When the Ego Wears a Halo

The most dangerous idols are never carved.

They breathe.

They speak Scripture fluently.

They wear vestments and titles and identities we cherish with trembling hands.

I have learned this:

There is no instinct more subtle or more deadly than the desire to build a name for God that is really a monument to myself.

The Fathers speak without flattery. Abba Poemen once said, “A man may seem to be silent, but if his heart condemns others, he is speaking continually.” Silence can be theater. Poverty can be performance. Ministry can become camouflage. I can speak of humility and inwardly demand to be noticed for speaking of humility. My ego baptizes itself so quickly that by the time I recognize its voice, I have already obeyed it.

Christ warned us: Take care not to practice your righteousness before men to be seen by them (Matt 6:1). We quote the verse, then build platforms. We say the words, then arrange the spotlight. We speak of the Cross while adjusting our robes.

It is easier to surrender sin than to surrender identity.

Easier to renounce possessions than to renounce a role.

Easier to say “I repent” than to say “I was wrong.”

The ego is a master craftsman. It can take a good desire, prayer, teaching, monasticism, evangelization, scholarship, and twist it five degrees until it becomes self-concern wrapped in religious language. Five degrees is nearly invisible. And five degrees over time leads to an entirely different horizon.

St. Paisios warned that the devil would rather see us build ten monasteries than purify our hearts, because the first can be done with ego intact while the second requires death.

The desert fathers speak of slaying the ego as though it were wrestling a serpent in the dark. There was a monk who prayed constantly to be delivered from the praise of others. One day the elders found him sitting alone muttering, “I have killed praise.” They laughed and said, “Brother, you have not yet even begun to kill it. Look how pleased you are that you think it dead.” The monk wept. He realized pride had worn humility as a mask.

The Apostle Paul said, I die daily (1 Cor 15:31). We quote it as inspiration, but Paul meant it as diagnosis. Death to self is not poetic. It is violence directed against the rebellion within. My will claws at the walls of obedience like an animal trapped. I surrender only until God’s desire diverges from mine. Then I negotiate. Then I theologize. Then I find spiritual language that supports what I already want.

And when the ego becomes religious, it becomes nearly immortal.

A modern elder once said, “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a man to surrender being impressive.” I feel this deeply. Most of my efforts, even my spiritual efforts, carry the faint scent of self-protection. I want to be holy, yes, but I also want to be seen as holy. I want obedience, but I want the obedience I choose. I want surrender, but preferably within my comfort zone.

The ego does not mind spiritual struggle as long as it remains captain of the struggle.

There is a terrifying line from Abba Matta el Meskeen:

“Most of us will die before we ever truly allow the Lord to have His way with us.”

That line haunts me. It names what I fear: that I may live decades with the language of the Kingdom and die with the will of a tyrant inside me.

Dying to self is not a concept. It is a crucifixion.

It means letting go of the narrative I have built, the identity I defend, the future I imagine.

It means trading my scripts for silence.

My ambition for anonymity.

My control for trust.

Christ said, Unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains alone (John 12:24).

So much of my spiritual loneliness has come from refusing to die.

So much of the Church’s anxiety comes from preserving things God never asked us to build.

So many religious works are elaborate towers of Babel with stained glass windows.

Yet, if the wheat dies, something begins that cannot be explained, managed, or credited to me. When self-will is sacrificed, obedience ceases to be duty and becomes freedom. When identity is surrendered, being becomes gift. When the kingdom becomes love rather than project, the ego loses its throne.

Abba Anthony once heard a voice: “Anthony, great are your works, but you have not yet found the humility of a certain cobbler in Alexandria.” Anthony walked all night, found the man, and learned that the cobbler simply believed all men would be saved and he alone would be lost because of his sins. The greatest of monks was sent to learn from a quiet unknown who never sought to be great.

This is the terrifying beauty:

The kingdom belongs to those who do not know they look like saints.

Holiness is often hidden from the one who possesses it.

The ego that seeks sainthood disqualifies itself;

the ego that dies makes room for God.

And so I pray, not politely, but desperately, that God would strip away the identities I cling to, that He would dismantle the altars I build to my own importance, that He would disarm me of the need to be right or revered or useful. I pray for the death of the self that wants to do sacred things for selfish reasons.

I want to want only what He desires.

I want to stand before Him with empty hands.

No titles.

No accomplishments.

No platforms.

Just a heart laid bare, trembling, but finally free.

Lord, slay the ego I protect.

Kill the self-will that has survived every sermon.

Bury what must die so that You may live in me.

For without this death,

there is no resurrection.