Forgetting Self

Don't forget who you are.

This is the advice I have received on multiple occasions, from close friends who know me well, as I have stumbled through the transitions of separation, divorce, relocation, and career change. It seems both simple and wise, a much-needed encouragement to avoid the private despair that so often accompanies significant change and deep loss. And yet its simplicity masks its complexity. Few things confound me more than the contemplation of my own true self. And the task of rebuilding all the external components of my life - home, family, friends, career - seems to demand that many aspects of my "self" must necessarily be discarded and replaced. How can that be done without losing key ingredients of one's identity? Which elements of the "old self" need to be retained, and which ones rejected? How can the "new self" be true to the original, without clinging foolishly to failed patterns and toxic traits?

To remember who you are, you must first have known yourself. It has been said that we rarely (if ever) truly act on our own self-understanding. More commonly we act and react based on other people's opinions of who we are (or should be). More precisely, we act based on our perception of other people's opinions of who we are. Simply put, I tend to behave based not on who I am, but on who I think you think I am. Silly as it seems, this is essentially the only escape from the limits of self-perception. Like trying to arrange mirrors in a way that lets me see the back of my own head, the geometric contortions required to perceive myself clearly are, to say the least, awkward. So we substitute the perceptions of others for our own, and spend our lives searching for those others whose honesty and insight we most deeply trust. When you have found a friend who knows how and when to tell you that you have something stuck between your teeth, you have found a friend worth keeping.

And then there is the problem of listening. It is one thing to hear and to heed a warning about an oncoming car I didn't see; it is quite another to accept and appropriate a word of caution about flaws in my character and integrity. When Bobby Alley, my best friend in fifth grade, told me that I cried too much, I didn't want to hear it. Of course I heard what he said, but I didn't want to accept his opinion as true, even if it was. I didn't want to dig into the vulnerable and sensitive areas of my self-image. I didn't want to attempt a change at that level. I didn't want to risk the possibility that he might be right, or the fear that such a fault might be painfully difficult to repair. On that occasion, I knew Bobby was right, and I slowly and weakly began to address the issue. More recent occasions are more difficult to discuss.

Being one's true self is not a static proposition. Change and growth (and also decay) are essential parts of who we are. We are temporary, transitory beings. Self-understanding is a moving target. Who we were, who we are, and who we will be are not all the same thing, although they are deeply intertwined. People who haven't seen me for twenty years or so may recognize me - by piecing together physical characteristics and personal quirks that have survived the changes - but they will also notice the changes, for better or worse. Gray hair, an expanding waistline, and wrinkles seem to be the easiest to spot. Signs of maturity and deepening grace are hoped for, but less likely. The seasoning that comes from facing difficulty is deeply shared, particularly among the seasoned. Perhaps it is the continuum of change itself that makes people most interesting to each other.

Self-understanding also grows and changes. Never complete, and never completely accurate, it nevertheless tends to improve over time. We refine and correct misperceptions. We cause and suffer damage to our self-esteem and self-image, and work to heal and repair. And to a certain extent, the greater the damage, the deeper the growth. The pride that protects and defends our most vulnerable parts must itself be broken up from time to time, like a shell or a cocoon, to permit new growth from within.

Most perplexing of all, it often seems to me that self-understanding is ultimately self-defeating. The time and energy I spend analyzing myself seems to take away from actually "being" myself, and self-consciousness becomes an obstacle to self-expression. Without understanding how or why, I seem to be most "like myself" when I am thinking least about myself, and focused most intently on the people around me.

So is it possible, after all this rambling, that the best way to remember who I am is to basically forget about myself, and just focus on the people around me, the people I love?

hmmm......

Full Moon at Sunrise

Something strange has happened to me. After decades of defending my right to prolonged sleep, I've become a morning person. Even on vacation.

This morning - though not that long ago I would have insisted that it be called last night - I found myself at the beach well before 5 am. The vast tranquility engulfed my spirit, as I felt my feet drawn to that sweet band of wet sand which welcomes wave after wave of incoming tide, in persistent unpredictable patterns of advance and retreat. A soothing calm began to wash over my chaotic thoughts, as my legs propelled me northward, the endless sea to my right, keeping my feet always in the range of uncertainty, sometimes splashed by the sprawling surf, sometimes left untouched and alone.

The full moon beamed brightly from my left; its light played tricks on my eyes, as it danced and bounced off the changing contour of the subtle waves. It seemed I could sense the moon pulling both me and the tide, as I veered slightly from left to right, not unsteady or unsure, but unscripted and unhindered. Sometimes walking sideways, sometimes backwards, with feet finding playful foundation at every unwatched step and skip, I simply continued to move up the beach, toward the pier, with no particular purpose or cause, except to be a part of this place, and to enjoy its free expression.

A hint of rose began to appear above the edge of the sea, distant clouds diffusing its glow. My eyes turned to the moon, knowing that it had already seen the brightness that awaited me, and was itself little more than a reflection of that same brightness. Still I wondered if there was not some sadness, some envy, sensing that its wondrous shine would soon be diminished and ignored, made irrelevant by the very star it both reflected and opposed. The rose tint lingered longer than I expected, and the moon retained its dominance with apparent pride. I changed my pace slightly, slowing and turning more often, to stare at the silent drama unfolding on the twin horizons.

As I approached the pier, my eyes grew annoyed at the interference of artificial light. Incandescent bulbs above me, purposeful in their own way, waged a silly war with the greater lights from east and west. I wanted to move away from them, to avoid their boastful interruptions. The pier itself provided that opportunity, as I sought refuge underneath it, among the rocks, its wooden boards blocking the false lights above, allowing me to gaze fully and undistracted upon the spreading dawn.

Only mildly aware of the passage of time, I began to notice other people on the beach. Not resentful of their presence, it nevertheless made me mindful of how much I had treasured the solitude, the vastness of endless beach and ocean, without competition for its enjoyment. I spotted a cliche - an elderly man in long khaki shorts, a white t-shirt and a wide-brimmed hat, scanning a thin stripe of sand with his metal detector. A young teenage boy walked by, not far from me. He returned my simple welcoming nod, turned to face the dawn, gazed at it with me for a brief time, then returned the way he had come. Others arrived, scattering randomly near the water's edge, drawn perhaps by the same forces that drew me, seeking the peace and joy of an emerging day, from a wide assortment of unspoken needs.

I abandoned my post without clear reason, and began the return journey southward. The sand, water, and light commanded my attention less now, as the forms and faces of other persons began to draw my fleeting interest - two women doing yoga, men of various ages jogging at different speeds, a man struggling to cast his line far out into the sea. A smile warmed my face, as I spotted a golden retriever playing happily in the waves, his master nearby, nodding in joyful approval. And in the spaces between the faces, in the moments not distracted, my gaze returned to the two horizons.

Then, at the next glance, it appeared. It had already appeared, barely, just before I saw it - a thin arc of fire, constant and fixed, becoming ever more visible, as the horizon turned and bowed to its majesty. I stopped in simple wonder, as I suspect did all around me, amazed at how quickly the unseen became seen. The thin arc was quickly resolved into a half-circle, then three-quarters, then full. As sky rejoined sky beneath the flaming sphere, my gaze returned once more to the west. For that moment, and not much more, the moon retained its brilliance. Twin lights in opposite skies, briefly equal in size and radiance, positioned in perfect symmetry above the edges of all I could see.

And then my legs resumed their pace, along the path of dancing waters. One light had become two, and just as quickly, light was everywhere. More people emerged, and more creatures. A family of sandpipers searched for food, unbothered by my near passing. People walked and jogged past and beside, some with gazes fixed, others returning a gentle greeting. My treasured solitude was as diminished as the moon's glow, washed away in the vibrance of an emerging new day. And my morning journey was complete.

Worthless Restraints

Call me a contrarian. It's not a well-kept secret that the easiest way to motivate me to do something is to tell me that I can't do it. And the quickest way to get me to stop doing something is to tell me that I must do it. I simply don't like having other people tell me what to do, or what not to do, and will often go out of my way just to demonstrate that I have not surrendered my independence. This may be a little surprising to those who know that I was raised by a military father, and that I began my adult life as a soldier, but the truth is that many (if not most) of the military people I know feel and react the same way I do. We are willing to accept and submit to duly appointed authorities, but before you "pull rank" on us, you might want to be sure you actually out-rank us, that your boss out-ranks our boss, and that the orders you are giving are both lawful and reasonable. Many brave soldiers have proven their worth by disobedience, when loyalty to country and conscience require.

I am also a bit unorthodox. I don't like to do what everyone else is doing, or in the way they are doing it. When my friends in fourth grade were learning how to play guitar, I decided I would take up banjo. But I didn't learn bluegrass (at least not at first); no, I learned classical - with actual sheet music, not tablature and chords. I eventually learned to play the guitar, but not electric or folk - I went with Spanish, mixing classical technique with latin strumming patterns. Malagueña was my favorite. (It still is, but I only remember bits and pieces.) As a math major in college, I spent a semester in France, studying literature, food, and wine. As a seminary student, I worked for a defense contractor doing software design. The placement office told me no church would ever hire me as a pastor, because I clearly didn't "fit the mold".

So how does an unorthodox contrarian end up as a small-town preacher? I can only say that God has a sense of humor. In fact, I suspect God may be a bit of an unorthodox contrarian, too. For in all my years of reflection and struggle to know what God expected from me, I never once felt that God wanted me to conform, to "fall in line" with what others were doing, or had done before. God has always seemed even more willing and eager than I am to blaze new trails, to try a fresh approach, to inspire creative innovation. And so, to make a long story less long, I have ended up being, doing, and loving a life that is nothing like what I expected, not like any other life I know. (If you know of another bi-vocational tri-denominational rural pastor who runs a software design and financial consulting firm, let me know. We would have a lot to talk about.)

But where the unorthodox contrarian spirit really shows up is not in church, or in career choice, or in musical tastes. It is in the experience of life itself. From the first time I saw a velvet rope across the staircase in a movie theater, I have always longed to see what I wasn't supposed to see, to go where I wasn't supposed to go, to understand what I wasn't supposed to know, to discover what was being concealed. But alas, I have only rarely and timidly pursued that longing, all too aware of the preponderance of stern warnings and ominous forebodings. High voltage, dangerous curves, dense fog, slippery rocks - "Danger, Will Robinson" echo the robotic alerts, with metallic arms flailing. Do not enter, no admittance, authorized personnel only - restrictions clearly lifted for some, but supposedly not for me. Sign, sign, everywhere a sign. It gets, well, oppressive.

Be forewarned, this may not sound like a "Christian" thing to say -- certainly not "ministerial" -- but the truth is: the signs don't work. They don't actually keep people out. They may give friendly guidance to those with cooperative spirits, but they do nothing to quell curiosity or suppress adventure. They don't teach discernment, they don't foster maturity. (If you think a velvet rope is actually going to cultivate discipline and self-control, then you cut too many classes in Psych 101.) To short-circuit a prolonged and redundant analysis, let me simply state the obvious: all of our efforts to control each other's behavior (especially on moral or ethical grounds) are patently ineffective at best, and dysfunctionally counter-productive at worst.

We really don't need all the signs. If you can't figure out that an icy bridge is slippery, without a yellow sign to tell you, you don't belong behind the wheel. If you need a warning label to tell you not to use lemony dish soap in your custard, please stay out of my kitchen. More to the point, if you can't sort out the profound effect that various foods and drinks and drugs and sex have upon your mind and body, without referring to published guidelines from your regional moral rule-writers, then you're really not paying attention.

We really don't need more rules.

We need more faith...

in our own understanding of righteousness,

in God's promise to write his laws on our hearts,

in God's assurance of wisdom to those who seek it,

in the guidance of God's spirit in every situation.

We need forgiveness when we fail to trust,

when we learn things the hard way.

We need grace to believe that our hearts

can be made trustworthy and whole once again.

And all of these things that we need, God gives.

For free.

Since you died with Christ to the basic principles of this world, why, as though you still belonged to it, do you submit to its rules: "Do not handle! Do not taste! Do not touch!"? These are all destined to perish with use, because they are based on human commands and teachings. Such regulations indeed have an appearance of wisdom, with their self-imposed worship, their false humility and their harsh treatment of the body, but they lack any value in restraining sensual indulgence.

-- Colossians 2:20-23 (NIV)

-- Brother Tom

Dear Mom

Dear Mom,

A very merry Christmas morning to you!

While we are once again many miles apart on Christmas, may this brief note bring you a very "present" sense of my thoughts and prayers, praying that you may find calming peace and lasting joy throughout this season.

Surely the events of recent weeks have brought anxieties and fears, and shaken the security of that peace. I share with you a deep gratitude for Dad's continuing recovery, as well as for the skill and dedication of all those who have contributed to his care. I trust that his strength will continue to be restored bit by bit, and that together you will celebrate the gift of living each new day.

I want to be sure to thank you for calling me, for letting me know what was going on, for trusting me enough to lean on me a little, and for sharing with me some of the painful uncertainty of those frightening hours. It means a lot to me that you did not hide your concerns from me, and that you did not let the miles between us prevent you from reaching out, nor prevent me from offering what encouragement I could.

Christmas is always a time of deep reflection for me, even more this year than most. I am now about the age you were when you and Dad moved to California, and am perhaps beginning to grasp something of the wonder which that transition brought to your lives. It takes a lot of courage to follow new dreams at this stage of life, to risk releasing that which is familiar in order to embrace something promising and new. I hope you won't be offended if I admit I have never truly seen you as the adventurous type, but somehow, when it really matters, you have managed to find the strength and courage -- or maybe I should call it faith -- to follow your heart, and to move forward without hesitation or regret. That is an example I hope to be able to follow throughout my life, wherever God may lead.

I know that neither you nor I have finished facing uncertain futures and unforeseen transitions. You know me well enough to know that I will surely exercise my mind, trying to analyze and anticipate what may lie in the road ahead. But as age and experience contribute what they can, I am slowly learning that it is not so much the ability to anticipate change, but the ability to adapt to it, that leads to lasting peace. I am also learning that whatever uncertainties we may face, we never have to face them alone.

May you and Dad enjoy this Christmas day, and the promise of peace it brings, and may its joy bring with it bright hope for a healthy and happy new year.

Love,

Tom

Dear Dad

Dear Dad,

On this Christmas morning, I wanted to greet you with words chosen slowly and phrases well-formed, in hopes that this simple epistle might somehow traverse the miles and years between us, and convey thoughts deeply held which I have long wished for you to know. Having finished fifty years of following your examples and reflecting upon your quiet influence, I now find myself both anxious and inadequate to express the admiration and appreciation I feel for the many virtues which you have both demonstrated and taught. I dare not attempt to name each one, but perhaps a few might illustrate the breadth -- if not the depth -- of the legacy which I now proudly claim.

First, without hesitation, I must note with deep respect the unwavering commitment you have shown toward mom through the years. Despite obvious differences in disposition -- and a few rare but well-remembered disagreements -- your devotion to her has never appeared in doubt. Without question, your faithfulness to your marriage has inspired my faithfulness to mine. Far below the level of conscious consideration, I am convinced that my reactions to conflict and tension have been molded and shaped by the calm and patient patterns which you established. And if I may dare extend my hope so far, I believe my children have also been blessed -- and will continue to be be blessed -- by my efforts to imitate you.

Second, and perhaps related to the first, I have been forever strengthened by the steadiness and trustworthiness of your resolve. Were I brave enough to tease (and clearly I am not), I might timidly suggest a slight tendency toward stubbornness or obstinacy, but the truth beneath the tease would be obvious to all - that your unshakable persistence has provided a firm foundation undergirding diverse endeavors. What few risks I have taken in my life, I have taken knowing that within my inherited character lies the capacity to persist and to endure. My passion to pursue impossible dreams is anchored in the confidence I have seen in your face, and which (I hope) my children now see in mine.

Lastly, only because my words near exhaustion, I must attempt to affirm your distinctive discipline of mind, that unquenchable curiosity -- combined with a cautious consideration of conflicting views -- that is neither cynical nor naive, but always eager to contemplate (and challenge) a novel thought. Although the philosophy which has formed in me is not very different from what I know of yours, it is not the content of my beliefs that I attribute to you, but rather how I have learned to think -- to formulate, question, and refine ideas -- from contrasting my thoughts with yours.

I will always think of you as a man of few words -- perhaps because my excesses in verbosity form such a stark contrast. But what I have learned and gained from you has not been contained in words, but in the consistent character of a quiet life well-lived. Thank you for the depth of character that you have shared with me, and will continue to share.

Merry Christmas.

Love,

Tom

Not Worthless

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

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.