Vileness: “Behold, I am vile; what shall I answer thee? I will lay mine hand upon my mouth.” Job 40:4. Someone recently asked me my thoughts regarding a particular “gospel” minister. My reply was simple: “I appreciate much of his writing. I believe he loves Christ, understands the gospel, in whatever capacity the Lord fitted him, &c., yeah, I think he’s a really good guy.” You know who else is a good guy? I am. I remember once telling a Dutch Reformed friend that I was a good guy. You would have thought I’d just switched languages, judging by the puzzled look on his face.
When I say that, I’m not speaking theologically, I’m speaking here in the simplest, most ordinary sense of the word. I don’t kick puppies. I love my wife. I love my children. I work hard. I’m thankful more than I complain. I say thank you. I hold doors. I try to be patient in lines and polite in conversations. I return shopping carts. I obey the laws of my country. In short, I try to live a peaceful and quiet life. I Timothy 2:2. If that doesn’t qualify me as a good guy, maybe it at least keeps me out of the bad-guy category. I’ll even turn it up a notch, I’m a generally happy, cheerful person. If you met me on the street, you’d probably think, “he seems like a nice guy.” One salesman at work even called me “sunshine” because I was always smiling when he showed up early in the morning. I always thought that was kind, and I’m thankful for that sort of temperament. But I don’t make more of it than I should, I’m just an ordinary guy, nothing special and no different from anyone else. And yet, plain speech is not always received plainly. It’s interesting how saying that someone is a “good guy” can sound almost scandalous in certain circles, as though it immediately implies self-righteousness or a denial of our true condition before God. The same God who formed Adam forms us all, each according to His own pleasure.
To deny that, or to speak as though acknowledging basic goodness in everyday conduct somehow dishonors grace, feels unnecessary and even unnatural. Christ alone is our goodness before God, but grace does not forbid us from doing good; it teaches us to do so freely, without turning it into a righteousness of our own. Job’s confession still stands, and so does the gospel. Recognizing ordinary goodness does not weaken grace; it simply keeps us speaking honestly and plainly.
Having said that, I want to tie this in with a few thoughts on a way of thinking that places heavy weight on experience. When I speak of moving from doctrine to experience, I’m not suggesting a fixed pattern, but simply describing one path among many. Others begin with tradition, conscience, suffering, fear, questions, or simple exposure to the truth, and yet, in time, all are brought to the same Christ. Isaiah 42:16. Both doctrine and experience are real, both matter, and both have helped many of us along the way, but neither was intended to be the place where we finally settle. The believer ultimately rests in neither. They serve their purpose only as they bring us to Christ. He alone is our rest, the end of all true doctrine and all genuine experience. He is the Alpha and the Omega. Revelation 1:8.
That truth, however, brings with it an important distinction. The problem isn’t saying we are sinners. We are. The problem is when sin-confession becomes a badge, a language we wear on our sleeve, as though constantly advertising our corruption is the highest mark of humility. In these settings, the language of vileness is encouraged, while expressions of assurance and confidence in Christ’s work are met with suspicion. This pattern can be seen in many early nineteenth-century hymns from experimental grace circles, as well as in much of the devotional and theological writing of the same period, where the language tends to dwell heavily on inward corruption. As a result, attention often moves away from Christ and toward how fully one can articulate a sense of vileness.
One hymn comes to mind by Joseph Hart, who happens to be my favorite hymn writer, and often spoke in this deeply experimental language. The hymn is fittingly titled, “O Lord, how vile am I.”
O Lord, how vile am I,
How unholy and unclean!
How little like Thy Son,
How unlike what I should be!I have polluted every thought,
And stained all I have done;
My nature’s utterly defiled,
And all my powers undone.
These words ring true. They are not exaggerated. This is honest experimental language, and every child of God will recognize something of himself in it. It speaks truly of our natural condition and our complete inability before the Lord. But truth, rightly spoken, still needs to be rightly used. When this language becomes constant, sung repeatedly, emphasized heavily, and adopted as a settled posture, it can begin to do more harm than good. When “vileness” becomes the dominant language of faith, it quietly becomes the dominant location of faith.
This becomes especially evident when we consider worship. While such confession certainly belongs in the life of faith, I’m not convinced it belongs at the center of our worship. Public worship was not given so that believers might endlessly narrate their corruption, but so that Christ might be set forth clearly. Yet in many settings, this very language has trained generations of believers to live inward, honest and sincere, yes, measuring humility by how deeply one could descend, rather than by how freely one could look away to Christ.
When John the Baptist said, “He must increase, but I must decrease,” I don’t believe he had this sort of fixation in mind. There is, of course, a real and necessary decrease that takes place in every believer who has been made to taste the bitterness of his own sin and the emptiness of self. But that decrease was never meant to become a place where we linger or camp. John’s words were not a call to endless self-occupation, but a joyful yielding of the spotlight to Christ. His joy was full precisely because Christ had come into clearer view, and his own role was gladly fading into the background. John 3:29-30.
And yet, as clear as John’s joy was, the language that grew up around humility in later generations did not always carry that same note of gladness. I understand why it appealed to them, and why it still appeals to many of us. There’s something in us that wants to make sure we’re not mistaken for Pharisees. But I sometimes wonder whether that kind of speech, repeated often enough, slips into a gospel cliché. I know it did for me. I spoke that way constantly, convinced it was the right way to walk humbly and to make much of Christ. Looking back, I wonder whether it always flowed from fresh conviction, or whether at times it was simply the dialect of the circle I was in.
Some of this way of speaking seems to come to us through the Gospel Standard tradition, through Philpot and company, where open acknowledgment of depravity was both common and respected. I don’t question the reality they were addressing, nor do I deny our condition in ourselves. That truth remains. What I’ve become more aware of, however, is the subtle difference between honest conviction and the habit of continually narrating ourselves. What begins as sincere confession can, over time, settle into familiar language, repeated because it carries the sound of humility. Yet resting in Christ does not require a running commentary on our corruption, and humility may be less about how low we speak of ourselves and more about how freely Christ occupies our attention.
Those of us who have spent time with the writings of Gadsby, Philpot, Kershaw, Warburton, Huntington, and others, whom I count, without hesitation, as holy brethren, partakers of the heavenly calling, will likely recognize what I’m describing. There can be a subtle impression that genuine believers are those who have, in effect, trained themselves to live in a constant state of felt poverty and need, as though this inward frame must be consciously maintained throughout one’s life, and as though true faith is marked by a lifelong effort to remain visibly poor and needy in one’s own eyes.
When that inward posture becomes central, it begins to influence how faith is recognized and assessed. In some circles, there can be an overemphasis on inward experience, where the strength of one’s feelings becomes the test of spiritual life. Feeling more undone, more broken, or more vile than others can begin to feel like progress, while simple faith in Christ is treated as insufficient unless it is accompanied by a certain depth of feeling. Those who do not speak or feel in the same way may then be quietly dismissed as lifeless, merely doctrinal, or even pharisaical. In such a climate, experience can begin to outweigh truth, so that having felt something becomes more important than having believed the gospel itself.
All of this brings me back to a simple question: where is Christ in our speech, our worship, and our rest? Honest confession has its place, and self-knowledge is not something to be avoided. But neither was ever meant to occupy the center. The gospel does not leave us circling our own corruption, but draws us out of ourselves to Christ, who alone is righteousness, peace, and rest. If our language, however sincere, does not finally lead us there, then it is worth asking whether we have lingered too long on the way. MPJ