In ancient Rome, a triumph was the ultimate parade for a general, a commander returning to homeland with a victory. The city packed the streets with thousands. People shouted his name. Soldiers marched, banners flew as far as the eye could see. Spoils were carried through town. He rode high in a chariot, crowned, dressed in symbols of honor. It was designed to make one man feel larger than life.

And then there’s that unsettling detail in the tradition: behind the general, an attendant—often a slave—would hold the crown and keep whispering a warning so the commander wouldn’t get drunk on the applause: “Memento mori. Respice post te! Hominem te esse memento” Remember: you will die. You’re not a god. You’re a man.

That whisper wasn’t meant to ruin the celebration. It was meant to rescue him from a very normal human trap: when we feel insecure, we try to become untouchable. We try to climb high enough that nothing can threaten us. And the easiest way to climb is comparison. If I can be above someone, then maybe I’m safe. Maybe I’m enough.

Jesus tells a story in Luke 18 for people doing exactly that. Two men go up to the temple to pray. One is a Pharisee—respected, moral, disciplined. And he prays like he’s on a spiritual triumph route. Listen to how his words work: “God, I thank you that I’m not like other men… not like this tax collector.” He’s not really talking to God. He’s using God as a backdrop while he crowns himself. His peace is built on a ladder—his goodness measured against somebody else’s badness.

Then the tax collector. He won’t lift his eyes. He beats his chest. No résumé. No comparison. Just one honest sentence: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” He’s the man who has heard the whisper—not only “you’re mortal,” but “you’re needy.” He comes with empty hands.

And Jesus gives the shocking verdict: the second man goes home “justified”—right with God.

That’s the gospel alternative to the comparison ladder. God does not calm our insecurity by helping us win at being better than others. He calms it by giving us a new footing entirely: mercy. A righteousness received, not performed. We don’t have to stand on top of someone else to be okay, because in Christ, our standing is given.

The Pharisee is still climbing. The tax collector has stopped climbing and started trusting. And Jesus says, that is the way home: not the parade of the self, but the surrender that receives grace. “Everyone who exalts himself will be humbled,” Jesus says, “but the one who humbles himself will be exalted.”