else I can’t produce good work; but sometimes I’m too walled-off, too self-enclosed. Honestly, I don’t exactly know how to know when I’m “too walled off.” So I’ve just been working on reacting graciously when interrupted, when the self-enclosure is breached. Over the past few years I’ve read and reread Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 for a few different courses I’ve taught. It’s reminded me that writing matters because, once released, it lives in the hearts and minds of people. Writing is fun, interesting, and important work; but it’s ultimately for people. So if I get so focused on writing that I become sort of misanthropic, that’s when I know I need to open up, to take a break and be social.
In her article "Pride," published in The Sunday Times, Edith Sitwell argued that "A proper Pride is a necessity to an artist in any of the arts. Only this will save an artist's work and his private life from the attacks and intrusions made on these by those unfortunate persons who have been unable to attract attention to themselves except by incessant bawling."
First, do you agree with Sitwell? Why or why not? Second, in an age of social media--with "my page" and "your post," with "sharing" and "comments"--it would be fairly easy to agree with Sitwell. As a writer but also just as a human being on social media, how do you humbly navigate Internet discourse when there are possibly so many malfeasant actors out and about in cyberspace, especially when they may pay specific attention to you and your work because of something you wrote?
Jen Pollock Michel: I wouldn’t call it “pride,” as Sitwell does, but I do think writers must value their work. Without valuing it, one won’t persevere, regardless of the haters! When I speak of valuing my work, I’m speaking of valuing my own formation (because who we are matters to what we write). I am also speaking of cultivating the daily habits and practices that lead to good work. I can’t guarantee the outcome from my words, but I can value my work by making these hidden investments.
As to the second part of this question, I can be pretty guarded online, and I don’t consistently engage in meaningful dialogue. I’m trying to change this somewhat, mostly because I want to grow in being collegial. I want to read other’s work, share other’s work, even as I also hope that people will read and share my work. What keeps me mostly from this kind of virtual collegiality isn’t fear of bad actors but realism about time. (Did I mention I have five kids?)
Griffin Gooch: Yes, and so does [Joan] Didion. Some kind of self-interest is always lurking in the nooks and crannies of our art, and as Christians, part of our calling is to edit those parts out before releasing them into the world.
Second, I don't. Some days, I do. But generally, I'm not very good at it. If something I wrote is getting attention, I usually have to delete the app and walk around for awhile and think about other things. Social media is an engine for vainglory, and trying to use it well is often similar to trying to smoke cigarettes the healthy way. I fail often, and when I do, I take time away, I sabbath from my phone and laptop, and I try to remind myself that I'm an embodied person and not a character in the drama of the internet.
Jennifer Downer: I take your point that the structure of social media doesn’t model in-person community well. The fact that our communication is mediated through these avatars and takes place on digital, disembodied “turf” sets us up to view every interaction as a debate or competition. If by “proper Pride” Sitwell means a healthy form of self-respect and boundaries, knowing when to engage and not engage, then I agree with it. But those questions are particularly fraught when everyone is speaking through their avatar and it is almost the default to assume some base level of threat from strangers. This goes back to my first response; being too aware of the external viewpoint can nurture Pride. Knowing when to kindly place limits around your engagement--like knowing to avoid an argument when you are hungry or tired--might sometimes be the best way to love others.
Aaron Long: This one’s hard; I’m inclined to think Sitwell meant something different by “Pride” than I do.
I think one of the ways social media flattens culture is that it reduces even the standards that can govern all of us to a matter of personal perspective. Consequently, social media are full of attempts to innovate; and sometimes the results are unintelligible. I think some would see it as stuffy or elitist, but (even if Autocorrect thwarts my efforts sometimes) whenever I write I subscribe to spelling, punctuation, and grammatical standards—even while texting. Psychologically, this isn’t a seizure of some writerly moral high ground but a bowing to the order of things. There’s definitely a place for innovation—heck, in my dissertation I theorized the word “mechanimal,” which, at that point, had only been used by three previous sources—but if we innovate so extremely that what we’re saying is unintelligible and we don’t bother to explain it (and I’ve definitely done this in the past), I have to wonder whether there’s not some pride in setting ourselves and maybe our little niche of people apart like that. This is one reason why, as an academic, I write here on Substack. Academic journals expect a certain vocab from me; but that vocab isn’t very accessible to non-academics and ideas are for everyone.
As Fairlie notes, "To imagine that one does not need community with others is a terrible form of Pride. The refusal by many people today of commitment in their personal lives is reflected in a similar refusal of commitment to the wider society."
What commitments do you maintain or choose in your life, how do you guard your writing against overcommitment, and how do the commitments you make affect your writing, either for better or for worse?
Jen Pollock Michel: This is a constant tension. I have to protect time at my desk, but I also know that if I don’t cultivate real relationships and engage the real world, I can’t understand the readers I want to engage. I find my volunteer commitments, my church life, my friendships, my family life: all of these contribute to the life of the healthy writer. I just have to make sure that I’ve protected some good long runways in the week to also do deep writing work. For me, this means that I rarely make appointments, calls, or plans on Mondays and Tuesdays. You’ll find me in my sweatpants and a ballcap, hunkered over a keyboard.
Griffin Gooch: Living in community is the perfect way to guard against the obsession with writing. Their interruptions are the most real part of your day. Though it can feel tedious every now and then, another person will rarely lower the quality of your writing.
Jennifer Downer: For me personally, remembering that I need people and community has gone hand in hand with remembering that I have a body. Both those areas got disordered in grad school. I’m not willing to sacrifice what is foundational—including sleep, meals, or church community—for my writing any more. Ironically, this makes me a better writer because it changes my relationship with the writing. It feels less like rolling a stone up a hill and more like meeting myself. And I’m a lot easier to meet when my whole self—body, soul, spirit—shows up.
Aaron Long: LOL—too many! First, I’m a spouse and a parent. I’m also a son, a brother, a cousin, a friend, and a neighbor. And those roles all demand time and attention. Also, teaching is its own form of commitment to others and I teach at two institutions. And my wife and I are fairly involved in our church. Interestingly enough, all of these commitments have, at one point or another, enriched my writing. In fact, Lars is a former student who became a graduate school colleague, then a shop mate. We’ve long been friends. Abby’s a friend from church.
To anyone reading this who’s starting out on a writing journey, I recommend joining a community of writers, or writing with members of a community to which you already belong. I have several friends I keep up with who are writers themselves, and we meet one-on-one oftenish (never as often as we’d like, but infrequently enough to leave space for our work). A buddy of mine who’s finishing up his second book just texted this weekend and said, “Hey, it’s been too long. Coffee again soon?” Absolutely. Letting others into my schedule is accepting a gift that I’m often unaware that I need.
In "The Other Six Deadly Sins" Dorothy Sayers makes this compelling pronouncement that "the devilish strategy of Pride is that it attacks us, not on our weak points, but on our strong. It is preeminently the sin of the noble mind--that corruptio optimi [that corruption of the best things] that works more evil in the world than all the deliberate vices."
How do you guard your strengths, not just as a writer, but as a human being, against Pride? Is that even possible? Why or why not?
Jen Pollock Michel: I just read a great book on self-deception: i told me so, by Dr. Gregg A. Ten Elshof from Biola. The premise is totally surprising: self-deception isn’t great, but it can also be a grace. God reveals what we need to know about ourselves when we need to know it. I find that relieving, especially as someone with a bent toward scouring self-scrutiny. One thing I know about myself is that I can idolatrously serve my sense of moral probity and call it virtue. It’s good to be honest and diligent, but I’m learning that if you serve your own goodness, you’re as guilty of sin as anyone else. I don’t know that I can guard against this apart from simply learning to name these patterns and practicing daily examen.
Griffin Gooch: Like Jesus said, we should take the lowest seats at the table so we don't feel the dishonor of being moved down. The higher view you have of yourself, the more you become a target for being lowered. Pursue humility wherever possible, and not the false kind.
Jennifer Downer: It’s certainly extremely difficult to notice this in the first place. This is a heavy spell. For me, it has come through a long process of surrendering my vocation, and with it, what I thought was my identity. Am I willing to part with worldly success, recognition, applause? Am I willing to live a small life? Am I willing to serve others with my gifts in small ways, instead of the grand, abstract way I thought was my inheritance? Am I willing to also develop the areas I lack, to push for growth in the parts of myself I’d rather ignore? Lewis writes in The Weight of Glory that fame was not historically considered by Christians to be a bad thing of itself, but it is fame with God we are seeking. Only “Well done, good and faithful servant” will satisfy our deepest desire. God is not looking to strip us of our gifts, but to give them back in their fullness only after they are ordered under Himself.
Aaron Long: I don’t know whether guarding my strengths is possible. In some ways, maybe guarding is part of the problem? In theory, I like working on my weaknesses; but in practice, my habits lead me to resort to my strengths. And when you have a hammer, everything looks like a nail, right? Maybe there’s life-giving humility in regularly doing things we’re not good at.
Since many who’ve written about the Seven agree that humility is the opposite of and often the antidote to Pride, how do you practice humility? Who inspires you as you pursue this practice of humility? (Share links, if you can. Let's give people resources for envisioning a humble life.)
Jen Pollock Michel: If my right hand can’t tell my left hand what it’s giving and doing, I’m not in a position to tell you about my humility, ha! But I am drawn to people who take caregiving seriously, who humble themselves to love the aging and disabled in very physically demanding ways. I also find the work of pastoring a local church very humbling. It’s a hands-on, life-on-life faithfulness that’s subject to criticism and complaint. So: shout-outs to all the fantastic staff on the memory support floor where my mother lives and also to my fantastic pastors here in Cincinnati: Josh, Brian, Ryan, Zach, Mike.
Griffin Gooch: After Henri Nouwen wrote a bestseller, he took time off from writing to work at a home for the disabled. This is inspiring. It's the opposite of what a brand manager would suggest. Maybe the best advice in any given situation is simply to do the opposite of what a brand manager would suggest.
Jennifer Downer: I have been inspired by
who has a Substack called From the Vicarage. She has written a few books now, but my favorite is This Beautiful Truth, which chronicles God's redemptive grace through the experience of Beauty amid her long struggle with severe OCD. She is honest about the dreams she had to surrender in order to walk a very lonely road of suffering, but this is the kind of hopeful realism I find most relatable at this point in my life. I don't think her journey would be possible without radical humility. Sarah's story reminds me that radical humility points us toward the transcendent. (https://substack.com/@sarahclarkson?)Aaron Long: By giving, whether it’s time, money, resources, energy, whatever. That’s pretty much it. Giving focuses me on others, instead of on myself. There’s an old, oft-noted thing (not sure whether it’s factual so I won’t call it a “fact”) from concentration camp prisoners’ accounts of their incarceration. They’d say that they knew fellow prisoners were about to die when they stopped sharing with others. (If you know who said this I’d love a reference in the comments.) That’s really stuck with me. Giving is a very human way of sustaining human life.
Anyone have anything else to say about Pride and Humility?
Griffin Gooch: One will make you endlessly happier, and the other will devour you in anxiety and insecurity, and experientially speaking, it will not be difficult to tell which is which.
The Deadly Seven is a 2025 Lenten collaboration between , , , , , and , with web design by . It is free to read and will remain available in perpetuity as a record of what some of us thought about the Seven Deadly Sins early in the twenty-first century. Peace to you and your Substack readers this and every Eastertide.
Dorothy Sayers, “The Other Six Deadly Sins,” in Letters to a Diminished Church (Nashville, TN: W. Publishing Group, 2004), 81-107; see 105.
Gilbert K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy (New York, NY: John Lane Company, 1909), 22-23.
Chesterton, Orthodoxy, 85. By the way, not all of the other voices we’ve included in our posts here are those of dead people. Plenty of them are still alive.
Wow! This was perfect timing. I have been writing and thinking about pride/humility over the last couple of weeks.
Particularly, how do you write about humility without sounding like a prideful donkey.
It’s such a strange paradox. The act of trying to be humble often serves as a backdoor entry for pride to announce its presence.
This line from Jennifer hit home. 👇
“The scariest thing about Pride for me is that the sense of superiority and the sense of inferiority might be intermingled, and both are aspects of Pride.”
Surrender was mentioned and I believe that's where I land. But we have to pick up our white flag every single morning because pride is persistent.
I was struck by a C.S. Lewis line this week on ordering our loves correctly. It reminded me of this quote by Griffin 👇
“God is not looking to strip us of our gifts, but to give them back in their fullness only after they are ordered under Himself.”
We have to get the order right.
This collaboration was a gift to me this morning. Thanks for tackling a difficult subject. You've given me lots to think about on my walk. The dog will be very happy 😀
Let's be real. Pride doesn't end when you finish writing. I can feel it welling within my editor/proofreader brain as I read what you've written. Every time I feel the victory of finding the things most would read right over, it's there. I also feel the exaltation and question my proficiency every time I finish helping a writer craft something. It's a joy and a sickness. The only thing I can prevent myself from editing is scripture.
Thank you for the beauty of what you have shared in the entire series. It has brought together many ideas and emotions I've been experiencing as I study and live out this moment of eternity as the Church, the Bride of Christ.