End Hunger. No More War. Save the Planet. In a world of grand causes, there is a constant temptation to inflate our own importance. The temptation is especially dangerous for those who are genuinely well-meaning and of good will. Trying to make the world a better place is a praiseworthy goal; we should all be doing it. But there is a danger that our zeal to effect change on the world stage, where we have little real control, will blind us to the need to help closer to home. Few of us are in positions to make decisions about whether nations go to war, but all of us have the opportunity to promote peace among our own family and friends. We shouldn’t let a focus on purportedly world-changing crusades distract us from what matters most in the immediate sphere of our own responsibility and influence.
In its extreme form, the attempt to arrogate to oneself the authority to bring about massive good is considered a psychological disorder: the Messiah complex. But the tendency to neglect our daily duties—where we can have real impact—in favor of flashier activities is something everyone needs to guard against.
The twentieth-century southern writer Flannery O’Connor specialized in poking holes in this particular balloon. A prime example is her short story, “The Lame Shall Enter First,” which features three main characters. Sheppard is the father of a young son, Norman, whom he deems to be of inferior intellect and in need of moral formation. Sheppard is trying, half-heartedly, to shape Norman into a more mature person, but that task is dull and unrewarding, as the boy only has so much potential. Instead, Sheppard focuses his attention on Rufus, a local ne’er-do-well who, Sheppard is sure, he can save. Rufus, he believes, has the inherent qualities his own son lacks: someday, with Sheppard’s encouragement, he will achieve greatness.
We become increasingly distressed as O’Connor walks us through the evolution of Sheppard’s good intention into an obsession. Absorbed by the project of Rufus’s rehabilitation, Sheppard becomes oblivious to the needs of Norton, who is coping with the loss of his mother. The father fails to see not only Rufus’s clever manipulation and complete resistance to his methods, but also that his own desperate attempts to save others is in a way his own emotional reaction to his wife’s death.
Too late, Sheppard recognizes his mistake. Near the end of the story, the revelation dawns. Reflecting on his efforts on behalf of Rufus, he utters a haunting statement that begins as a boast but ends as an accusation: “I did more for him than I did for my own child.”
As with most O’Connor stories, the tale doesn’t end on a happy note, but the gut-wrenching climax serves to bring her point home more forcefully. “The stories are hard,” she once explained to a reader, “but they are hard because there is nothing harder or less sentimental than Christian realism.” O’Connor’s realism reminds us that the consequences of succumbing to the savior temptation could be dire.
Raising a child, performing a job with skill and dedication, maintaining true friendships—these are major accomplishments that make the world a better place. If we’re doing these things conscientiously, then devoting some energy to other causes can be appropriate and laudable. But if we’re not serving well those closest to us, then trying to save the world is an exercise in misplaced priorities. The welfare of the wide world depends on keeping our own little worlds in order.
