My older brother and I used to wrestle -- not competitively, or an any organized sporting sense, but more as a predictable display of his physical superiority, in the face of my frustrated attempts to break the bonds of brotherly oppression and throw off the chains of firstborn intimidation. It never worked. But the struggle itself had merit, and in the process I learned a lot about myself, about my weaknesses and vulnerabilities, and about the growing resolve within me to find strength despite weakness, courage despite fear, and pride despite humiliation. I guess I could thank my brother for those lessons in character, but I haven't. I don't think I will.
One fuzzy memory - perhaps altered a bit by four decades of reflection and interpretation - begins with my brother pinning me down on the kitchen floor, demanding that I keep my mouth shut. In childishly literal defiance, I held my mouth wide open, proving beyond doubt that although he had denied me the use of my arms or legs, he had not yet restrained my jaw. Creatively, he found a way to keep me pinned with his legs and just one hand, then with the other hand, grabbed a nearby quarter. Holding the quarter above my gaping mouth, he threatened to drop it down my throat, if I did not shut my trap. Strengthening my defiance, I decided to call his bluff. But he wasn't bluffing. The quarter found its target with surprising speed and accuracy, and before I knew what had happened, an instinctive swallow propelled the coin into my belly. My brother was left searching for a way to explain to my mother how he had not intended to do that which he clearly did "on purpose" -- with malice of forethought and impressive precision. His retort of last resort was the thing that sticks most clearly in my mind, when he pompously proclaimed, "At least now you're worth something."
It is generally not a good idea to accept an older sibling's assessment of one's worth, particularly not when uttered in the midst of childhood struggles. But the words that he threw out as insult reached my ears as evidence of potential affirmation: my big brother had a last acknowledged the possibility that I had value. I wasn't preparing to go swallow the contents of my piggy bank, but I do remember thinking that he would someday find other reasons to affirm my worth. (As the decades have passed, my brother has become a very close and affirming friend. To this day, the worth that he sees in me is a source of great encouragement to me. For that, I do often thank him.)
As people allow me the privilege of getting to know them more deeply, I am often surprised how common it is -- how "normal" it is -- that we struggle with fundamental (dare I say, "childish") questions of our own worth. For all the talk and teaching in recent decades on the essential development of self-esteem, there seems to be something missing in the equation. The notion that my essential worth should be based upon my opinion of myself seems hopelessly circular, and ultimately narcissistic. I have a deep internal desire and passion to be useful to others, not useful to myself (whatever that may mean). I strive to find ways in which I can be of benefit to the community around me, not preoccupied in the pursuit of my own well-being. I hope to discover personal gifts that I can give to others in need, not simply to celebrate my own giftedness. In short, I do not believe that "worth" or "esteem" can in any meaningful way be granted to oneself. It must come in from the outside; it requires an external evaluation, an objective assessment. More importantly, a meaningful assessment of worth cannot come from competing siblings or coworkers, not from self-interested employers or impatient customers, nor from obsequious servants or adoring fans. Rather, it must come from one whose opinion is completely trustworthy and unimpeachable, one who will neither be patronizingly uncritical nor vindictively unforgiving. We need a judge who is both just and merciful, without allowing those two virtues to blur each other's edges. We need to be judged. We need to be assessed. We need to see our own worth, not through our own blurry eyes, but through the all-seeing and all-knowing eyes of truth.
If such a judge can be found, then surely that judge's opinion must override our own. That judge's assessment of our worth must supplant our insecurities and dispel our self-consciousness. If that judge tells us that we are loved, that we are worth dying for, such a verdict must be considered definitive and true.
If such a judge cannot be found, then we are lost, without hope.
-- Brother Tom
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
My Three Sons
I only need twelve letters to articulate my most profound understanding of appropriate pride and personal fulfillment:
Ryan, Alex, Seth.
Ryan is my oldest son, my firstborn. He will turn 26 this Sunday. I would willingly confess that I have not kept in touch with him in recent years as much as my heart desires, but I am reminded that he has taught me what it means to live without regrets, always facing forward, living in the present. Ryan most certainly cannot be captured by his occupation, nor has he circumscribed his existence by any particular chosen career. At present, he is building homes. Working at the Baton Rouge affiliate of Habitat for Humanity, Ryan coordinates the efforts of volunteers, matching the available human and material resources to the dynamic needs of hopeful homeowners. A graduate of Centre College with a major in philosophy, sharing my deep love for well-developed thought, Ryan has always chosen his words as carefully as he now chooses his tools; his thoughts are professionally crafted, and are not shared until they have passed the quality review of his demanding and critical mind. Rare among philosophers, who sadly tend to offer thought as surrogate for meaningful action, Ryan is more articulate in his living than in his speech. Relentlessly analytical even in his choice of food, clothing, and shelter, Ryan routinely tests and demonstrates the "categorical imperative" of Immanuel Kant: "Act only according to that maxim whereby you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law." (I find this difficult even to comprehend; much more daunting to live by.) Minimizing what he demands from this world, maximizing what he contributes to it, Ryan has multiplied the gifts he has been given, and is leaving each piece of the world that he walks through better off than he found it. In him I am well pleased.
Alex is my second son, the middle child. He is 22. An easy-going peacemaker in every environment, and never one to seek the spotlight, Alex diffuses tension and promotes tranquility simply by his attentive presence. A fifth-year senior at the University of Louisville, with a Computer Information Systems major pencilled in (pending further changes), Alex refrains from stone-chiseled decisions, preferring the flexibility of post-it notes and the versatility of electronic edits. Circumstances change unpredictably, and Alex is prepared to change with them. Plan C is just as acceptable as Plans A and B were, and if you need to switch back to A, that won't be a problem. Sharing the best attributes of my disposition (along with a couple of my less helpful traits), Alex carries with him an attitude for all seasons. I remember an illustrative backpacking trip, when my normally cheerful spirit was dampened by rain in the middle of a tiring trek up Thunderhead Mountain. Alex interpreted the same events from a different perspective: he had run out of water in his canteen, and the rain provided him opportunity to drink, as he used large leaves to pool the showers of refreshment. It was then that I began to understand his philosophy of life, suggested but not captured by his tongue-in-cheek declaration, "the world is conspiring together for my happiness." Alex works for me as an intern, on a team of brilliant professionals twenty years older with twenty times his experience. Never noticeably intimidated by either the impossible tasks or the inflated expectations, Alex applies and expands his skill with a quiet diligence that always contributes and never detracts. In every encounter, though often unnoticed and unappreciated (and sometimes at the expense of his own personal well-being), he brings a measure of that most illusive treasure: peace. Jesus said, "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God." This peacemaker is my son. In him I am well pleased.
Seth is my youngest son, the "baby of the family." He will turn 20 next month. No crybaby this one; Seth has developed a toughness that surprises and impresses me. (His older brothers may rightly claim some credit, for creating an environment in which toughness was cultivated, if not always facilitated!) His interest in the physical and mental discipline of the martial arts informs his investment in the spiritual disciplines of prayer and fasting, producing a man driven to discover what is possible, but restrained by a growing understanding of what is wise. A highly imaginative child, Seth has become a creatively expressive man, with a demonstrated gift for recognizing and communicating profound truths. A junior at Campbellsville University, Seth is studying pastoral counseling. Never one to conform without a fight, Seth was a late adherent to the Christian faith, and an even later convert to the claims of academia. But late bloomers are often the most deep-rooted, and Seth has emerged as a disciplined student of all that life teaches. The son that produced the dreaded call from the emergency room (while we were on vacation 2000 miles away), and the son that dramatically put into words all of my shame and shortcomings as a father, is also the son who shares most deeply my greatest passion - the authentic articulation of the gospel of Jesus Christ to a skeptical and cynical world. He has already discovered many ways in which his gifts can be useful in the kingdom of God. He is on the verge of discovering many more. In him I am well pleased.
Just in case I haven't said it often enough, loudly enough, or clearly enough: I am very proud of my three sons.
Ryan, Alex, Seth.
Ryan is my oldest son, my firstborn. He will turn 26 this Sunday. I would willingly confess that I have not kept in touch with him in recent years as much as my heart desires, but I am reminded that he has taught me what it means to live without regrets, always facing forward, living in the present. Ryan most certainly cannot be captured by his occupation, nor has he circumscribed his existence by any particular chosen career. At present, he is building homes. Working at the Baton Rouge affiliate of Habitat for Humanity, Ryan coordinates the efforts of volunteers, matching the available human and material resources to the dynamic needs of hopeful homeowners. A graduate of Centre College with a major in philosophy, sharing my deep love for well-developed thought, Ryan has always chosen his words as carefully as he now chooses his tools; his thoughts are professionally crafted, and are not shared until they have passed the quality review of his demanding and critical mind. Rare among philosophers, who sadly tend to offer thought as surrogate for meaningful action, Ryan is more articulate in his living than in his speech. Relentlessly analytical even in his choice of food, clothing, and shelter, Ryan routinely tests and demonstrates the "categorical imperative" of Immanuel Kant: "Act only according to that maxim whereby you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law." (I find this difficult even to comprehend; much more daunting to live by.) Minimizing what he demands from this world, maximizing what he contributes to it, Ryan has multiplied the gifts he has been given, and is leaving each piece of the world that he walks through better off than he found it. In him I am well pleased.
Alex is my second son, the middle child. He is 22. An easy-going peacemaker in every environment, and never one to seek the spotlight, Alex diffuses tension and promotes tranquility simply by his attentive presence. A fifth-year senior at the University of Louisville, with a Computer Information Systems major pencilled in (pending further changes), Alex refrains from stone-chiseled decisions, preferring the flexibility of post-it notes and the versatility of electronic edits. Circumstances change unpredictably, and Alex is prepared to change with them. Plan C is just as acceptable as Plans A and B were, and if you need to switch back to A, that won't be a problem. Sharing the best attributes of my disposition (along with a couple of my less helpful traits), Alex carries with him an attitude for all seasons. I remember an illustrative backpacking trip, when my normally cheerful spirit was dampened by rain in the middle of a tiring trek up Thunderhead Mountain. Alex interpreted the same events from a different perspective: he had run out of water in his canteen, and the rain provided him opportunity to drink, as he used large leaves to pool the showers of refreshment. It was then that I began to understand his philosophy of life, suggested but not captured by his tongue-in-cheek declaration, "the world is conspiring together for my happiness." Alex works for me as an intern, on a team of brilliant professionals twenty years older with twenty times his experience. Never noticeably intimidated by either the impossible tasks or the inflated expectations, Alex applies and expands his skill with a quiet diligence that always contributes and never detracts. In every encounter, though often unnoticed and unappreciated (and sometimes at the expense of his own personal well-being), he brings a measure of that most illusive treasure: peace. Jesus said, "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God." This peacemaker is my son. In him I am well pleased.
Seth is my youngest son, the "baby of the family." He will turn 20 next month. No crybaby this one; Seth has developed a toughness that surprises and impresses me. (His older brothers may rightly claim some credit, for creating an environment in which toughness was cultivated, if not always facilitated!) His interest in the physical and mental discipline of the martial arts informs his investment in the spiritual disciplines of prayer and fasting, producing a man driven to discover what is possible, but restrained by a growing understanding of what is wise. A highly imaginative child, Seth has become a creatively expressive man, with a demonstrated gift for recognizing and communicating profound truths. A junior at Campbellsville University, Seth is studying pastoral counseling. Never one to conform without a fight, Seth was a late adherent to the Christian faith, and an even later convert to the claims of academia. But late bloomers are often the most deep-rooted, and Seth has emerged as a disciplined student of all that life teaches. The son that produced the dreaded call from the emergency room (while we were on vacation 2000 miles away), and the son that dramatically put into words all of my shame and shortcomings as a father, is also the son who shares most deeply my greatest passion - the authentic articulation of the gospel of Jesus Christ to a skeptical and cynical world. He has already discovered many ways in which his gifts can be useful in the kingdom of God. He is on the verge of discovering many more. In him I am well pleased.
Just in case I haven't said it often enough, loudly enough, or clearly enough: I am very proud of my three sons.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Well Spent
Lately I've been running through my mental thesaurus, looking for fresh ways to express fatigue. I'm simply tired of saying that I'm tired, so I thought perhaps that a subtle shift in vocabulary might add creative nuance to my routine of self-expression. (After all, if the Eskimos have ten words for "snow", perhaps I should be able to describe my primary habitat with a bit more diversity.) So far I've come up with exhausted, depleted, drained, weary, worn out, burnt out, fried, empty, out of gas, and spent. (I'm sure that many of you can add to the list, from the depths of your own experience.)
Today, it's the word "spent" that captures the sensation best. While there are many ways to convey the loss of energy and resources, "spent" conveys that loss with an implicit suggestion of gain. When I spend time, money, or energy -- even when I spend all that I have -- I spend it ON something, or FOR something. There is a purpose in view, a focal object or cause, for which the resources are exchanged, with at least a belief or perception that the thing being gained has more value that the resource being spent. Surely, I must believe -- or at least perceive -- that something is being gained in exchange for all that I am spending. Otherwise I would doubtless despair. In fact, it is precisely on those days and in those hours when the purpose is least visible, or least credible, that despair threatens most. I do not want to waste my life; I want to spend it, and I want to spend it well.
In the hotel breakfast area this morning, the television was tuned to CNN, where video footage showed the American Cemetery in France, on this the 65th anniversary of D-Day, the Normandy Invasion. I've been to the beaches of Normandy, many years ago. I've seen the seemingly endless rows and columns of grave markers, mostly Christian crosses with Stars of David interspersed, which enumerate an immeasurable sacrifice. I will never forget the impression; I will never be able to express it in words.
Those lives were spent. Most were unthinkably brief, having barely begun the productive years of adulthood. So much more they could have given, contributed, shared, had their years been extended beyond that bloody day. And yet they gave all -- not only all they had, but all that could be given. Wasted? I think not. Purposeful? Beyond question. Exchanged for something of greater value? History testifies that it is so.
I do not wish that anyone should have to die for their cause, but I think it worse to die without one. Attempting to extend one's own life -- for no other reason than to postpone death -- seems to me the most meaningless of all endeavors. I know that my life shall someday end, as surely as I know that this day will end. When it does, I hope to think that it was not wasted, but spent. Well spent.
Spend the time that you have. Spend the money that you have. Spend the life that you have.
Spend it well, so that in the end, you may be well spent.
"Whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will save it." -- Luke 9:24
-- Brother Tom
Today, it's the word "spent" that captures the sensation best. While there are many ways to convey the loss of energy and resources, "spent" conveys that loss with an implicit suggestion of gain. When I spend time, money, or energy -- even when I spend all that I have -- I spend it ON something, or FOR something. There is a purpose in view, a focal object or cause, for which the resources are exchanged, with at least a belief or perception that the thing being gained has more value that the resource being spent. Surely, I must believe -- or at least perceive -- that something is being gained in exchange for all that I am spending. Otherwise I would doubtless despair. In fact, it is precisely on those days and in those hours when the purpose is least visible, or least credible, that despair threatens most. I do not want to waste my life; I want to spend it, and I want to spend it well.
In the hotel breakfast area this morning, the television was tuned to CNN, where video footage showed the American Cemetery in France, on this the 65th anniversary of D-Day, the Normandy Invasion. I've been to the beaches of Normandy, many years ago. I've seen the seemingly endless rows and columns of grave markers, mostly Christian crosses with Stars of David interspersed, which enumerate an immeasurable sacrifice. I will never forget the impression; I will never be able to express it in words.
Those lives were spent. Most were unthinkably brief, having barely begun the productive years of adulthood. So much more they could have given, contributed, shared, had their years been extended beyond that bloody day. And yet they gave all -- not only all they had, but all that could be given. Wasted? I think not. Purposeful? Beyond question. Exchanged for something of greater value? History testifies that it is so.
I do not wish that anyone should have to die for their cause, but I think it worse to die without one. Attempting to extend one's own life -- for no other reason than to postpone death -- seems to me the most meaningless of all endeavors. I know that my life shall someday end, as surely as I know that this day will end. When it does, I hope to think that it was not wasted, but spent. Well spent.
Spend the time that you have. Spend the money that you have. Spend the life that you have.
Spend it well, so that in the end, you may be well spent.
"Whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will save it." -- Luke 9:24
-- Brother Tom
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Hyperextended Families
Apparently knees and elbows have a "normal range of motion". Movement outside that range is called "hyperextension." I've heard that it can hurt quite a lot, and sometimes do quite a bit of damage.
Relationships, like joints, being more or less flexible connections between more or less rigid personalities, acquire a "normal range of motion." We establish patterns of interaction with siblings, spouses, parents, and children, to which we become accustomed. Even when those patterns are unpleasant, the familiarity of the routine (or "rut") provides a certain self-perpetuating normalcy. In studying the types of marriage which endure the longest, Cuber and Harroff discovered that a significant number of long-lasting relationships fit a pattern they named "conflict-habituated", which essentially describes a couple so accustomed to fighting with each other, that they wouldn't have it any other way. (Reminds me of an old Andy Griffith episode.) Despite the well-intentioned advice of preachers, psycho-babblers, booksellers, and other busybodies, most families persist in patterns that include "unhealthy" and "unhappy" dimensions, simply because that is how their joints and tendons have been formed.
Extended families add complexity and reduce familiarity, but nevertheless fit the same paradigm. Adult children often relate to their spouses in ways that imitate their parents; cousins recognize and repeat both the affection and the mockeries of their aunts and uncles. Distant relatives whose names are not easily recalled can be recognized by the behavior patterns that are common on "that side" of the family, and dealt with accordingly. Predictable gatherings triggered by traditional events (holidays, weddings, funerals) activate memorized interactions, mitigating the risk of the unexpected emotional explosion. As long as everything moves and flows within that familiar "range of motion", anxieties abate and families function.
But when we move outside that range, whether by reckless abandon or unforeseen circumstance, hyperextension can occur, and pain and injury follow. Deep emotional vulnerabilities are exposed when those who know us best (and perhaps love us most) wander into areas where they were not invited. Critical wounds that leave lasting scars result when sharp tones and barbed remarks strike unguarded flesh and raw nerves. Nobody knows where the sore spots are quite like family; those who helped us forge and don our armor know where the gaps and chinks are.
Treatment for familial hyperextension usually involves a combination of repair, rest, and rehabilitation. Repairing damaged relational tendons is tricky business; it would be wise to consult an expert in the field. Rest is harder than it sounds, and involves modifying your behavior to avoid putting weight or stress on the injured area. Avoiding the people and circumstances that could aggravate the injury will certainly disrupt your normal routine, and may require a relational "brace" to immobile the weakened joint. Rehabilitation is all about time and effort. Slowly rebuilding strength, without doing further harm, requires discipline and determination, as well as focused self-awareness. Respect your limitations, and do not rush the recovery. Exercise the damaged relationship to the point of challenge, but not to the point of damage, and it will strengthen over time. Full range of motion can be regained, but only with patient persistence and courageous caution.
Of course, prevention is preferable to treatment, where possible. Stretching and strengthening relational "muscle" is a life-long endeavor that many emotional couch-potatoes neglect. Learning balance and boundaries is a challenge of continuing education, with trial-and-error the most common curriculum. As the old country doctor was often heard saying, "If it hurts when you do that, stop doing it!"
***
Full disclosure: My last two weekends were spent in extended family gatherings. Two weeks ago, I was with my wife's family in the celebration of her parents' fiftieth anniversary. Last weekend, I was with the family of a church member, on the occasion of her granddaughter's wedding. Both events were wonderful, memorable, enjoyable, and overflowing with the dynamic potential for risk and reward that makes such occasions both worthwhile and exhausting. Nobody got hurt, that I know of.
May all of your family gatherings, extended and otherwise, provide you with as many blessings.
-- Brother Tom
Relationships, like joints, being more or less flexible connections between more or less rigid personalities, acquire a "normal range of motion." We establish patterns of interaction with siblings, spouses, parents, and children, to which we become accustomed. Even when those patterns are unpleasant, the familiarity of the routine (or "rut") provides a certain self-perpetuating normalcy. In studying the types of marriage which endure the longest, Cuber and Harroff discovered that a significant number of long-lasting relationships fit a pattern they named "conflict-habituated", which essentially describes a couple so accustomed to fighting with each other, that they wouldn't have it any other way. (Reminds me of an old Andy Griffith episode.) Despite the well-intentioned advice of preachers, psycho-babblers, booksellers, and other busybodies, most families persist in patterns that include "unhealthy" and "unhappy" dimensions, simply because that is how their joints and tendons have been formed.
Extended families add complexity and reduce familiarity, but nevertheless fit the same paradigm. Adult children often relate to their spouses in ways that imitate their parents; cousins recognize and repeat both the affection and the mockeries of their aunts and uncles. Distant relatives whose names are not easily recalled can be recognized by the behavior patterns that are common on "that side" of the family, and dealt with accordingly. Predictable gatherings triggered by traditional events (holidays, weddings, funerals) activate memorized interactions, mitigating the risk of the unexpected emotional explosion. As long as everything moves and flows within that familiar "range of motion", anxieties abate and families function.
But when we move outside that range, whether by reckless abandon or unforeseen circumstance, hyperextension can occur, and pain and injury follow. Deep emotional vulnerabilities are exposed when those who know us best (and perhaps love us most) wander into areas where they were not invited. Critical wounds that leave lasting scars result when sharp tones and barbed remarks strike unguarded flesh and raw nerves. Nobody knows where the sore spots are quite like family; those who helped us forge and don our armor know where the gaps and chinks are.
Treatment for familial hyperextension usually involves a combination of repair, rest, and rehabilitation. Repairing damaged relational tendons is tricky business; it would be wise to consult an expert in the field. Rest is harder than it sounds, and involves modifying your behavior to avoid putting weight or stress on the injured area. Avoiding the people and circumstances that could aggravate the injury will certainly disrupt your normal routine, and may require a relational "brace" to immobile the weakened joint. Rehabilitation is all about time and effort. Slowly rebuilding strength, without doing further harm, requires discipline and determination, as well as focused self-awareness. Respect your limitations, and do not rush the recovery. Exercise the damaged relationship to the point of challenge, but not to the point of damage, and it will strengthen over time. Full range of motion can be regained, but only with patient persistence and courageous caution.
Of course, prevention is preferable to treatment, where possible. Stretching and strengthening relational "muscle" is a life-long endeavor that many emotional couch-potatoes neglect. Learning balance and boundaries is a challenge of continuing education, with trial-and-error the most common curriculum. As the old country doctor was often heard saying, "If it hurts when you do that, stop doing it!"
***
Full disclosure: My last two weekends were spent in extended family gatherings. Two weeks ago, I was with my wife's family in the celebration of her parents' fiftieth anniversary. Last weekend, I was with the family of a church member, on the occasion of her granddaughter's wedding. Both events were wonderful, memorable, enjoyable, and overflowing with the dynamic potential for risk and reward that makes such occasions both worthwhile and exhausting. Nobody got hurt, that I know of.
May all of your family gatherings, extended and otherwise, provide you with as many blessings.
-- Brother Tom
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Horse Races and Rat Races
We love the surge. That eagerly anticipated, intensely orchestrated burst of energy and strength that drives horses around ten furlongs of dirt and dust in two minutes or less (if you count Secretariat) provides a contagious drama that draws spectators and speculators from around the world. Perhaps thoroughbreds embody what all of us desire: the capacity to perform at extremely high levels at critical times. LeBron James explodes past defenders in singleminded pursuit of the rim. Adrian Peterson sheds tacklers who dare stand between him and the end zone. Ryan Howard slams a fast ball 500 feet over the center field wall. Davis Love III crushes a drive 450 yards down the middle of the fairway. It's not just fun to watch, it stirs our spirits, reminding us of our own passion for excellence, instructing us in the power of drive and determination.
But that beloved burst of epinephrine (adrenaline) that fuels our peak performances is the same hormonal phenomenon that feeds our propensity to panic. Necessary when confronted with real and present dangers, essential for effective fight or flight, the heightened state of alertness and anxiety that is so helpful in small doses can be dangerous -- even devastating -- with prolonged exposure. Politicians who shrewdly capitalize on the opportunities implicit in crisis understand this well: panic produces a level of energy and attention not otherwise available, and there are certain short-term advantages to stirring up a well-timed crisis. Business leaders get it too: a good crisis helps generate the funding and resources required to implement significant change. We thrive on crisis (and the panic it provides) in nearly every aspect of living. Our lives sometimes resemble an endless series of emergencies, our homes and workplaces imitate immediate care centers, and triage becomes our standard operating procedure. But eventually, inescapably, the energy wanes, the alertness fades, burnout sets in, and further efforts to stir and awaken are met with increasingly persistent apathy and lethargy. And we wonder why.
The solution to this silly pattern is not at all complicated or complex. We all know that a marathon is run at a different pace than a sprint, that 500-mile races require pit stops, that starting pitchers need three or four days rest between starts, and that every sport has an off-season. We need breaks, naps, weekends, vacations. We need rest, relaxation, recreation, recuperation. The crazy thing is, I'm not sure how long a horse would run, if the jockey didn't tell him to stop. I'm not sure LeBron would ever take himself out of the game, if the coach didn't send in a sub. A dog bred for hunting, but not yet trained to stop when he hears the horn blow, will indeed run himself to death, if the fox is too fast and the chase too long.
We all need a jockey, a coach, a manager, a trainer: someone to blow the horn when its time to stop chasing. Some people picture God as the chronically dissatisfied boss who always wants more out of us: do more, love more, serve more, sacrifice more. Thankfully, the ancient wisdom of scripture preserves a different picture. Our Creator and Redeemer is the Lord of the Sabbath, the Lord of Rest, the Almighty Horn-Blower. When He tells you to stop, Stop.
My soul finds rest in God alone; my salvation comes from him. -- Psalm 62:1
Shalom.
-- Brother Tom
But that beloved burst of epinephrine (adrenaline) that fuels our peak performances is the same hormonal phenomenon that feeds our propensity to panic. Necessary when confronted with real and present dangers, essential for effective fight or flight, the heightened state of alertness and anxiety that is so helpful in small doses can be dangerous -- even devastating -- with prolonged exposure. Politicians who shrewdly capitalize on the opportunities implicit in crisis understand this well: panic produces a level of energy and attention not otherwise available, and there are certain short-term advantages to stirring up a well-timed crisis. Business leaders get it too: a good crisis helps generate the funding and resources required to implement significant change. We thrive on crisis (and the panic it provides) in nearly every aspect of living. Our lives sometimes resemble an endless series of emergencies, our homes and workplaces imitate immediate care centers, and triage becomes our standard operating procedure. But eventually, inescapably, the energy wanes, the alertness fades, burnout sets in, and further efforts to stir and awaken are met with increasingly persistent apathy and lethargy. And we wonder why.
The solution to this silly pattern is not at all complicated or complex. We all know that a marathon is run at a different pace than a sprint, that 500-mile races require pit stops, that starting pitchers need three or four days rest between starts, and that every sport has an off-season. We need breaks, naps, weekends, vacations. We need rest, relaxation, recreation, recuperation. The crazy thing is, I'm not sure how long a horse would run, if the jockey didn't tell him to stop. I'm not sure LeBron would ever take himself out of the game, if the coach didn't send in a sub. A dog bred for hunting, but not yet trained to stop when he hears the horn blow, will indeed run himself to death, if the fox is too fast and the chase too long.
We all need a jockey, a coach, a manager, a trainer: someone to blow the horn when its time to stop chasing. Some people picture God as the chronically dissatisfied boss who always wants more out of us: do more, love more, serve more, sacrifice more. Thankfully, the ancient wisdom of scripture preserves a different picture. Our Creator and Redeemer is the Lord of the Sabbath, the Lord of Rest, the Almighty Horn-Blower. When He tells you to stop, Stop.
My soul finds rest in God alone; my salvation comes from him. -- Psalm 62:1
Shalom.
-- Brother Tom
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Anger Before Sundown
Yesterday I woke up angry.
It didn't have anything to do with taxes or tea parties, although I certainly sense deep discouragement regarding the fiscal responsibility of central governments, along with a cautiously cynical sympathy with populist protesters.
It didn't have anything to do with vocational frustration, although events of recent weeks and months have tortured (at least harshly interrogated) my tenuous grasp on occupational risk and reward.
It didn't have anything to do with church or family, although the complex and intertwined dynamics of both offer abundant cause for befuddlement and bewilderment.
Apparently, I was angry at the calendar. It took me several hours to arrive at that conclusion, but once my gaze happened upon the current date, my previously unfocused orneriness crystalized upon its target: April 17. The sixth occurrence of the julian month and date that ended the days (at least the finite ones) of my best friend's life.
People talk about living each day as if it were your last day. I remember the day that was Chuck's last day. I did not like that day. I still do not like that day. I do not desire to live another day in any way like that day. I don't even like to remember that day. But I do remember it, and I always will.
I remembered that day yesterday, with anger. When Job was blessed with the shade of a gourd, he grew angry when that gourd was taken away. I too am angered when the persons and things that bring me great joy and comfort are then taken away. I am not speaking of sadness, or longing, or even the emptiness that persists where fellowship was once felt. I speak of anger, of indignation at the specific injustice, of railing and ranting rejection of the not-rightness, of defiant denouncement of the royal decree.
The calendar, like the gourd, is but a parabolic receiver which gathers and focuses the waves of anger onto a single point, where it can be more clearly perceived, and perhaps somewhat more clearly understood. I was not really angry at the calendar, but through the calendar I was able to project my anger at Chuck. For leaving. For taking away all the goodness that we enjoyed together. To project a bit further than my heart can perceive, I was probably not angry at Chuck either. Through Chuck, I have projected anger directed at God. The Creator of time and fellowship and every other good and blessed thing is the One to be blamed when they are taken away. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.
That was yesterday morning.
Yesterday afternoon, I played golf with a friend, on a beautiful golf course, on a beautiful day. The friend had called the day before, unexpectedly, on the off chance that we might both have the same day off work. By some strange coincidence, we both did. My friend reminds me a bit of Chuck, partly because of his girth (Chuck was larger than life in more ways than one), but more because of his mirth, and mostly because he is, well, a good friend. Also unexpectedly, my friend brought along another friend, who had called him out of the blue with the same purpose in mind. By another strange coincidence, that friend's name was Chuck. None of us played particularly well, but that did not matter much. It was a very good afternoon.
Yesterday evening, by another odd and expected intersection of circumstances, I learned that Chuck's widow, Carol, and their daughter, Cami, were traveling south, and stopping for dinner in Elizabethtown, about a half hour away. I learned this just as my wife got home from a day of errand running, wondering what me might do for dinner. It wasn't hard to perceive the serendipity of the moment, and we sped (my wife was driving) to a brief but wonderful time of fellowship and solace shared. It was a very good evening.
By the time the sun went down, my anger had subsided.
Not destroyed, simply diminished.
Returned to its proper place in time.
It may seem a trivial point, but somewhere on the 17th fairway it dawned on me. Chuck was not a man of great means (though he was by all means great), and what he left behind was mostly of the intangible, eternal sort. The one tangible thing I own that once belonged to him is the set of golf clubs I played with yesterday.
I will never replace those clubs.
I will never replace Chuck.
I will never need to.
The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.
Blessed be the name of the Lord.
-- Brother Tom
It didn't have anything to do with taxes or tea parties, although I certainly sense deep discouragement regarding the fiscal responsibility of central governments, along with a cautiously cynical sympathy with populist protesters.
It didn't have anything to do with vocational frustration, although events of recent weeks and months have tortured (at least harshly interrogated) my tenuous grasp on occupational risk and reward.
It didn't have anything to do with church or family, although the complex and intertwined dynamics of both offer abundant cause for befuddlement and bewilderment.
Apparently, I was angry at the calendar. It took me several hours to arrive at that conclusion, but once my gaze happened upon the current date, my previously unfocused orneriness crystalized upon its target: April 17. The sixth occurrence of the julian month and date that ended the days (at least the finite ones) of my best friend's life.
People talk about living each day as if it were your last day. I remember the day that was Chuck's last day. I did not like that day. I still do not like that day. I do not desire to live another day in any way like that day. I don't even like to remember that day. But I do remember it, and I always will.
I remembered that day yesterday, with anger. When Job was blessed with the shade of a gourd, he grew angry when that gourd was taken away. I too am angered when the persons and things that bring me great joy and comfort are then taken away. I am not speaking of sadness, or longing, or even the emptiness that persists where fellowship was once felt. I speak of anger, of indignation at the specific injustice, of railing and ranting rejection of the not-rightness, of defiant denouncement of the royal decree.
The calendar, like the gourd, is but a parabolic receiver which gathers and focuses the waves of anger onto a single point, where it can be more clearly perceived, and perhaps somewhat more clearly understood. I was not really angry at the calendar, but through the calendar I was able to project my anger at Chuck. For leaving. For taking away all the goodness that we enjoyed together. To project a bit further than my heart can perceive, I was probably not angry at Chuck either. Through Chuck, I have projected anger directed at God. The Creator of time and fellowship and every other good and blessed thing is the One to be blamed when they are taken away. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.
That was yesterday morning.
Yesterday afternoon, I played golf with a friend, on a beautiful golf course, on a beautiful day. The friend had called the day before, unexpectedly, on the off chance that we might both have the same day off work. By some strange coincidence, we both did. My friend reminds me a bit of Chuck, partly because of his girth (Chuck was larger than life in more ways than one), but more because of his mirth, and mostly because he is, well, a good friend. Also unexpectedly, my friend brought along another friend, who had called him out of the blue with the same purpose in mind. By another strange coincidence, that friend's name was Chuck. None of us played particularly well, but that did not matter much. It was a very good afternoon.
Yesterday evening, by another odd and expected intersection of circumstances, I learned that Chuck's widow, Carol, and their daughter, Cami, were traveling south, and stopping for dinner in Elizabethtown, about a half hour away. I learned this just as my wife got home from a day of errand running, wondering what me might do for dinner. It wasn't hard to perceive the serendipity of the moment, and we sped (my wife was driving) to a brief but wonderful time of fellowship and solace shared. It was a very good evening.
By the time the sun went down, my anger had subsided.
Not destroyed, simply diminished.
Returned to its proper place in time.
It may seem a trivial point, but somewhere on the 17th fairway it dawned on me. Chuck was not a man of great means (though he was by all means great), and what he left behind was mostly of the intangible, eternal sort. The one tangible thing I own that once belonged to him is the set of golf clubs I played with yesterday.
I will never replace those clubs.
I will never replace Chuck.
I will never need to.
The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.
Blessed be the name of the Lord.
-- Brother Tom
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Directory Assistance
411
I'm a numbers guy, a math major. Numerical patterns catch my eye, whether buried deep in financial records or posted publicly on street signs. ( Here's my favortie highway sign, at the "big light" in Sevierville, where US 411 and US 441 conspire to confound the directionally challenged.) Today it's the calendar that carries a digital association: 4/11 is the date, and 411 is also the most frequently dialed number on my Blackberry (owing perhaps to my chronic need for verbal direction to compensate for my lack of prior planning). In a nutshell, 411 is the number you need when you need somebody's number.
In ancient cultures, knowing a person's name implied a certain amount of power over them. The modern equivalent is knowing their number. Having transitioned slowly from land line to cell phone, I have noticed that those who know me well call me on my cell, while the old "home phone" number is apparently reserved for strangers, solicitors, and those whose list-keeping deficiencies left them dependent on the obsolescent phone book. Thus conditioned and biased, I typically answer my cell, while I let "the machine" answer the home's phone.
I'm not aware of any 411 or "directory assistance" service that shares cell phone numbers, nor do I know of any "phone book" that publishes them. This may be a temporary, transitional condition. Or it may reveal something about the reconstruction of our culture. In many ways, the "phone book" has been superseded by Facebook, who announced this week their 200 millionth "face" (member). Along with it's sister social-networking sites, Facebook has engineered an interesting and revealing balance between publicity and privacy, facilitating the finding of long-lost friends and associates, while retaining an "invitation-only" restriction for more closely-held information.
Which raises an interesting question: how much do you want to be known? With specious simplicity, this inescapable question operates at three distinct levels:
First, how deep is your desire to be known? Do you long to be understood and appreciated, or are you more content with behind-the-scenes, under-the-radar anonymity?
Second, how widely do you want to be known? Do you find satisfaction in a large number of friends (and perhaps admirers), or do you prefer the sanctity of a smaller "inner circle"?
Third, how well do you want to be known? Do you seek opportunity to express the secrets of your soul in revealing and transparent authenticity, or do you lean toward concealing the private and personal aspects of your life?
I have heard it said that we can never know more about another person than we are willing to reveal about ourselves. It rings true, and delivers quite a dilemma to the closet introverts among us: either we lower our shields and allow others (at least a few) to know us as we truly are, or we effectively banish ourselves from intimacy and fellowship with those we would truly like to know. Reveal too much, and we risk rejection and ridicule for faults we have not overcome, or for uniqueness not commonly embraced. Conceal too much, and we concede isolation from society and disconnectedness from needed community. It is, if you will, a delicate dance of veils.
To paraphrase St. Francis,
May God grant you the courage to reveal what is authentic,
The grace to conceal what is intimate,
And the wisdom to know the difference.
I'm a numbers guy, a math major. Numerical patterns catch my eye, whether buried deep in financial records or posted publicly on street signs. ( Here's my favortie highway sign, at the "big light" in Sevierville, where US 411 and US 441 conspire to confound the directionally challenged.) Today it's the calendar that carries a digital association: 4/11 is the date, and 411 is also the most frequently dialed number on my Blackberry (owing perhaps to my chronic need for verbal direction to compensate for my lack of prior planning). In a nutshell, 411 is the number you need when you need somebody's number.
In ancient cultures, knowing a person's name implied a certain amount of power over them. The modern equivalent is knowing their number. Having transitioned slowly from land line to cell phone, I have noticed that those who know me well call me on my cell, while the old "home phone" number is apparently reserved for strangers, solicitors, and those whose list-keeping deficiencies left them dependent on the obsolescent phone book. Thus conditioned and biased, I typically answer my cell, while I let "the machine" answer the home's phone.
I'm not aware of any 411 or "directory assistance" service that shares cell phone numbers, nor do I know of any "phone book" that publishes them. This may be a temporary, transitional condition. Or it may reveal something about the reconstruction of our culture. In many ways, the "phone book" has been superseded by Facebook, who announced this week their 200 millionth "face" (member). Along with it's sister social-networking sites, Facebook has engineered an interesting and revealing balance between publicity and privacy, facilitating the finding of long-lost friends and associates, while retaining an "invitation-only" restriction for more closely-held information.
Which raises an interesting question: how much do you want to be known? With specious simplicity, this inescapable question operates at three distinct levels:
First, how deep is your desire to be known? Do you long to be understood and appreciated, or are you more content with behind-the-scenes, under-the-radar anonymity?
Second, how widely do you want to be known? Do you find satisfaction in a large number of friends (and perhaps admirers), or do you prefer the sanctity of a smaller "inner circle"?
Third, how well do you want to be known? Do you seek opportunity to express the secrets of your soul in revealing and transparent authenticity, or do you lean toward concealing the private and personal aspects of your life?
I have heard it said that we can never know more about another person than we are willing to reveal about ourselves. It rings true, and delivers quite a dilemma to the closet introverts among us: either we lower our shields and allow others (at least a few) to know us as we truly are, or we effectively banish ourselves from intimacy and fellowship with those we would truly like to know. Reveal too much, and we risk rejection and ridicule for faults we have not overcome, or for uniqueness not commonly embraced. Conceal too much, and we concede isolation from society and disconnectedness from needed community. It is, if you will, a delicate dance of veils.
To paraphrase St. Francis,
May God grant you the courage to reveal what is authentic,
The grace to conceal what is intimate,
And the wisdom to know the difference.
Now we see but a poor reflection
As in a mirror;
Then we shall see face to face.
Now I know in part;
Then I shall know fully,
Even as I am fully known.
-- I Corinthians 13:12
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