One of the oldest questions in Christianity is about those who never heard the Gospel. If salvation comes through faith in Jesus Christ, then what happens to the countless people who lived before Christ or lived in places where Christianity was never preached? Missionaries have faced this question for centuries. In sixteenth century Japan, Francis Xavier was asked exactly this. If Christ is the only way, what of the ancestors who died without knowing Him?
It is not simply a puzzle about theology. It is also a question about fairness, humility, and hidden arrogance. To say that God is just and merciful is one thing. To insist that only those who know Christ by name are saved is another. Outsiders quickly sense the tension. The Christian may say with sincerity, “I am nothing without Christ.” Yet to the listener, it can sound like, “I have the truth and you do not.” The same words that express humility before God can carry the scent of superiority toward others.
That is why this question never goes away. It is not only about heaven and hell. It is about the fragile balance between authentic humility and unspoken pride. It touches family divisions when one child becomes “born again” while the parents remain Catholic. It shapes the dialogue between missionaries and those they address. And it exposes something deeper in human nature itself.
The Paradox of Christian Humility
Christianity begins with a radical claim: all have sinned, all fall short of God’s glory, and all need salvation that only Christ provides. This confession produces real humility. A believer does not boast of moral perfection but admits dependence on grace. The gospel levels humanity by saying no one can stand on their own merits.
Yet the paradox soon appears. To say, “I know I am sinful” can carry an unintended superiority. It is as if one is wiser than those who have not reached the same confession. Humility becomes a badge of distinction. The person who admits their weakness can feel stronger than the one who has not admitted it. The paradox is subtle but powerful.
Socrates experienced a similar dynamic. He claimed to know nothing, but even that awareness set him apart from others who thought they knew. His knowledge of ignorance became a kind of superiority. The Christian who says, “I am nothing without Christ” risks the same. The confession of weakness becomes a mark of strength, and pride enters through the back door.
Monastic traditions have long warned about this danger. The Desert Fathers wrote of pride even in humility. Augustine admitted that confessing sin can itself become a source of boasting. Bernard of Clairvaux described the stages of humility and warned that every step can be corrupted by pride. The greatest temptation, some Orthodox teachers say, is to be proud of one’s own humility.
Salvation, Exclusivity, and Division
This paradox is not only personal. It also shapes the way Christians view one another. In evangelical and revivalist circles, salvation is often tied to a conscious decision. One must be “born again” and remember a moment of conversion. Without that moment, faith is considered incomplete. From this perspective, those who rely on sacramental life or inherited faith are seen as “unsaved.”
This creates painful divisions within families. A child may convert to evangelical Christianity and declare themselves saved, while speaking of their Catholic parents as lost. The parents, faithful in Mass and sacraments, may feel dismissed as outsiders by their own child. The child may insist they are only repeating what the Bible says, but to the family it sounds like arrogance.
Catholic teaching emphasizes God’s grace mediated through sacraments and community. Salvation is not confined to one instant but unfolds across a lifetime of faith and practice. Orthodoxy adds another dimension, focusing on salvation as participation in divine life. Judgment is left in mystery. God alone knows the heart. These perspectives resist the sharp divide of saved versus unsaved, but they also produce their own exclusivity. Each claims to hold the truest path.
The result is a strange mixture of humility and division. Each group insists it is nothing without God, yet each is tempted to say it has the truest humility, the purest recognition of sin, or the clearest access to salvation. What was meant to unite the faithful before God often becomes a wall between them.
The Missionary Dilemma
The paradox is perhaps most visible in mission. A missionary brings what they believe is good news to those who have never heard it. The act of proclamation itself creates asymmetry. One speaks as bearer of truth, the other listens as recipient. Even if the missionary insists that they are nothing, the structure of the relationship suggests otherwise.
Francis Xavier felt this in Japan. He believed with deep conviction that those who died unbaptized were lost, yet he also recognized the injustice that so many had no chance to hear the Gospel. He wrote with anguish that people were not Christians simply because “there was nobody to make them Christians.” His humility before God was real, but to his listeners, the implication was that their ancestors were damned. That sense of hidden arrogance was unavoidable.
Modern missiology has wrestled with this tension. In earlier centuries, mission was tied to conquest. Christianity was not only spiritual truth but also cultural superiority. Today, missionaries are trained to emphasize dialogue and witness rather than judgment. They are encouraged to listen first, to serve communities in health care and education, and to recognize the goodness already present in other traditions. The emphasis has shifted from “we bring the truth you lack” to “we share what we have found and learn from you in return.”
Still, the asymmetry cannot be erased. To call oneself a missionary is to arrive with something others do not have. Outsiders sense the imbalance even when it is softened by humility. The challenge is not to deny the asymmetry but to live it honestly, with openness and self-awareness.
The Universal Human Pattern
What makes the missionary dilemma even more interesting is that it is not unique to religion. The same structure appears wherever people build identity around awareness.
Progressive activists may say they are humble enough to see injustice and privilege. Their humility toward society can become superiority toward those who do not share the same awareness. Conservatives may say they are humble enough to recognize human limits and the wisdom of tradition. Their humility toward the past can become superiority toward those who demand change. Each side believes it is practicing humility, yet each is tempted to pride over its awareness.
The pattern is built into self-consciousness. To know oneself as humble requires comparison. “I am humble” means little without someone to measure against. Humility requires the proud as contrast. Awareness requires the unaware. The very act of recognition creates distinction, and distinction creates the seed of pride.
This is why every movement, whether religious, philosophical, or political, risks the same fate. Monks in the desert become proud of their humility. Enlightenment thinkers become proud of their rational modesty. Social justice activists become proud of their critical awareness. Traditionalists become proud of their restraint. The cycle repeats itself because human recognition is always relational.
Toward a Deeper Humility
Modern missiology tries to acknowledge this universal structure. Missionaries are taught that arrogance is not only morally troubling but also ineffective. People sense when they are looked down upon. Authentic witness requires humility not just before God but also before those one addresses.
This means admitting mystery. Catholics speak of “invincible ignorance” and “seeds of the Word.” Protestants emphasize God’s justice and mercy beyond what humans can see. Orthodox Christians often refuse to define who is saved at all. All of these approaches soften the claim, shifting it from judgment to witness. The missionary does not say, “You are lost,” but rather, “I have found life in Christ, and I want to share it.”
Perhaps the answer lies in what might be called a second-order humility. It is one thing to admit sin and dependence on grace. It is another to admit that even humility itself can become pride. This second awareness allows a missionary, or anyone engaged in truth-telling, to hold their convictions without closing their ears. They can confess, “I believe this to be true, but I know my own temptation to superiority. I remain open to what you may teach me as well.”
Such humility does not erase division, but it changes its meaning. Division becomes not a sign of victory or defeat, but a sign of human limitation. In the encounter of different beliefs, each side is invited into deeper humility.
The Gift Beyond Possession
Mission, at its heart, means bringing good news. But good news is not a possession. It is not something that one group owns and another lacks. It is a gift, and a gift always changes in the giving. When missionaries share Christ, they are not transferring a fixed object. They are entering a relationship in which both sides are reshaped.
This reframing can help other fields as well. In education, politics, and activism, the temptation to superiority is just as strong. Teachers, reformers, and campaigners all risk falling into “I know, you don’t.” Missiology’s long wrestling with this paradox can offer wisdom beyond religion. Witness without domination, dialogue with reciprocity, awareness of structural imbalance; these practices are valuable wherever truth is shared.
The humility that hides pride will never be fully overcome. It is part of human self-consciousness. But it can be exposed, named, and softened. When humility is joined with vigilance against pride, when mission is joined with openness to being changed, then what was once asymmetry becomes something closer to companionship. The good news then is not only that salvation is possible, but that even in our flawed ways of sharing it, grace still works through the cracks.
Image by Dorothée QUENNESSON
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