Many years ago, I was teaching a group of pathology residents at a training program where I had been invited to serve as director of dermatopathology. Every week, I would give didactic lectures and review interesting and complex cases submitted from the previous week. For the first few weeks, I genuinely enjoyed the exchanges and looked forward to the meetings. The residents were bright, engaged, and eager to learn. Teaching has always been one of the most rewarding parts of medicine for me.

However, during one session, one of the residents asked me a question. “Doctor, why is it so difficult to get into a dermatopathology fellowship?”

It was a common question, and I gave her my usual answer. “It is competitive because the fellowship accepts applicants from both dermatology and pathology training programs. Thus, you are competing against dermatology residents as well, reducing the chances of being accepted.”

I thought that would answer her question, but she persisted. “I understand, but how difficult can it be? You got in!”

At first, I thought she was joking. A poor joke perhaps, but still a joke. So I responded with a self-deprecating remark. “Yes, well I guess they lowered the standards the year I applied.”

I looked around the room expecting laughter. There was none. No smiles. No chuckles. Just silence. That was the moment I realized she was serious. And perhaps even more painful, I realized the others likely agreed with her.

Suddenly, the atmosphere in the room changed. What had started as a casual question now felt like an open challenge to whether I deserved to be standing at the front of the room at all. So I did something I never liked doing. I defended myself. I began outlining my credentials: my research, leadership positions, awards, publications, the nationally recognized dermatopathologists I had trained under, the fellowships, the years of study and work that had brought me there. Even as I spoke, part of me hated doing it. I have never enjoyed self-promotion. Yet in that moment, I felt cornered. I felt the need to justify my presence.

When I finished, she listened quietly and then simply said: “I see. Don’t know why it is so difficult.”

That sentence stayed with me for years. Not because it damaged my career. Not because it threatened my position. But because of what it revealed inside my own heart.

Driving home afterward, I remember replaying the conversation over and over in my mind. Part of me was angry. Part of me was humiliated. But deeper still was another realization: why had I become so desperate to prove myself? Why did I feel such a strong need to defend my accomplishments before people whose opinions ultimately carried so little eternal significance?

The truth is, there are moments when God allows our pride to be exposed not through failure, but through disrespect. Sometimes the wound is not that people insult us. The wound is that we discover how much we depended on being admired. That is a far more painful discovery.

A prophet is not without honor except in his own country, among his own relatives, and in his own house.
Mark 6:4 (ESV)

Even Jesus Christ experienced this kind of dismissal. The people of Nazareth looked at Him and essentially said: “Isn’t this just the carpenter?”

They saw the ordinary surface and completely missed the glory standing before them. And if the Son of God Himself was underestimated, misunderstood, and dismissed, why are we so shocked when it happens to us?

The older I get, the more I realize that many people only see outcomes, never sacrifices. They see the title. Not the years of uncertainty. They see the position. Not the loneliness. They see the accomplishment. Not the failures, rejection, exhaustion, and fear that preceded it.

But there was another lesson God was teaching me that day. My identity had become too connected to my accomplishments. Because if my peace could be shaken so deeply by one resident’s opinion, then somewhere inside me, my worth had quietly attached itself to reputation rather than Christ. That realization hurt more than her words. 

The Gospel continually calls us away from self-justification. Jesus Christ “made Himself of no reputation” (Philippians 2:7).

That verse sounds beautiful in theory. It becomes much harder when God allows it to happen to us personally.

Over time, I have come to see that not every misunderstanding needs correction. Not every insult deserves a defense. Sometimes the quietest response reveals the deepest trust in God. There are battles fought to protect truth. And there are battles fought merely to protect ego. The two are not always the same.

Perhaps that resident never intended to wound me. Perhaps she was immature. Perhaps insecure herself. I honestly do not know. Time has softened my feelings toward her. But I do know this: God used that painful encounter to expose something hidden in me. I still wanted the approval of people. I still wanted recognition. I still wanted others to confirm my value.

And Christ was gently teaching me that earthly credentials can never carry the weight of identity. Because eventually, titles fade. Awards are forgotten. Positions disappear. Reputations shift.

But being known and loved by Christ remains.

But far be it from me to boast except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ…
Galatians 6:14 (ESV)

Love and trust in the Lord; seek His will in your life.

#faith #trustinggod #christianity #jesuschrist #bible #seekinggodswill #truth #sanctification #godisincontrol #godhearsourprayers #salvation #providenceofGod #howdifficultcanitbe #Galatians6:14

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