Saving Face

by Joel Bates

My main assignment that day was picking up the expedition group from the backcountry trailhead and driving them back to basecamp.  I arrived shortly before the group appeared, and the weary hikers joyfully settled on the bus.  The day was going well, but as I drove down the country dirt road back to camp a sinking feeling that I was on a course for disaster descended in the pit of my gut like a threatening dark cloud. 

It took only a couple minutes to realize I had missed the road that would have provided the swiftest passage home; I realized my error, but I didn’t change course.  I kept going and reasoned that finding a turnaround on the narrow gravel stretch would be difficult with a van and trailer.  I rationalized further that this would inconvenience the group, requiring them to disembark and help detach the trailer and swing it around to retrace our route.  However, if I’d been totally honest about what fueled my greatest reason for not turning around to go the right way I'd had admitted it was my pride.  But I needed to save face in front of these people who had just achieved a great challenging and bonding experience through adversity.  I felt the pressure to fit in and not show weakness or incompetence by admitting I had made a mistake.  So, I kept driving the wrong way, assuming optimistically that the road would soon curve in the direction I needed it to go and, somehow, magically bring us to the main highway home.  I rationalized that this slight alteration wouldn’t cause much inconvenience, and the group need not know my error.  Yes, I could save face.  

I began to realize the road I was following didn’t supernaturally curve in the direction I was hoping for.  In fact, it veered exactly the opposite direction from basecamp, but I kept driving.  The farther I went the more the pressure mounted because now if I turned round, I was going to add a significant amount of travel time to the day.  And my face would be covered in egg, so I kept driving. 

Pretty soon, I knew I had gone so far that I couldn’t reasonably turn around.  At that moment I decided to throw all my chips in and dedicate myself to the road I was on even though it was the wrong way and I didn't know where it would lead.  I believed that eventually I would hit blacktop and then come upon a familiar town or landmark.  Then surely upon a major highway we would arrive back at basecamp.  So, I pressed the accelerator pedal a little harder and kept going. 
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By now, the expedition participants were quietly gazing out the windows, probably wondering why the drive was taking longer than the morning's hike.  The instructors who knew the area certainly must have wondered if I’d lost my sanity, but out of respect, they said nothing, just trusting that I was making the best decisions for the good of everyone.  What I was really doing was trying to preserve my self-image that I’m a competent logistics driver who knows my way around, but what the devil was screaming in my ear was that after 20 years of backcountry navigation and instructorship, the best I can offer is incompetence.  

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I breathed a sigh of relief when we finally reached a small, backwater town with a road sign directing us toward a bigger town that I recognized.  So, I got on the path of familiarity, grateful that I wasn’t wandering anymore.  Now, I could keep driving because the fact remained that I was nowhere near where I was supposed to be.  My pride would add nearly two hours to the journey home as we traveled over some of the most curvy and hilly stretches of highway in America.  All the while, silently loathing myself for the error, I kept driving. 

Later after logging nearly 100 extra driving miles, pulling over once to allow a carsick participant to throw up, and significantly delaying the group’s post-trip cleanup, dinner, and departure timeline, we arrived at basecamp.  The ironic reality remained that the naive participants trusted that I had chosen the best way to get out of the backcountry for our return home.  In the end, I had saved face.  
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Reflecting over the next couple days on my major, directional error, I felt disgusted with myself.  The real cause of the problem had not been my mistake in missing a turn; we all make mistakes.  My problem was my pride.  Thinking back to that long drive, I recalled a quiet breath-prayer that I had uttered as I drove that narrow, dirt road: “God what should I do?”  Evidently, I was not really wanting an answer!

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“Turn around.” I heard the Spirit say, but I was too committed to saving face with the people too listen to God.  He answered, but I was unwilling to obey.  I kept driving, and it cost the people with me.  Pride had undermined my leadership and established that I would sacrifice the group’s good so that I would not look incompetent.  I was convicted, and I repented.

The next day, I apologized to the instructors, not so much for my missing the turn, but for the pride that followed.  They generously forgave me, but I had to own the reality of my pride and wonder, “Where does this compulsive drive to save face come from?”  For me, the answer lies in a false identity that says I have to look competent and skilled to be valuable and loved.  The belief goes deep and is rooted in a lot of undisciplined listening to the world and the cause and effect of ego strokes and soul wounds from people and myself. 

I had grown to a place where saving face matters so much because I had neglected to consider what God says about me; I doubted His love.  What I need to do is stop trying to save my face and start seeking His face.  Psalm 27:8 declares, “You have said, ‘Seek my face.’” My heart says to you, “Your face, LORD, do I seek.”’
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I think there is a tendency to feel that God is nearly always disappointed in us for one reason or another.  It’s true!  There’s lots for Him to choose from when it comes to our sinfulness, but when we live with the sense that Jesus is fed up with us, we find it difficult even to want to seek His face.  Furthermore, it’s an affront to His sacrifice on the cross, as if to say that what He did had no power or value to actually sanctify us and make us saints.  Let me be clear.  When God looks at the believer in Christ He sees saints, not sinners, and His reality is supreme over ours.  How often I forget that part of the gospel!  I find myself compelled by the pressures of other voices and other faces to project more confidence, competence, successfulness, wealth, value, and greatness than are mine to give.   

After the frightfully long journey of picking up the backpackers, the instructors forgave me and God forgave me and I even forgave myself, but if I could go back in time, I would swallow my pride, apply the brakes, and turn around.  I would have looked less competent and perhaps had to endure the momentary derision of trip participants.  My error would have been blatant, out there to be criticized.  However, if I had just taken the humble approach, I would have mimicked the humility of Christ.  He would have seen me as one who believes I’m valuable and loved despite my mistakes.  I would have spared the group a more arduous journey, and I would have had the opportunity to experience something far greater than looking good before people.  I could have traded in saving my own face for seeing God’s face. 

Let’s commit together that next time we take a wrong turn, make a mistake, or show our incompetence, instead of  keeping on in our pride, we will close our eyes, take a deep breath, look not at saving our own face, but fix our eyes on Jesus’ face—winsome and smiling at us because of the greatest truth in the world: to Him we are beloved.  His love endures forever!

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