I have enormous difficulty trusting compliments, which some people mistake for humility. The problem isn't a virtue, but rather a defect.
Part of it is years of conditioning. Criticism was bountiful, doled out without reservation from a bottomless well. Compliments, however, were quite rare, and when they came, they preceded manipulation. So I learned: when someone said something nice to me, they wanted something. That's all it ever was.
I also have a low sense of self-worth. It is a vestige of a childhood wound that has been exacerbated by coping with chronic stonewalling and abandonment later in life. Part of accepting betrayal was acknowledging a lack of value.
I turn my stomach when I hear or see someone call me "handsome." I actually have a physical revulsion to it. I would rather be cussed out. Most of the time it has been directed my way, it is about someone seeking attention from anywhere she can get it. The moment she doesn't get what she wants from me, the compliment evaporates. She'll tell me the opposite just as easily. I've seen it happen too many times. I don't believe it, and I have learned to be suspicious of it.
I am learning, though, perhaps growing. I have received a couple of compliments lately that really touched me. Two people who don't know me well, who had nothing to gain from it, separately praised some of my activities in the community to people elsewhere. What really gave me pause for thought is that both of them described me with the word "our." More value was expressed in those three letters than anything else that they said.
I belonged to them.
Before most Masses, I am fond of reading Isaiah 43:1-4. In 1b, God says, "Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name: you are mine." I ponder that, of God calling me by name, and there is something comforting in it. I belong to Him.
It just so happens that a strong component of my own spirituality is what I call "Here I am." I have long been fascinated by the number of people in the Bible who responded, "Here I am," when God called out to them by name.
The Jews of antiquity and before them the Hebrews would refrain from calling God by name. Even today, much of the tradition still omits the vowels in writing. To name something was to establish dominion over it. Thus, in the Creation narrative, Adam names the animals.
God's self-gift is different. In covenant after covenant, God gives Himself first, inviting us to reciprocate. And in Christ, God the Son becomes one of us, sacrificing Himself to redeem us. He gives us His name—Jesus—and promises His presence always. We are His, and He makes Himself ours.
The truth is that Christians call God by many names. There is the Paraclete, the Comforter, the Advocate, the Spirit of Truth. We call Him Father, Lord, King, Messiah, Christ. We call Him Jesus.
But there is one name that stands alone. In His self-gift to us, God the Son made Himself our Brother. He made Himself ours, because we are His.
That is the resolution of the tension. I came to believe I was worthless because I was not chosen—only used. But I have been chosen, called by name, claimed as ours by those who had nothing to gain. And more than that, I have been chosen and claimed by God Himself, who gives me His name so that I might know: I belong.