What to Resist in Ourselves—and What to Treasure

Blog by Alan Fadling

Many of us carry a quiet confusion about how we are supposed to relate to ourselves. We’ve heard warnings about loving ourselves too much, alongside invitations to practice better self-care. We’re told to be gentle with ourselves and, in the next breath, to deny ourselves. Somewhere in the middle, we’re left wondering: Which part of me is God actually concerned with? The Christian tradition offers a distinction here that is both bracing and deeply kind—and recovering it may change how we understand humility, discipline, and care of the soul itself.

Writing about Pascal’s Pensées, Peter Kreeft names a distinction that may sound severe at first, but proves to be deeply humane:

“G. K. Chesterton says that no one can love his own soul too much or hate his own self too much. Pascal makes the same distinction, for he is taught by the same Master. We are to despise ourselves, because we have chosen not to fulfill our capacity for good; but we are not to despise our souls, which have that capacity.”*

There is a gentle but crucial distinction here, one that often gets lost in modern spiritual language. Chesterton and Pascal both insist that the problem is not that we value ourselves too much, but that we value the wrong part of ourselves. We are not guilty of excessive self-love so much as misdirected love. When the tradition speaks of despising the self, it is not turning against the soul. It is naming the false self we cling to—the self shaped by fear, ego, control, and a quiet refusal to grow into the good we were made for.

This false self is not imaginary. It is the version of us that wants reassurance without repentance, affirmation without formation. It learns how to manage appearances, defend its habits, and avoid the discomfort of change. It is deeply invested in being right, safe, and admired. To “despise” this self, in the language of the tradition, is not an act of violence but of clarity. It is a refusal to confuse familiarity with faithfulness, or comfort with life.

Soul care and self-care, then, are not the same thing, even though they are often spoken of as if they were interchangeable. Self-care, as it is commonly practiced, tends to aim at comfort, control, or self-protection. It asks how to reduce strain, manage stress, or preserve energy. These are not unimportant concerns, but they are not the same as tending the soul. Soul care aims at truth, healing, and transformation. It asks what is real, what needs attention, and where God is inviting growth.

The desert fathers were not advocating self-hatred. They were inviting honesty. Their language can sound severe to modern ears, but its purpose was formational, not punitive. To despise the self in their sense is to refuse to excuse the habits that shrink our capacity for love. It is to stop defending what keeps us small. This kind of honesty does not diminish us; it clears the ground for grace to do its work. Discipline, in this light, becomes an act of love rather than punishment—a way of cooperating with freedom.

At the same time, the soul is never the object of contempt. The soul bears God’s image. It holds our deepest capacity for goodness, communion, and growth. The soul is what God addresses, heals, and patiently shapes. To care for the soul is to honor that capacity, even when it is fragile or unfinished. We do not despise the soul for its wounds; we tend it because it is precious.

When this distinction is held, something important shifts within us. Humility no longer feels like self-erasure, but like release from pretense. Repentance becomes an opening rather than a collapse. Formation is no longer about becoming someone else, but about cooperating with who we are truly becoming in God. We learn to be unsparing toward what resists love, and deeply gentle toward what God is bringing to life.

For Reflection:

• Take a moment to notice the difference between resistance and rejection. Ask yourself gently: What in me resists love—through fear, control, or self-protection—and needs to be named honestly? Don’t rush to fix it. Simply bring it into the light.
• Then turn your attention to what is worthy of care. Where do you sense life, openness, or a quiet longing for God? Hold that place with tenderness. Ask for the grace to resist what keeps you small, and to cherish what God is faithfully shaping within you.

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*Peter Kreeft. Christianity for Modern Pagans: Pascal’s Pensées. San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1993, p. 62.