An Artist’s Call to Humility

An Artist’s Call to Humility

By Alex Palting

O Jesus, meek and humble of heart, hear me:

From the desire of being loved, deliver me, O Jesus…

That others may be preferred to me in everything, Jesus grant me the grace to desire it…

That others become holier than I, provided that I become as holy as I should, Jesus grant me the grace to desire it.

- Excerpts from The Litany of Humility by Cardinal Rafael Merry del Val (1865-1930)

During Lent last year, I stumbled across the Litany of Humility, a prayer I first regarded as a list of aspirational platitudes. But I later found that my aloof dismissal turned, surprisingly, into disdain.

Being an artist encourages us to look at strong emotions with curiosity, not judgment. So in a moment of quiet, when I found myself fuming over this Litany (again), I softly asked myself: why feel so much ugly turmoil over a simple prayer?

I realized that I was indignant because I felt trapped. In my practical, day-to-day life as an actor, singer and writer in vibrant (but brutal) New York City, I don't even know how to begin to pray that others be preferred to me, loved more than me, chosen while I'm set aside…and actually mean it. I thought that the God who gave me the heart and mind of an artist wants me to share them, not bury them underground like the servant who hid his master's talents. Furthermore, as a BIPOC woman who believes in the power of representation, how am I supposed to help increase visibility while also praying to make myself smaller?

It seemed that I had to proclaim my uniqueness and excellence in order to live out my calling but, according to this Litany, I have to do the exact opposite if I want to become a saint.

There was, however, a faint thread that tied together this paradox: grace. Every line in the prayer’s final section ends with, “Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.” So even the author concedes that we’re not praying for things that are natural; rather, we’re asking for help to rewrite our nature.

Being an actor exercises the (in)famous “yes, and” instinct—an improvisational technique where you accept your scene partner's statement as true and then build upon that truth with creativity of your own. So what if I say “yes, and” to the Litany?

Slowly, paradoxically, I found that although I was praying for humility, I seemed to be taking up more space. My back was straighter, I spoke with more assurance, I listened without anticipating what to say next. As my humility grew, so did my capacity for little, courageous choices.

Maybe praying for humility as a creative means praying that the desire to be recognized as a good artist defer to the desire to be a truthful one. Maybe humility isn’t about asking to be less loved than others, but asking for a heart that allows us to unselfconsciously love others, our craft, and love others through our craft, without hope or promise that that love be returned—we are already loved beyond compare and belief, after all.

By wrestling with this prayer, I learned that humility doesn’t mean shrinking your vision, your voice, or yourself. Praying for humility means keeping your soul large, endeavoring to empty it of pride and expectation, and fill it instead with air and mirrors.

The full, original Litany of Humility can be found here. At the end of my journey through this prayer, I adapted it to be personal to my life. You might do the same, or try my “yes, and” to the Litany below. There are 34 more days until Easter—if you wish, you might try prayerfully meditating on one line per day.

O Jesus, meek and humble of heart, hear me:
From the desire to be praised, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the desire to be spoken of well, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the desire for applause, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the desire for thanks, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the desire to amaze, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the desire to be “that girl,” deliver me, O Jesus.
From the desire to be seen as beautiful, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the desire to be right, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the desire to be looked to or confided in, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the desire to identify with what I do, deliver me, O Jesus.
From defensive ownership of my art, deliver me, Jesus.
From the addiction to dopamine, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the fear of being alone with my thoughts, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the fear of being wrong, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the fear of cracking under pressure, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the fear that I am not enough as I am today, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the fear of appearing vulnerable, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the fear of appearing too earnest, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the fear of appearing like the work-in-progress that I am, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the fear of being found wanting, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the fear of being the one who cares the most, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the fear of being forgotten, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the fear of purposelessness, deliver me, O Jesus.
From the fear that the best is behind me, deliver me, O Jesus.
From jealousy, deliver me, O Jesus.
From shame, deliver me, O Jesus.
That others be loved more than I, Jesus grant me the grace to desire it.
That others delight more than I, Jesus grant me the grace to desire it.
That my efforts allow others to shine, Jesus grant me the grace to desire it.
That others be praised and I go unnoticed, Jesus grant me the grace to desire it.
That others’ creativity astonishes and moves me, Jesus grant me the grace to desire it.
That others’ dreams come true before my eyes, Jesus grant me the grace to desire it.
That others be more gifted, talented, and worthy than I, provided that I steward my gifts as well as I can, Jesus grant me the grace to desire it.
That others become holier than I, provided that I become as holy as I should, Jesus grant me the grace to desire it.

The Transfiguration