I have a cynical twist in my heart. A student accidentally revealed it to me a few years ago, just as Christmas break was to begin. She came to my office with a thick stack of papers, and I could see tears of frustration and self-recrimination threatening in her eyes.

"It just isn't working," she said.

I took the papers and read them. She was right; it wasn't working. But not because of her inadequacy for the task. It was because of her aspiration. I sensed she wanted to achieve more than I expected, more than she, as a beginning writer, could possibly achieve. We talked awhile. When I was satisfied my judgment was right, I asked, "What would you think if we put all this aside, call your semester over, and I give you the A you've earned on your other papers?"

"You'd do that!" she gasped.

I replied, "Sure." But I was troubled. Why did it not occur to her that I might be generous? Had I taught her that I was harsh? Was she so skeptical of me that she imagined I could measure worth only by the legal bounds of the assignment?

Disturbing me further, she asked, "Is this a Christmas present?"

"You earned it," I answered. Behind my smile, however, I was squirming before my own inner judge.

Earlier that semester, my colleagues selected a team for a new project. When they rejected my proposal to join them, I was deeply hurt and privately angry. On what grounds did they reject me? I had won some recognition for my work, so I leapt to an unjust conclusion. They were jealous of my success and wanted to cut me down to size.

While the tall poppy syndrome often thwarts innovation and excellence in close-knit organizations, I had not been cut down. Nothing had been taken from me. I had lost no prestige, no position. The decision led to only one thing: a colleague—and friend—led the team and enjoyed a deserved measure of success.

The cause of my anger was simple—my own needy pride. I'd forgotten I've done nothing alone. Every success I have enjoyed has come to me because other people have been collaborators in my story. Remembering this prompted some self-examination and reflection. I was raised in a church tradition that is profoundly skeptical of human nature. Of course, it is a theological virtue when I recognize my own inclination to sin. It leads to a proper assessment of my own motives. But I can't direct that same skepticism toward the motives of others. To do so would invite destructive cynicism into my relationships. Such an attitude blinds me to generosity and grace. It led me to think of my colleagues as narrowly as my student thought of me. In my pride I had taught myself to judge harshly and selfishly. I let cynicism overpower generosity.

The generosity of the Christ child stands behind all good gifts. If God himself so loved the world that he came into it to save it, my reasonable response is to see and care for others out of that same love.