Sometimes pride doesn’t come stomping in like a giant. It slips in quietly, soft enough to sound like confidence. You’re not paying attention, and suddenly you start believing that where you are and what you have is because you made it happen.
And honestly, in America, that feels natural. We’re told that if we work hard enough, if we hustle long enough, we can make it happen. And often, we do. Our culture runs on this narrative of grit and grind. Some even dress it up in spiritual language—Manifest Destiny, or it’s God’s will that I’m on top. But if that’s true, then what does it say about the person on the bottom? That God scheduled their loss to secure your win?
Pride loves that kind of thinking. It’s pride that says, thank God I’m here to save the day. Thank God I’m not like them. It turns blessings into bragging rights. It twists the story until God becomes a footnote and we become the headline.
When Confidence Becomes a Crown
I’ve felt that whisper lately. Especially now that I’ve drawn a line in the sand—fully giving my heart to writing, putting my attention there. Suddenly everything else feels trivial. And honestly? That feels good. After years of striving to sit at certain tables, to be noticed in certain circles, I finally let go of the hustle. I stopped chasing counterfeit invitations.
And here’s the beautiful part: when I let go, confidence showed up. Real confidence—the kind that says, I belong because I was invited by the One who matters. I’m not trying to fit in anymore because I already fit at the only table that matters—the one where Jesus sits, pulling up chairs for people like me.
That confidence is a gift. But here’s the turn: if I’m not careful, confidence can become a crown. Privilege. A sense of superiority. That’s when the whisper of pride starts sounding like a shout.
The Conversation That Checked Me
The other day, I was talking to my sister Anitra—she’s a marriage and family counselor—about how I’ve been leaning into this new season of writing and feeling really good about where I am. Counselors have a way of asking the kind of questions that slip past your defenses and head straight for your heart. Two questions in, I saw it clearly: I’d been entertaining a little green-eyed monster. Pride.
Whew. If you can’t say amen, say ouch!
I had to sit with it. Could it be? Pride doesn’t always come loud and bold. Sometimes it sneaks in through confidence, through progress, through that sense of I finally arrived.
The King Kong Moment
The best picture of pride fully grown? Denzel Washington in Training Day. You know the line:
“King Kong ain’t got nothing on me!”
That swagger, that defiance—that’s pride at its peak. Pride says, I did this. I made this happen. I’m untouchable. That posture doesn’t just edge God out—it erases Him. It makes the gift look like a paycheck and grace look like an obligation.
And that? That’s the posture God hates. Not because He wants us small and groveling, but because pride blinds us to grace. It isolates us from community. It whispers, you don’t need anyone, not even God. Pride turns life into a ladder, not a table. It breeds comparison instead of communion.
So Why Does God Hate Pride?
Because pride destroys what He came to redeem—relationship. It makes us believe the lie that we are self-made. And when we believe that, gratitude dies. Wonder dies. Worship dies.
Pride doesn’t just hurt me. It hurts others too—because when I see myself as the source, I stop seeing others as gifts. They become competition, not brothers and sisters.
Let’s memorize this together:
“God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble.” — James 4:6
Something to ask yourself
Where has pride been whispering in your life lately? And what would it look like to turn that whisper into worship?
A Prayerful Posture
Lord, keep me close enough to Your voice that pride never wins. Teach me to rejoice in the invitation, not the illusion of control. Let my confidence rest not in my accomplishments, but in You—at a table where I didn’t earn the seat, but was welcomed anyway. Amen.
If this post spoke to you…
Share it with someone who might need it, too. Whether it’s a quiet encouragement or a new way of seeing things, these reflections are meant to be passed along.
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Martina Griffin is a Catholic convert, writer, wife, and mother of four. She writes about faith, motherhood, beauty, books, and the quiet ache of transformation. A lover of popcorn, deep questions, and old classics, she shares her heart at Big Bowl of Popcorn—one post at a time. Instagram | Facebook | Email Me |
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