he thing, not that I may be true to my Lord, not that the
truth may be recognized as truth and as his, but that I may be seen as
the doer, that I may be praised of men, that I may gain repute or fame;
be the thing itself ever so good, I may look to men for my reward, for
there is none for me with the Father. If, that light being my pleasure,
I do it that the light may shine, and that men may know _the_ Light,
the father of lights, I do well; but if I do it that I may be seen
shining, that the light may be noted as emanating from me and not from
another, then am I of those that seek glory of men, and worship Satan;
the light that through me may possibly illuminate others, will, in me
and for me, be darkness.

_But when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right
hand doeth_.

How, then, am I to let my light shine, if I take pains to hide what I
do?

The injunction is not to hide what you do from others, but to hide it
from yourself. The Master would have you not plume yourself upon it, not
cherish the thought that you have done it, or confer with yourself in
satisfaction over it. You must not count it to your praise. A man must
not desire to be satisfied with himself. His right hand must not seek
the praise of his left hand. His doing must not invite his
after-thinking. The right hand must let the thing done go, as a thing
done-with. We must meditate nothing either as a fine thing for us to do,
or a fine thing for us to have done. We must not imagine any merit in
us: it would be to love a lie, for we can have none; there is no such
thing possible. Is there anything to be proud of in refusing to worship
the devil? Is it a grand thing, is it a meritorious thing, not to be
vile? When we have done all, we are unprofitable servants. Our very best
is but decent. What more could it be? Why then think of it as anything
more? What things could we or any one do, worthy of being brooded over
as possessions. Good to do, they were; bad to pride ourselves upon, they
are. Why should a man meditate with satisfaction on having denied
himself some selfish indulgence, any more than on having washed his
hands? May we roll the rejection of a villainy as a sweet morsel under
our tongues? They were the worst villains of all who could be proud of
not having committed a villainy; and their pride would but render them
the more capable of the villainy, when next the temptation to it came.
Even if our supposed merit were of the po