A Rare Rumination on our National Need

“Make it your goal to live a quiet life, minding your own business and working with your hands.” 

(I Thess. 4:11)

I have often wondered who might be the Thomas Paine of our day, one who writes precient insights to sway a nation. Would it be someone with the wit of the late Christopher Hitchens, or a Sam Harris who gives voice to countless unbelievers? Is there a Mark Twain, a G. K. Chesterton, a George Orwell in Will, Krugman, Noonan, or (the lates) Wolfe or Krauthammer? Can any of our top-shelf writers – and the list is very long – change our thinking?

Perhaps the better question is, “What can do such a thing?” and the answer is, always and forever more, ideas. Ideas hold the power.

This is where writers do battle, assessing, insisting, construing, advocating. Trump won on an idea: “The political class is entrenched and self-serving. 'Drain the swamp!'” The other side was hapless against that idea: “All opposed, say 'No!'” And say “No!” they continue to do with inspired troopery.

But what idea has the power to hold us together? We are polarized so badly we decide national elections on a chad. When we finally have a winner the other side sees doomsday. I was shocked at the vulgar anti-Obama rhetoric in 2012. We are loosing common ground.  

Is there an idea with the power to capture us enough to lay aside polarizing bombs? Are we doomed to the hyper-political every two years so we seek solace anywhere – in political newcomers or billionaires who buy the election? Might we ever realize the dream of life free of crushing election cycles and endless ads?

Maybe Google will save us by deciding for us, our votes not so free after all.

I'm the arm-chair amateur with an idea about the Idea that held us together and could again if we would hear it. That idea is freedom: freedom to do as one should, not merely as one might wish to do.

Unconstrained freedom is a pipers' dream with followers, betimes, among all. Life has stubborn contraints, so we painfully learn. The protestor's sign, “Sworn to fun; loyal to none” leads nowhere fast.

Behind it all is the question of who guarantees such freedom. If we have rights, someone has to be responsible. Policemen must keep the beat, judges must act with integrity, our fellow citizens must have the strength of will to insist on things like free speech and “innocent until proven guilty.” And we have to defend ourselves against enemies “foreign and domestic.”

This idea of freedom, earned and maintained through responsible, vigilant living – is a treasure worth living and dying for. It is the founding idea of our nation, the jewel the constitution intends to protect.

But we have mission fatigue. We are losing the will to insist on freedom. This is demonstrated not least by our national debt, a mind-numbing amount of 25,000 billion dollars. If we had 2000 years to repay, interest free, the monthly payment would be over one billion dollars.

This is alarming in the extreme and undercuts freedom, because debt always does exactly that. Without financial strength and agility we are vulnerable. However, the lack of will that got us here is the deeper problem.

Can we endure through this difficulty? Will there emerge a unifying idea with the power to carry us? I think so, but it may not be freedom. The idea that unites a vulnerable nation may well be security. If our leaders – or God forbid – the leaders of an invading nation, can promise security we may take it, a bowl of poor porridge to replace the dying heritage of freedom.

I still believe in freedom – personal and national. But we will lose this treasure if we fail to pay its price in personal responsibility and determined fortitude. This means paying our bills, providing for our own, caring for our neighbor. And it means we lay aside our polarizing swords. This last is not entirely possible, for persons with opposing primary ideas can never be agreed: discussion only leads them further apart. But we have to try, for political rivals are people, too!

And so I ask, “What can hold us together?” It is not freedom alone, for there are a thousand attending ideas. But freedom seems to be at the core. I want that, but I feel the fatigue. Will you join me in doing the right thing: 

• Speak truth with humility, knowing you do not see all things clearly. 
• Refuse to see the world through a political grid, but have patience with those who do. 
• Strive for self-reliance, in part so you can help those who cannot help themselves.

In all this I find a landing point in the timeless edict of St. Paul in the New Testament: “Make it your goal to live a quiet life, minding your own business and working with your hands.” (I Thess. 4:11) That's a tall order, a simple way, hard for most of us to accept. But I want to learn it, for the good of my family and community, and for the hope of our nation. I hope you do, too.

On Subtlety, Eternity, and Wasting Time

The great and gifted writer, Malcolm Muggeridge, when asked why he didn't go hear Billy Graham, said: “I need subtlety.” Muggeridge, a life-time English journalist who lived in the Soviet Union in its ill-fated early days, titled his memoirs with the humbling reflection: “Chronicles of Wasted Time.”

I'm told there is a conception of time that redeems it from slavery to the clock. So much of “time-management” motivation teaches us how to wring another minute from the over-wrought day but never tells us why. I learned a casual proverb in High School, something like “you cannot waste time without injuring eternity.”

It seems dangerous to deny that proverb. What is worse than contemplating a wasted life, or wasted opportunity? Regret is so painful we dull it with busy-ness or worn excuses; or we simply bury it somewhere where we hope it will die. But if we had “used” time as we should, there would be no regret. The pain comes because there is no going back. Door closed.

This is where subtlety comes in, I suppose, for few things can mislead like singular ideas in an echo chamber. I've heard all my life of balance. We need various perspectives, a triangulation if you will, to find the path that best corresponds to “the way the truth and the life.”

But balance is folly if the various perspectives themselves are not true. Enter, again, subtlety. Billy Graham was a great and gifted preacher, and no doubt more subtle in his understanding of the Gospel than our friend Malcolm could grasp. And both would readily recognize what I wrestle with today: “Can one really waste time? And if so, is there any saving for it? Any redemption?”

A much older friend of mine once puzzled with me about the problem of wasting water. He said, “How is it really wasted? It goes in the ground, finds a water table, goes through the cycle and returns.” He was partly right, of course. But is it still flatly wrong to pour the leftover water down the drain? Is tossing left-over food in the trash all the worse because someone in a distant land is starving?

We all find manageable answers to this in the mix of life, but this matter of wasting time offers some subtle clues. Time is a gift we find in eternity. Eternity has no time, no beginning or end. A deadline is just that, a time when a given endeavor must stop. But life goes on, unbound. It is bigger than our so-called deadlines, bigger than the ticking monster on the wall.

Deadlines give the nod to time's ubiquitous presence without knowing why. We are carried along by something larger than us, and we define that something with minutes and seconds – the time-keeper that keeps us straight.

Balderdash.

Clock's are a great tool to help us measure our days but our life is not defined by them. Our life is defined by eternity, something before which minutes and days and hours pale and disappear, leaving us with the moment. It's like the boy riding his bike in one of countless obscure villages, knowing this is his whole world, oblivious to the galaxy in which the earth is but a speck, that galaxy itself a small one among billions. And that is how it should be, for the boy is in the moment, something bigger than the galaxy itself, the only thing that touches eternity.

Time is a gift to enjoy, for it is life itself. And life is good. The vastness of eternity is like the galaxies, shaping everything yet untouchable, certainly unknowable. So we should be at peace and receive time as a gift to be lived with boundless joy.
Managed? Yes, surely, for we desperately need resourcefulness and efficiency, those dreaded but necessary words.

But the necessary things, like the clock, are servants, not masters. They, like all things, serve a greater good. One might slip backwards in etymology and remember “greater good” can only mean God. And when we find our life in Him we are clothed in eternity – “the eternal kind of life” is how the Gospels put it.

We find ourselves in time, a speck in eternity. Only God can make full sense of it, though we try. That's more than enough subtlety for me and I'll not waste any more time trying to figure it out.

Limiting Words: Who Can Do It? [100WW]

Do we know how to limit words, to say what helps and leave unsaid what doesn't? How do we, in the midst of all we think and love, avoid draining the soul with too many words? I've seen it – alas I've done it. Perhaps the most taciturn know the flaw. Perhaps that's how they learned silence. 

We are so prone, on discovering some new vista, to tell the world. And since the world isn't listening, we tell our neighbor or spouse. Or, in the miracle of laptops and whatsapp and other countless tech enablements, we “tell” a thousand screens.

Calling [10'TU]

The callings of life are many and varied. I love the reminder my beloved teacher gave: "calling" really is that -- something we hear within and learn to follow. In the Christian world it is often assigned almost exclusively to ministry. If a person is "called" it means they have a special designation in God's kingdom.

I do believe clergy may have a distinctive calling, certainly peculiar. But surely it is also true that everyone has a calling. It is that inner voice that persists unless persistently ignored. And even then it may never die, but reach out forever until it comes forth in various ways long dormant.

This last we often see, I think, when a retired person who worked the factory or office to pay the bills and care for his family finds a role at age 67 that, as we say, "scratches the itch." We could say it "answers the call."

Often it takes a lifetime to learn to hear and answer. And working it out in the midst of life requires a wisdom few of us possess in great measure. Demands and various faults keep us from hearing, much less fulfilling, our calling.

What is your calling? What is mine? It is a still small voice, something we seldom hear well nor easily. It is a persistent voice that nudges: "This way, not that." It is the grace of God within, an expression of His image that says we -- each of us -- have unique purpose that calls us forth to be all we are to be.

That, and more, is calling and I pray you are hearing and living yours today.

Distraction, Creativity, and an Over-flowing Soul

"Writer's remorse beats writer's delay" or something like that. Annie Dillard's splendid writing advice speaks of something like an on-ramp for writing. "You often must throw away your openings" she says -- "they are only there to help you get going."

True enough I'm sure but I wonder what sorts of corollary routines make writing possible, delay it long enough so when one finally gets to the task something comes that is worth it. 

I have a friend who uses distraction as a routine of sorts to great benefit. He has made common habit of having three screens active: baseball highlights, ongoing conversations with a friend or some other intermittent reading, and working through class material or actual online teaching. And he gets more done than most people.

It's interesting to see where this distraction leads me. I use distraction of some sort to try to engender creativity. For me it is often reading at random, something I have done all my life. This seems generic, suggesting to me there should instead be purpose in the distraction itself. That is, if I am wanting to write a reflection on, say, baseball, I should do the 'random' reading on baseball. Maybe. But somehow we have to trick our minds into getting the thing done, and often the route is circuitous and inexplicable. Or so seems to me.

This brings procrastination to mind, such a difficult habit of human nature. There are analyses that help. For me it often happens because I lack the discipline or wisdom to use time in a measured way. That is, since I have never done well with limiting the scope of preparation or the job itself, I wait until an inner clock tells me I have just enough time to do a passable job. And then I do it.

I marvel at those who work otherwise, setting an afternoon for an essay or speech prep and plodding through until it is passable, even excellent. The thing may not be due for a week or a month, but it is done. Who does that?! One must trick the mind somehow and I would not argue with those who say it is simply a matter of discipline.

Except...art never is. It is more, but I have reached my depth. I would only add that there seems no substitute for well-ordered and determined work: staying with tasks and doing all one can to cultivate an inner life that feeds well all that rises from it. To the extent various creativity hacks fill the soul so something worthwhile spills out, we are on the right track. Or so seems true to me.

"Definitely Some Lack"

[For some reason I felt I should re-post this today. No, I have no complaints! :) We have a wonderful congregation. So here it is fwiw (free!)]                 

a musing on pastoral performance, and lack

“Yes, definitely some lack.”

I smiled and grimaced at once, the words painful and familiar. A childhood friend and I were renewing acquaintance and he was telling me of a former pastor: “He was an OK preacher I guess, but kinda distant at times. And when my dad lost his job it was like our pastor didn't even know. Definitely some lack.”

Now that I am a pastor, I feel the sting. As a former parishioner, I know the reality of seeing the lack.

All pastors lack because they are, like you, human.

But why are we so easily disgruntled, askance, disaffected? What makes it so easy and natural to see the faults of our pastor?

There are many reasons to be sure, but one is the age-old problem of hero-need. Pastors are supposed to fill that need. Most do for some; a few do for most; none do for all. Pastors lack. Definitely.

So what is the parishioner to do? Here is an idea or 2 -- ok, three:

• Pray for your pastor. I dare you: really pray. Daily. By name. Praying may change your pastor and it will definitely change you if you stay with it. The pastor's lack may remain but it won't be nearly so obvious.

• Do what you can, in cooperation and harmony. The mildest initiative and leadership in church life will give you a look through the pastor's lens on the world. You'll be the better for it, become a practical asset, and understand his lack. You may even discover the perceived lack has a good reason behind it. And, best of all, you may be able to alleviate that reason!

• Get to know your pastor. Yes, this can be hard. Pastors fill a role that is often relationally awkward. They are supposed to have the right word, correct conduct, and always be available. This creates unique psychological challenges and puzzling behavior. But stay with it. When you are with your pastor up close and personal you may learn to really love him – lack and all.

Yes, your pastor has lack. It pains him more than it pains you. You can't help seeing it, but what if...

        - complaints give way to prayer

        - “This should happen!” gives way to “I wonder if I could do it?”, and

        -  You (yes, YOU!) act first and often to get acquainted. You may find a real person emerges and lack fades into the background.

And after all, isn't that they way you hope your pastor will care for you?

Joyce School: Home Room, Band, and Mrs. Bitter

[I grew up in Ulysses and have a world of memories from those happy days. A recent online discussion brought to mind Joyce School and I wished to write about it a bit. The list of memories is long and happy, funny and real. We'll see how far along I will get.]

One hears much about "coming of age:" books and movies draw on this human reality ad infinitum and for good reason. I never really knew what it meant until I did, and now I know my "coming of age" happened from ages 11-16, though I suppose the smart people would tell me the season is shorter -- or longer -- than that.

Whatever the case, many vivid memories of that era come from a little school in Ulysses, Kansas named Joyce. I suppose, without research, the school received the moniker because an author named "Joyce" wrote a famous book named "Ulysses." Maybe the odds of such a highbrow genesis are slim. I don't know. [I'm told the name actually comes from early settlers of the area -- thanks to those who pointed that out!]

Joyce School in 1975-76 served as home office for the school district of the town, a district which comprised two elementary schools, a Junior High (7th and 8th grades) and a High School. Joyce, in addition to housing the district office, also had special education classes and, consigned to the upper floor, the sixth grade classes for the entire district.

This was the first year we had a home room and would go to other teachers for some subjects, getting us ready, I was told, for 7th grade when every subject would be taught by a different teacher. My home room teacher was Mrs. Twila Bitter. This was the first room on the right when you reach the top of the main entry stairs from the end of the building closest to the gym and across the street directly from the IGA.

Funny how this really was the beginning of growing up for me. At the end of the previous school year I had auditioned for band, French Horn in particular, and Joyce School would afford my first band experience. That happy adventure -- I really did love it -- gave fodder for a keen Joyce memory. But for now I wish to speak of home room and Mrs. Bitter.

Mrs. Bitter was distinctive, and even now I try to understand why. I liked her, even loved her, though she was no-nonsense and put up with zero disruption in class. I can still see her up front, holding forth on whatever math we needed that day. It's really amazing how almost no daily lessons come to mind yet the impact of her person will always remain with me.

I still remember her announcing -- or maybe the Principal came and did it -- she had completed her Masters degree at Hays State University. This was mysterious to my 11-year-old mind but I was still impressed that a woman her age had finished something that sounded really hard. And when she said she would transfer to Junior High the next year I was happy because I would be there, too, and she would give continuity.

It was in this home room my band experience came into full play after a typical afternoon concert in the gym. There were four players of French Horn, all variously assigned 4th chair depending on the grief we were giving the director, Mr. Wolf. In this particular concert some kind of distraction persisted and caught my attention fully. Whatever malady overtook my mind and actions, I was clueless. But, the record shows, I made all kinds of disruptions in between songs, chatting and laughing, jabbing friends in adjacent chairs, dropping books.

I was so oblivious that when I returned to home room for the last ten minutes before closing bell, I had no idea there was a problem. 

Enter Mrs. Bitter. 

I still feel the fear a little bit. She had seen everything. She was not happy, and proceeded to call me out before the whole class. I had been a constant distraction during the concert, she said, an affront to all that is right and holy. She did not hold back, and made clear this kind of behavior would not be tolerated and it better never happen again. There was no question in my mind -- it wouldn't!

I am sure I was ashamed. No doubt I felt the stinging pain of public humiliation. But I also knew Mrs. Bitter cared, and I knew she was right. I never did anything like that again.

I needed the correction, for there are countless problems with all of us in those crazy coming-of-age years. The next year Mrs. Bitter indeed moved to 7th grade and was home room for me again. When I finished High School, though we had moved across state, she sent me a graduation gift. Over twenty years later I included her in a family newsletter of sorts and she sent me a sweet reply letter.

I know she is gone now. Coming of age slips into all of life until age itself ends our days. But I will always be grateful for a woman like Mrs. Bitter. She was a solid point of reference in my life, someone who really cared and showed it in all the normal duties. Teaching must have been very hard -- who can do it? She could, and my life is much better because she did.

Joyce School