The Mind of Christ

Fr. Scott Haynes

Saint Paul does not simply tell us to admire Jesus Christ from a distance, nor does he ask us merely to study His virtues and praise His holiness. He asks for something far more demanding and far more personal: “For let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 2:5). In other words, do not merely look at Christ; learn to think as Christ thinks, to love as Christ loves, to judge as Christ judges, and to choose as Christ chooses, so that little by little His way of seeing the world becomes our way of seeing it, His desires become our desires, and His response to suffering, rejection, inconvenience, and sacrifice becomes our response as well.

And what is the mind of Christ? Saint Paul immediately points us toward the mystery of the Cross, for Jesus Christ, though He possessed the glory of God, “emptied himself, taking the form of a servant” (Philippians 2:7). He descended willingly into our poverty, entered the weakness of our human condition, accepted humiliation and rejection, and “humbled himself, becoming obedient unto death, even to the death of the cross” (Philippians 2:8). The mind of Christ is therefore revealed not principally in power, prestige, or earthly success, but in humility, obedience, self-emptying love, and the willingness to give oneself completely for others.

This is the attitude Saint Paul tells us to make our own. The world teaches us to climb, to establish ourselves, to make our importance known, and to guard carefully what belongs to us, while Christ descended and made Himself the servant of all. The world tells us to protect ourselves, preserve our comfort, and avoid sacrifices that cost too much, while Christ gave Himself away without reserve. The world encourages us to seek recognition and to make certain that our sacrifices are noticed, while Christ knelt before His disciples and washed their feet. The world tells us to win arguments, defend our pride, insist upon our rights, and make certain that others know when they have wronged us, while Christ stood before those who mocked Him, crowned Him with thorns, spat upon Him, falsely accused Him, and finally nailed Him to the Cross, from which He prayed, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34).

To have the mind of Christ, therefore, means much more than believing certain truths about Jesus or feeling devotion toward Him when prayer is peaceful and life is pleasant. It means allowing Jesus Christ to reshape the way we respond precisely when life becomes difficult, when our pride is wounded, when another person frustrates us, when our plans are interrupted, when our sacrifices go unnoticed, and when obedience to God requires something that we would rather not give.

A Practical Examination: Do I Really Have the Mind of Christ?

It is easy to say, “I want to be like Jesus,” but the more searching question is what happens when being like Jesus actually costs me something. Consider the last twenty-four hours, not merely the great events of your life, but the small encounters, reactions, irritations, disappointments, conversations, and interruptions in which the true disposition of the heart is often revealed more clearly than in extraordinary moments.

When I was contradicted, how did I react? Did I immediately feel compelled to defend myself, explain myself, or prove that I was right, or was I capable of listening calmly and allowing another person to speak without treating disagreement as a personal injury? Did I become cold, irritated, or distant afterward, perhaps continuing the argument silently in my imagination and rehearsing all the things I wished I had said? When no serious principle is at stake, can I allow another person to have the last word, or does my pride insist upon victory even in matters that do not truly matter?

When I was overlooked, did my peace disappear? If someone else was praised while I was forgotten, was I genuinely able to rejoice in the good that came to that person, or did something within me immediately begin asking, “What about me?” When my work went unnoticed, did resentment begin to grow because I wanted recognition, appreciation, or gratitude? The mind of Christ is content to do good before the Father who sees in secret, but the mind of pride often wants witnesses, applause, acknowledgment, and proof that our sacrifices have been noticed.

When someone inconvenienced me, did I see merely an interruption, or did I recognize a soul placed before me by Providence? The telephone call that came at the wrong moment, the person who talked longer than I wished, the family member who needed something when I was already tired, the driver who slowed me down, the person who asked the same question again, or the unexpected responsibility that disrupted my carefully arranged plans may seem insignificant, yet these ordinary inconveniences are often precisely where Christ asks us to exchange our own mind for His. We may imagine that we would perform some heroic act of charity if God asked it of us, while becoming impatient when He asks instead for five extra minutes of attention, a gentle answer, or a small sacrifice of personal convenience.

How do I treat people who can do absolutely nothing for me? Am I as attentive to the lonely person as I am to the important person, and do I listen with the same patience to someone who cannot advance my interests, improve my reputation, or offer me anything in return? Do I notice the elderly, the awkward, the tiresome, the forgotten, and the person whom others quietly avoid? Christ repeatedly gave His attention to those whom the world overlooked, and if His mind is truly becoming our own, then our charity cannot depend upon the usefulness, attractiveness, intelligence, influence, or gratitude of the person standing before us.

What happens when I am corrected? Do I immediately begin explaining why the criticism is unfair, searching for circumstances that excuse my behavior, or remembering the faults of the person who corrected me so that I can dismiss what he has said? Even when a correction is poorly expressed, exaggerated, or partly unjust, can I still ask quietly before God, “Lord, is there something here You want me to see?” Humility does not require us to believe every accusation made against us, but it does require enough interior freedom to examine ourselves before rushing to defend ourselves.

Am I secretly keeping a record of what I do for others, remembering my sacrifices and comparing them with the gratitude I receive in return? When I begin thinking, “After everything I have done for them,” perhaps my charity has quietly become a contract in which I expected repayment in the form of affection, loyalty, recognition, or praise. Christ did not give Himself to us because we had earned His love, nor did He climb Calvary surrounded by grateful people thanking Him for His sacrifice. If nobody ever thanked me for a particular act of charity, if nobody ever knew what it cost me, and if God alone saw it, would I still be willing to do it?

There may be no more revealing examination than to ask whose name has the power to disturb my interior peace. Is there someone whose name immediately awakens anger, jealousy, bitterness, contempt, resentment, or the memory of an old wound? Have I forgiven that person only with my lips while continuing the trial in my imagination, replaying the offense, gathering new evidence against him, repeating the story to others, and secretly waiting for the day when I will be proven right? Forgiveness does not mean pretending that evil was good or denying the pain caused by another person, but it does mean surrendering the desire to keep the wound alive as a permanent accusation.

I should also ask whether I enjoy hearing about the faults or failures of someone I dislike. When a person who has offended me suffers embarrassment, failure, criticism, or humiliation, does some hidden part of me feel vindicated? Do I listen more eagerly when conversation turns toward the faults of someone against whom I already hold resentment? The mind of Christ does not rejoice in another person's humiliation, even when that person has sinned against us, because divine charity desires conversion and salvation rather than revenge.

Do I need constantly to be understood? Christ was misunderstood, falsely accused, mocked, and judged by people who did not know His Heart, yet how much energy do I spend trying to ensure that everyone has the correct opinion of me? How restless do I become when someone misjudges my motives, misunderstands my intentions, or forms an unfavorable impression of me? Charity sometimes requires an explanation, especially when truth, justice, or another person's welfare is involved, but pride often disguises itself as a concern for truth when what we really want is to protect our reputation.

Am I willing to serve when the service remains completely hidden, when nobody is watching, when nobody will thank me, when my name will never appear beneath the work, and when someone else may even receive the credit? Hidden service places the heart very close to the hidden life of Jesus, who spent most of His earthly years away from the admiration of crowds, quietly working, praying, obeying, and sanctifying ordinary life in Nazareth. What am I willing to do simply because God sees?

I should also examine what I complain about repeatedly, because repeated complaints often reveal the particular cross that I have still refused to accept. Perhaps it is my work, my health, my family responsibilities, another person's habits, a limitation that will not disappear, a burden I did not choose, or a situation I cannot change. There are legitimate reasons to speak honestly about suffering and to seek help when something should be changed, but there is also a kind of habitual complaining that gradually becomes an interior rebellion against Providence, as though we were continually telling God that we would gladly follow Him if only He would first give us a different life.

Eventually this examination reaches an even deeper place, where we must ask where we are still saying to God, “Anything but this.” Anything but this illness, this person, this disappointment, this loneliness, this duty, this humiliation, this uncertainty, this unanswered prayer, this loss, or this sacrifice. We may sincerely tell God that we want to belong entirely to Him while quietly reserving one portion of our lives over which we still insist upon complete control.

Christ entered Gethsemane knowing precisely what obedience would cost Him, and there He prayed, “Not my will, but thine be done” (Luke 22:42). The deepest question, therefore, is not simply whether I believe in God or whether I perform religious duties faithfully, but whether I am gradually learning to place my own will into His hands, especially when His will passes through something I would never have chosen for myself.

One Question to Carry Through the Day

Before speaking, reacting, complaining, defending myself, judging another person, or surrendering to resentment, I can pause for a moment and ask one simple question: “What would the mind of Christ look like here?” I need not wait for some heroic future sacrifice or extraordinary opportunity for holiness, because Christ asks for His mind here, in this conversation, with this person, amid this irritation, within this disappointment, through this wound, during this opportunity to remain silent, in this chance to forgive, and in this unnoticed act of service.

Christian holiness is often decided in moments so ordinary that nobody else ever notices them, because the Cross usually enters our lives without announcing itself as the Cross. It often appears disguised as an interruption, a criticism, an unwanted duty, a difficult personality, a disappointment, an unanswered prayer, a humiliation, a delay, the surrender of our own preferences, or the necessity of forgiving yet again. Precisely there, hidden beneath something ordinary and unwelcome, Christ asks whether we will receive His mind or stubbornly insist upon our own.

Perhaps this should become our prayer tonight: Jesus, show me where I resisted Your mind today, where pride spoke before charity could speak, where impatience displaced gentleness, where I demanded recognition instead of accepting hiddenness, where I judged another person rather than showing compassion, and where I clung to my own will rather than surrendering to Yours. Show me whom I failed to love, whom I have not fully forgiven, where resentment still remains hidden within me, and where I continue to demand that life unfold according to my plans. Then give me the grace tomorrow to recognize You sooner, especially when You approach me beneath the appearance of an interruption, a sacrifice, a difficult person, or an unexpected cross.

When I desire praise, give me Your humility; when I am contradicted, give me Your meekness; when I am forgotten, give me Your hiddenness; when I am wounded, give me Your mercy; when I am inconvenienced, give me Your patience; when I am asked to sacrifice, give me Your generosity; when I am misunderstood, give me Your silence; when I am tempted to judge, give me Your compassion; when I want my own way, give me Your obedience; and when the Cross enters my life, give me the grace not merely to endure it reluctantly, but to recognize Your presence within it and to embrace whatever will bring me more completely into union with You.

Jesus, let Your mind be in me, so that I may learn to think with Your mind, love with Your Heart, forgive with Your mercy, serve with Your humility, suffer with Your patience, and surrender with Your obedience, until my thoughts, words, reactions, judgments, and choices are so deeply shaped by You that those who encounter me may encounter something of You.