Listening in puzzled silence, I sat across the table as an old acquaintance justified his “special friendship” with another man’s wife as the way “these things happen.”
He interrupted himself in the middle of a bland enumeration of the reasons he thought his friend should leave her husband, break up her family, and marry him, to recount how his wife had left him fifteen years earlier for another man, a person she chose because he was more compatible with her interests and temperament.
He mentioned his ex-wife without a flicker of emotional pain in his words or on his face. “Here, finally, is someone who has moved on successfully,” I thought.
He saw in his “special friend” a person more compatible with himself than his first wife. He said he was more compatible with his friend than her own husband was. He began to enumerate their compatibilities, but shifted into a catalog of incompatibilities between him and his ex-wife. From that list, he began itemizing the similarities between his ex-wife and his friend’s husband. On that subject, his tone moved from tepid to luke-warm. The inventory of characteristics shared by his ex and his friend’s husband grew. His tally concluded with the assertion people like he and his friend could never be happy married to people like that. He assured me he was grateful his ex-wife had helped him realize this.
As he went through his catalog of similarities and differences, compatibilities and incompatibilities, I had to remind myself his wife had left him years earlier for yet another man and not for his friend’s husband. I became lost in the tangled morass through which he was leading me, wandering like a dull docent, directing his hundredth tour, a bland off-hand reference to the exemplary qualities of his friend, then, displaying an ever-so-slightly more spirited affect, recounting the shared traits of his ex and his friend’s husband.
At a loss for words, I managed to say, “These things do happen, but I think it’s not the best way or the only way.”
“No it’s not the best way, but it is the way,” his eyes shifted down, he nodded briefly, “Besides, we can’t help it; it’s just the way. . .,” his voice drifted up into a tentative query, “. . .these things happen.”
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Not Forgetting What Lies Behind: Nice Revenge
Forgetting is not all we can do in response to life's tragedies. Forgetting may be our best choice, in many ways it is our easiest choice, but it is not compulsory. In a society that honors reciprocity over an agape-grounded golden rule, we are free to harm others--with revenge. Though the word “revenge” is harsh, so harsh we find ourselves wanting to deny it is imbeded in our culture, it still recieves aprobation. Our culture aproves “nice” revenge, tolerates displaced revenge, and is facinated by proxy and murderous revenge.
We like to cover our harshness--as we do all our ugliest urges--with a nice veneer. One veneered ugliness is whitewashed with the phrase, “Living well is the best revenge.” This is "nice" revenge, a witty quip held up as the positive response to betrayal and rejection. It has all the characteristics we honor. To live well is to move on, leave behind, forget about the tragedy. It is affirmative, positive, and gives us a cultural hero: one who is apparently healthy, wealthy, happy, and successful. We smile and laugh at the irony and justice when those betrayed or rejected find new and better relationships, but that smile is only a muscle twitch away from a grimace, and the same muscle contraction that powers a belly laugh also powers a racking sob.
Living well to show one has “moved on” is false, even pretentious. Eagerness to live well pushes people past loss without healing, without closure. Showing a good new life is easier than building an actual good life. Wounds remain, suppurating beneath happy veneers. Years after pain people become flushed and tearful when surprised by old remembered agony, even though they have by most external signs moved on to new relationships and lifestyle successess. The veneer of a good new life is thin and easily breached, easily undermined. The need to proudly display the new life leads one to ignore and avoid problems that should be addressed so new relationships may be truely as good as they appear. Additionally, living well to achieve revenge is an empty, ephemeral choice. T.S. Elliot underscored this when he wrote, “to do the right thing for the wrong reason is the greatest treason.” Evil motives for even the best actions poison the doer. The treason is not to others, but to one's own character. As harmful as hidden untreated wounds, the internal poison of revenge grows and festers until it cracks through the shallow surface of the good new life and reveals it to be pretense.
We like to cover our harshness--as we do all our ugliest urges--with a nice veneer. One veneered ugliness is whitewashed with the phrase, “Living well is the best revenge.” This is "nice" revenge, a witty quip held up as the positive response to betrayal and rejection. It has all the characteristics we honor. To live well is to move on, leave behind, forget about the tragedy. It is affirmative, positive, and gives us a cultural hero: one who is apparently healthy, wealthy, happy, and successful. We smile and laugh at the irony and justice when those betrayed or rejected find new and better relationships, but that smile is only a muscle twitch away from a grimace, and the same muscle contraction that powers a belly laugh also powers a racking sob.
Living well to show one has “moved on” is false, even pretentious. Eagerness to live well pushes people past loss without healing, without closure. Showing a good new life is easier than building an actual good life. Wounds remain, suppurating beneath happy veneers. Years after pain people become flushed and tearful when surprised by old remembered agony, even though they have by most external signs moved on to new relationships and lifestyle successess. The veneer of a good new life is thin and easily breached, easily undermined. The need to proudly display the new life leads one to ignore and avoid problems that should be addressed so new relationships may be truely as good as they appear. Additionally, living well to achieve revenge is an empty, ephemeral choice. T.S. Elliot underscored this when he wrote, “to do the right thing for the wrong reason is the greatest treason.” Evil motives for even the best actions poison the doer. The treason is not to others, but to one's own character. As harmful as hidden untreated wounds, the internal poison of revenge grows and festers until it cracks through the shallow surface of the good new life and reveals it to be pretense.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
New Bike
“It’s finished,” The clink of one wrench being exchanged for another accompanied the voice from behind the couch. The taller one saved his work, closed his laptop, and glanced over at the earnest figure methodically testing each nut on the bike one last time.
“Are the handlebars still slipping?” The taller one came around the room-dividing couch, knelt down, and began gathering wrenches into their box. He paused with a handlebar-nut-sized wrench in his hand.
The short one shook his head, “no,” as he reached up and gave the handle bar a torqing push-pull. “The bolts are tight now, see?”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” He got up off the floor and stood, looking even smaller next to the big two-wheeler. He began to back-and-forth it awkwardly into a turn.
“You want to ride it now?” The tall one stood, looking at the eager struggle moving the bike toward the front door. “It’s dark.”
“No traffic. No one will see if I fall over.” He put down the kickstand, opened the front door, and began to wrestle the bike onto the porch.
“What do you want me to do?” Helping lift the back wheel over the doorsill, the tall one checked the street for traffic. It was dark and empty to the end of the block on both ends, a single pool of street light in the middle of the block a few houses down. “Should I hold it for you?”
“Maybe,” the short one paused at the top of the driveway, stooped to raise the kickstand with his hand, made a feint at straddling the bike, hesitated, and kept walking toward the street. “I think I better get on at the curb.”
Trailing after, the tall one checked again for traffic. It was late, quiet and dark, no neighbors to be seen.
The short one was standing on the curb with the bike in the street, trying to use the six-inch rise to help him clear the seat as he made a full attempt to straddle, but he hit the back of the seat with his left leg, leaving it stuck on top of the back tire, nearly losing his balance.
The tall one quickly stepped forward, reaching out to steady the bike with a handlebar, and helped him get his leg over the seat.
Recovering, the short one took a handlebar in his right hand, put his left foot on the pedal with his left hand, and balanced himself in the seat, his right toe just touching the curb.
Standing on the left, the street side, the tall one held both his hands out, ready to steady something. “I don’t know what to do here. Should I walk along beside you?”
“I don’t know, let’s see.” The short one pushed off the curb and began to pedal slowly. The tall one kept pace walking along side. After two slow pedal revolutions, many bursts of tiny steering corrections, the tall one moved to a brisk walk, and the short one settled into a balanced ride.
Suddenly his left foot slipped from the pedal and began dragging the ground, pulling the bike left, the handlebars slipped a few inches, and the bike and rider fell over to the right.
The tall one hovered and reached, grasping the bike, grasping the short one’s arm, trying but failing to halt the crash. He bent over, hoisted the short one out of the bike wreckage, and onto his feet.
The short one babbled, “That didn’t take long. I wonder if I tore it up." He began to breathe quickly. "Brand new bike,” shaking his head side to side as he stood the bike on it's wheels, checking it for damage, “first ride shouldn’t be the first crash.” He stood still for a moment looking down at the bike, then wrenched the handlebars back into a right angle to the tire and sighed; "I’ve bought a bike I can’t ride.” Earnestness drained out of him, leaving him slump shouldered.
The tall one said, “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” embracing the short one in a silent bear hug.
The short one noticed the the pool of light around them in the middle of the dark street, middle of the block, and began to laugh. “The neighbors are going to think we’re both drunk.”
“Nobody is watching,” said the tall one.
They pushed the bike to the curb where the short one climbed on the bike again and pushed off. With the tall one jogging alongside, the short one rode slowly down the street, finally making a big "U"-turn to head back to the house, up the drive, to a shaky dismount.
“You did it,” the tall one said. “Yaaay Daddy,” making a quiet moc-croud cheer.
“Yeah,” said the short one.
__________________________________________________________
I’ve been struggling.
A downhill slide, the aging Polio survivors’ deteriorating physical ability—possibly post-Polio syndrome—sucks at my energy, limits my choices, reduces my productivity, and, once again, hobbles me. Dispirited by betrayal, I had drifted away from workouts and healthy eating. By last spring I ballooned up to two seventy-three and began struggling to haul myself around on crutches. Finally emerging from an emotional fog, I found myself body blocked, crashing into new physical limits.
Worried I wouldn’t be able to continue teaching, that I wouldn’t be able pay for my son’s college, and doubting the dependability of my ex-wife’s promise to help him. I decide it is urgent for me to recover some of my mobility. In mid-June, I went back to the gym and pool. Slowly, I began to get stronger, to lose weight, but the process was very slow and school started in early August. I needed to get around quicker. Teaching is more than sitting at a desk and tossing worksheets at kids, especially teaching theatre. I began using a wheelchair at school.
Therefore, I’m back to my old trade-off. It’s the same old situation. I use the wheelchair to go faster, because a walk to the mailroom is over ten minutes, a walk to the restroom is several minutes, to the lunchroom and back takes so long I have to bolt my food. However, a few weeks using the wheelchair “only when necessary” and I believe I can perceive deterioration.
Sometimes the “only when necessary” stretches from when I walk into the studio theatre in the morning and sit down in the wheelchair by the back door to when I park it by the back door that evening on my way home. I spend more time in the chair than I think I should and as a consequence I don’t feel I can stand up as long as I use to, or that I can walk as far.
I can’t tell if there is a causal link between this perceived deterioration and the wheelchair use. It could just be part of the general downhill slide. So I struggle, emotionally and physically.
I decide I need another exercise mode, one that will work my legs to compensate for the exercise I lose when I use the wheelchair, so I begin looking at bicycles. Up until five years ago, I rode a bike regularly. At Texas Tech, it was a major part of my transportation, but even then, I was unsteady on it. In order to pedal with full leg extension I had to place the seat so high that getting on and off was precarious. To others, I seemed perilously close to falling each time I climbed on and off.
I began to be concerned I would have to give up riding altogether until I found a bike with a different frame configuration, one placing the seat closer to the ground, an Electra, a beach cruiser with what they call “flat foot technology.” The pedals are forward of the seat rather than beneath it, so I could push the pedal with my right leg fully extended. I shopped around for six months and bought a used one.
When the Electra arrived, I found I could reach the ground with both feet as expected, but the pedal position meant I couldn’t balance my left foot on the pedal as I was accustom to doing. It would fall off, and because the seat was lower, drag the ground. My first disastrous half-block-followed-by-a-fall in front of my son was briefly redeemed by a ride back to the house. The next night I made myself climb back on and ride around the block, alone. I managed to keep my foot on the pedal by holding my leg with my left hand. That, however, left only one hand on the handlebars, precarious in its own way. I haven’t tried to ride it since.
I think I’m afraid.
“Are the handlebars still slipping?” The taller one came around the room-dividing couch, knelt down, and began gathering wrenches into their box. He paused with a handlebar-nut-sized wrench in his hand.
The short one shook his head, “no,” as he reached up and gave the handle bar a torqing push-pull. “The bolts are tight now, see?”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” He got up off the floor and stood, looking even smaller next to the big two-wheeler. He began to back-and-forth it awkwardly into a turn.
“You want to ride it now?” The tall one stood, looking at the eager struggle moving the bike toward the front door. “It’s dark.”
“No traffic. No one will see if I fall over.” He put down the kickstand, opened the front door, and began to wrestle the bike onto the porch.
“What do you want me to do?” Helping lift the back wheel over the doorsill, the tall one checked the street for traffic. It was dark and empty to the end of the block on both ends, a single pool of street light in the middle of the block a few houses down. “Should I hold it for you?”
“Maybe,” the short one paused at the top of the driveway, stooped to raise the kickstand with his hand, made a feint at straddling the bike, hesitated, and kept walking toward the street. “I think I better get on at the curb.”
Trailing after, the tall one checked again for traffic. It was late, quiet and dark, no neighbors to be seen.
The short one was standing on the curb with the bike in the street, trying to use the six-inch rise to help him clear the seat as he made a full attempt to straddle, but he hit the back of the seat with his left leg, leaving it stuck on top of the back tire, nearly losing his balance.
The tall one quickly stepped forward, reaching out to steady the bike with a handlebar, and helped him get his leg over the seat.
Recovering, the short one took a handlebar in his right hand, put his left foot on the pedal with his left hand, and balanced himself in the seat, his right toe just touching the curb.
Standing on the left, the street side, the tall one held both his hands out, ready to steady something. “I don’t know what to do here. Should I walk along beside you?”
“I don’t know, let’s see.” The short one pushed off the curb and began to pedal slowly. The tall one kept pace walking along side. After two slow pedal revolutions, many bursts of tiny steering corrections, the tall one moved to a brisk walk, and the short one settled into a balanced ride.
Suddenly his left foot slipped from the pedal and began dragging the ground, pulling the bike left, the handlebars slipped a few inches, and the bike and rider fell over to the right.
The tall one hovered and reached, grasping the bike, grasping the short one’s arm, trying but failing to halt the crash. He bent over, hoisted the short one out of the bike wreckage, and onto his feet.
The short one babbled, “That didn’t take long. I wonder if I tore it up." He began to breathe quickly. "Brand new bike,” shaking his head side to side as he stood the bike on it's wheels, checking it for damage, “first ride shouldn’t be the first crash.” He stood still for a moment looking down at the bike, then wrenched the handlebars back into a right angle to the tire and sighed; "I’ve bought a bike I can’t ride.” Earnestness drained out of him, leaving him slump shouldered.
The tall one said, “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” embracing the short one in a silent bear hug.
The short one noticed the the pool of light around them in the middle of the dark street, middle of the block, and began to laugh. “The neighbors are going to think we’re both drunk.”
“Nobody is watching,” said the tall one.
They pushed the bike to the curb where the short one climbed on the bike again and pushed off. With the tall one jogging alongside, the short one rode slowly down the street, finally making a big "U"-turn to head back to the house, up the drive, to a shaky dismount.
“You did it,” the tall one said. “Yaaay Daddy,” making a quiet moc-croud cheer.
“Yeah,” said the short one.
__________________________________________________________
I’ve been struggling.
A downhill slide, the aging Polio survivors’ deteriorating physical ability—possibly post-Polio syndrome—sucks at my energy, limits my choices, reduces my productivity, and, once again, hobbles me. Dispirited by betrayal, I had drifted away from workouts and healthy eating. By last spring I ballooned up to two seventy-three and began struggling to haul myself around on crutches. Finally emerging from an emotional fog, I found myself body blocked, crashing into new physical limits.
Worried I wouldn’t be able to continue teaching, that I wouldn’t be able pay for my son’s college, and doubting the dependability of my ex-wife’s promise to help him. I decide it is urgent for me to recover some of my mobility. In mid-June, I went back to the gym and pool. Slowly, I began to get stronger, to lose weight, but the process was very slow and school started in early August. I needed to get around quicker. Teaching is more than sitting at a desk and tossing worksheets at kids, especially teaching theatre. I began using a wheelchair at school.
Therefore, I’m back to my old trade-off. It’s the same old situation. I use the wheelchair to go faster, because a walk to the mailroom is over ten minutes, a walk to the restroom is several minutes, to the lunchroom and back takes so long I have to bolt my food. However, a few weeks using the wheelchair “only when necessary” and I believe I can perceive deterioration.
Sometimes the “only when necessary” stretches from when I walk into the studio theatre in the morning and sit down in the wheelchair by the back door to when I park it by the back door that evening on my way home. I spend more time in the chair than I think I should and as a consequence I don’t feel I can stand up as long as I use to, or that I can walk as far.
I can’t tell if there is a causal link between this perceived deterioration and the wheelchair use. It could just be part of the general downhill slide. So I struggle, emotionally and physically.
I decide I need another exercise mode, one that will work my legs to compensate for the exercise I lose when I use the wheelchair, so I begin looking at bicycles. Up until five years ago, I rode a bike regularly. At Texas Tech, it was a major part of my transportation, but even then, I was unsteady on it. In order to pedal with full leg extension I had to place the seat so high that getting on and off was precarious. To others, I seemed perilously close to falling each time I climbed on and off.
I began to be concerned I would have to give up riding altogether until I found a bike with a different frame configuration, one placing the seat closer to the ground, an Electra, a beach cruiser with what they call “flat foot technology.” The pedals are forward of the seat rather than beneath it, so I could push the pedal with my right leg fully extended. I shopped around for six months and bought a used one.
When the Electra arrived, I found I could reach the ground with both feet as expected, but the pedal position meant I couldn’t balance my left foot on the pedal as I was accustom to doing. It would fall off, and because the seat was lower, drag the ground. My first disastrous half-block-followed-by-a-fall in front of my son was briefly redeemed by a ride back to the house. The next night I made myself climb back on and ride around the block, alone. I managed to keep my foot on the pedal by holding my leg with my left hand. That, however, left only one hand on the handlebars, precarious in its own way. I haven’t tried to ride it since.
I think I’m afraid.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Class Rank Manipulation
I'm not sure when this phrase became a pejorative, but I keep hearing our lead counselor sneeringly intone the phrase when referring to students who try to fill their schedules with classes that carry extra grade point weight (more than 100 points maximum) and avoid classes that can only be averaged into their GPA at 100 points.
The counselor also derides students who express concern about and strive for the difference between a ninety-six class average and a 100 average.
The sneering comments are recurring phenomena. The emotion in the voice, frequently the volume in the voice, and certainly the denigrating tone in the voice seems more intense than the events would seem to merit.
School policy sets up a target, a sign of excellence, expressed in a cumulative grade point average computed to two decimal places. Policy allows students to select their classes. Additionally, the school assigns higher maximum grade points to some classes than to others.
When students consider the maximum grade points as part of their class selection criteria and attempt to load their schedules with those classes, this counselor invents and applies a pejorative phrase and spews it around like a poisonous criminal charge.
Is it appropriate to belittle students for making choices school policy allows in order to achieve a goal the school dangles before them? I think not.
Change the policy, or stop spewing poison.
I don’t know why this bothers me. Perhaps I just feel sadness when I hear a counselor speak with such harsh emotion about the children in our charge.
It’s as if the counselor has forgotten what it’s like to strive and work hard for the highest level of learning, for the top grades and highest academic honors. I remember working hard to be a “top student.” Surely, this counselor does also.
Even when I get a little irritated at some kid who is angst-ridden over the difference between a 98 and a 100, I try to counsel them about the superior value of deep lifetime learning over ephemeral accolades, rather than make light of their concern.
To belittle hard working students in a loud emotional voice would place me in the rancorous crowd of sour under-achievers who seek to elevate themselves, not by hard work, but by tearing down the best efforts of others. Surely, our lead counselor has nothing in common with that group.
The counselor also derides students who express concern about and strive for the difference between a ninety-six class average and a 100 average.
The sneering comments are recurring phenomena. The emotion in the voice, frequently the volume in the voice, and certainly the denigrating tone in the voice seems more intense than the events would seem to merit.
School policy sets up a target, a sign of excellence, expressed in a cumulative grade point average computed to two decimal places. Policy allows students to select their classes. Additionally, the school assigns higher maximum grade points to some classes than to others.
When students consider the maximum grade points as part of their class selection criteria and attempt to load their schedules with those classes, this counselor invents and applies a pejorative phrase and spews it around like a poisonous criminal charge.
Is it appropriate to belittle students for making choices school policy allows in order to achieve a goal the school dangles before them? I think not.
Change the policy, or stop spewing poison.
I don’t know why this bothers me. Perhaps I just feel sadness when I hear a counselor speak with such harsh emotion about the children in our charge.
It’s as if the counselor has forgotten what it’s like to strive and work hard for the highest level of learning, for the top grades and highest academic honors. I remember working hard to be a “top student.” Surely, this counselor does also.
Even when I get a little irritated at some kid who is angst-ridden over the difference between a 98 and a 100, I try to counsel them about the superior value of deep lifetime learning over ephemeral accolades, rather than make light of their concern.
To belittle hard working students in a loud emotional voice would place me in the rancorous crowd of sour under-achievers who seek to elevate themselves, not by hard work, but by tearing down the best efforts of others. Surely, our lead counselor has nothing in common with that group.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Lesson Plans
This is an ephemeral venting of frustration.
I modify lessons every year, sometimes every class and every period to help students learn; but I loathe being required to make massive changes (that ultimately boil down to awkward format changes) on plans to fit into ever-changing documentation requirements generated by administrators who come in and out of the school and the district as if by an ever-turning revolving door.
The task takes away from the time I have to modify plans to accommodate individual student needs and to make lessons better for my students.
I modify lessons every year, sometimes every class and every period to help students learn; but I loathe being required to make massive changes (that ultimately boil down to awkward format changes) on plans to fit into ever-changing documentation requirements generated by administrators who come in and out of the school and the district as if by an ever-turning revolving door.
The task takes away from the time I have to modify plans to accommodate individual student needs and to make lessons better for my students.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
We don't seem to be as free as those who harm.
We don't seem to be as free to make bad choices as those who harm us with theirs.
We are free to Havisham the clocks at grief’s apogee, flit through cobweb clotted rooms, past desiccated feasts, by moldy vermin-tunneled cakes, and empty our lives into dusty bitterness, but only by ignoring sotto voiced approbations from friends, family, and loved ones. They note—with sad regret—we are “failing to move on.”
No one seems to note—with regret—the jilting fiancé, the leaving partner, the unfaithful spouse. The betrayers receive one-line mention hidden in mounds of detail about the bitterly time-frozen Havishams of life.
We are free to Havisham the clocks at grief’s apogee, flit through cobweb clotted rooms, past desiccated feasts, by moldy vermin-tunneled cakes, and empty our lives into dusty bitterness, but only by ignoring sotto voiced approbations from friends, family, and loved ones. They note—with sad regret—we are “failing to move on.”
No one seems to note—with regret—the jilting fiancé, the leaving partner, the unfaithful spouse. The betrayers receive one-line mention hidden in mounds of detail about the bitterly time-frozen Havishams of life.
Monday, June 26, 2006
"Forget what is behind and reach toward what is ahead."
I recently had dinner with a friend I had not spent much time with in several months. She sent me a note the next day expressing how "glad" she was I "seem in better spirits.” She then paraphrased from Phil 3:13: "Forget what is behind and reach toward what is ahead,” concluding with, "That is all we can do."
There was poignancy to her final words that touched me. I'm reminded we all have been hurt in ways we may never share even with those close to us.
My second reaction to her note, however, is that forgetting is not "all we can do." Certainly, we are free to respond to the vagaries of life in many ways. I think, rather than saying forgetting was our only choice, she was recommending forgetting as a desirable way, perhaps the best way to deal with disappointment and pain.
I'm not sure I agree with her. Of course disagreeing with her also puts me in disagreement with Paul, but as my friend herself told me over twenty-five years ago, "It wouldn't be the first time, and disagreeing with Paul does not automatically mean you disagree with God."
So, forgetting, while it may in fact be the best way to deal with the vagaries of life, is not all we can do. We are free to respond in many ways.
There was poignancy to her final words that touched me. I'm reminded we all have been hurt in ways we may never share even with those close to us.
My second reaction to her note, however, is that forgetting is not "all we can do." Certainly, we are free to respond to the vagaries of life in many ways. I think, rather than saying forgetting was our only choice, she was recommending forgetting as a desirable way, perhaps the best way to deal with disappointment and pain.
I'm not sure I agree with her. Of course disagreeing with her also puts me in disagreement with Paul, but as my friend herself told me over twenty-five years ago, "It wouldn't be the first time, and disagreeing with Paul does not automatically mean you disagree with God."
So, forgetting, while it may in fact be the best way to deal with the vagaries of life, is not all we can do. We are free to respond in many ways.
Friday, June 23, 2006
Saturday, June 17, 2006
"Should we receive good from God, and not evil?"
This phrase (from Job 2:10) haunts me a bit. It is troublesome in part because it is possible to extract from it the idea that we sometimes “receive evil from God”--which throws me into cognitive dissonance--and in part because a friend recently asked me if I thought God allows evil in the world so we can suffer the consequences of our sins. The core issue here is an old one and a big one, the problem of evil; how do we reconcile our concepts of God with the presence of evil in the world? I don’t have the answer to the big question, but the perspective given me by Job’s story has helped me keep my bearings when thrown into its' proximity.
First, word studies seem to urge the meaning of “good” and “evil” in this passage towards our contemporary use of “good” and “bad,” and away from “good” meaning divine perfection and “evil” meaning it’s opposite. Language scholars agree Job is not saying that we receive things from God that are anti-God, contrary to divine nature. So perhaps there is some comfort in translating the phrase as, “shall we accept what we like from God and not also what we don’t like?” But seeking that comfortable translation sidesteps the big question and also steps away from the events recounted in Job.
That translation trivializes Job’s experience. His trials go beyond minor misfortune. He has lost his wealth, many servants, his children, and his health. He still has his wife—poor comfort there; her response to these tragedies is to tell him to “curse God and die” (2:9). This is a lot of grief for a man who is pure and upright, who fears God and turns away from evil (2:8). We are inclined to think God's man will not face these tragedies. In fact, that's Satan's accusation: Job is God's man because God protects him from tragedy. It is easy to understand why Job might refer to these apparently capricious calamities as evil. Still, the passage says, “In all this Job did not sin, nor did he charge God with moral impropriety” (1:22). When lesser spirits would curse God and die, Job keeps his integrity, and--I think--his faith. Satan was wrong about Job.
Still, whose actions were these, God's or Satan's? I don’t have evidence or book-chapter-and-verse authority to answer that question. I do reason from my view of God that nothing happens unless he at least allows it, even though that view doesn’t ease my discomfort. I’m uncomfortable with the thought God may be allowing evil to exist, but—oddly enough—don’t feel that discomfort at a deep faith challenging level. When I’ve encountered those who point at such apparent inconsistencies and say, “I can’t believe in a god like that,” I’m always in agony more at their lack of belief than at the reason they offer to justify it. As quoted earlier, one sign of Job’s faithfulness was--even though overcome by inexplicable tragedy--he, “did not charge God with moral impropriety.” I understand Job’s choice there. I feel his choice, even though I have never been able to communicate it very well, especially to those who find such situations faith challenging. I wish I could.
Several teachers have emphasized God only allowed Satan to harm Job. They stress that God did not harm Job directly. This difference seems to ease discomfort for some. The text seems to support this interpretation, but the difference doesn’t seem significant to me. Certainly it wasn’t to Job. Regardless of causality, Job found himself bereft, wounded, in ashes and subject to the comfortless yammering of his wife and friends. To emphasize the difference seems to me to reveal insecurity, as if faith would fail if God had harmed Job directly. In fact, the small moral difference between refusing to stop harm and actually causing harm seems more like the small hook on which the weak hang self-justifying rationalizations than a pillar of theological insight into God’s nature. I think distinguishing causality here is ultimately no comfort.
In a lifetime of thought, reasoning, belief, and prayer, I have been unable to explain the existence of many phenomena I’m tempted to call evil. From the minor personal distraction of mosquitoes to the worldwide irritant of rampant materialism, from the tragedy of international warfare to the personal misfortune of polio, many things give me pause, particularly when I allow my perspective to shrink down to the ephemera of this world. Do we suffer these harms to build character, as consequences for sin, to serve some good only God can see? I think the answer to each of these questions is both yes and no. For the most part, I am untroubled by the ambiguity of these answers because no single answer is the tripwire of my faith. At the risk of being charged with intellectual flabbiness, I try to trust in the ultimate goodness of God even while twisting in agony over personal tragedies. I think it is possible to praise God through tears.
In contrast to Job, I remember the example of Adam and Eve—who may very well have been brought into a world without evil, or pain, or any of the other ills that give rise to the “big question.” In this idyllic existence, Eve listens to Satan who questions God’s motivation by saying Adam and Eve were commanded not to eat from the tree to deprive them of something desirable. In a heartbeat, Eve doubts the beneficence and superiority of God and chooses disobedience. The consequences of that choice—which Adam followed, apparently without hesitation—were significant. They were significant for Adam and Eve, for their family, for the generations that followed them, possibly even for all humankind. From the cushy ease of the garden, Eve appears quick to doubt and disobey. From the depths of tragedy that an ephemeral perspective would easily label evil, Job, though he feels and expresses grief and anger, does not disobey. He does not lose sight of the eternal.
First, word studies seem to urge the meaning of “good” and “evil” in this passage towards our contemporary use of “good” and “bad,” and away from “good” meaning divine perfection and “evil” meaning it’s opposite. Language scholars agree Job is not saying that we receive things from God that are anti-God, contrary to divine nature. So perhaps there is some comfort in translating the phrase as, “shall we accept what we like from God and not also what we don’t like?” But seeking that comfortable translation sidesteps the big question and also steps away from the events recounted in Job.
That translation trivializes Job’s experience. His trials go beyond minor misfortune. He has lost his wealth, many servants, his children, and his health. He still has his wife—poor comfort there; her response to these tragedies is to tell him to “curse God and die” (2:9). This is a lot of grief for a man who is pure and upright, who fears God and turns away from evil (2:8). We are inclined to think God's man will not face these tragedies. In fact, that's Satan's accusation: Job is God's man because God protects him from tragedy. It is easy to understand why Job might refer to these apparently capricious calamities as evil. Still, the passage says, “In all this Job did not sin, nor did he charge God with moral impropriety” (1:22). When lesser spirits would curse God and die, Job keeps his integrity, and--I think--his faith. Satan was wrong about Job.
Still, whose actions were these, God's or Satan's? I don’t have evidence or book-chapter-and-verse authority to answer that question. I do reason from my view of God that nothing happens unless he at least allows it, even though that view doesn’t ease my discomfort. I’m uncomfortable with the thought God may be allowing evil to exist, but—oddly enough—don’t feel that discomfort at a deep faith challenging level. When I’ve encountered those who point at such apparent inconsistencies and say, “I can’t believe in a god like that,” I’m always in agony more at their lack of belief than at the reason they offer to justify it. As quoted earlier, one sign of Job’s faithfulness was--even though overcome by inexplicable tragedy--he, “did not charge God with moral impropriety.” I understand Job’s choice there. I feel his choice, even though I have never been able to communicate it very well, especially to those who find such situations faith challenging. I wish I could.
Several teachers have emphasized God only allowed Satan to harm Job. They stress that God did not harm Job directly. This difference seems to ease discomfort for some. The text seems to support this interpretation, but the difference doesn’t seem significant to me. Certainly it wasn’t to Job. Regardless of causality, Job found himself bereft, wounded, in ashes and subject to the comfortless yammering of his wife and friends. To emphasize the difference seems to me to reveal insecurity, as if faith would fail if God had harmed Job directly. In fact, the small moral difference between refusing to stop harm and actually causing harm seems more like the small hook on which the weak hang self-justifying rationalizations than a pillar of theological insight into God’s nature. I think distinguishing causality here is ultimately no comfort.
In a lifetime of thought, reasoning, belief, and prayer, I have been unable to explain the existence of many phenomena I’m tempted to call evil. From the minor personal distraction of mosquitoes to the worldwide irritant of rampant materialism, from the tragedy of international warfare to the personal misfortune of polio, many things give me pause, particularly when I allow my perspective to shrink down to the ephemera of this world. Do we suffer these harms to build character, as consequences for sin, to serve some good only God can see? I think the answer to each of these questions is both yes and no. For the most part, I am untroubled by the ambiguity of these answers because no single answer is the tripwire of my faith. At the risk of being charged with intellectual flabbiness, I try to trust in the ultimate goodness of God even while twisting in agony over personal tragedies. I think it is possible to praise God through tears.
In contrast to Job, I remember the example of Adam and Eve—who may very well have been brought into a world without evil, or pain, or any of the other ills that give rise to the “big question.” In this idyllic existence, Eve listens to Satan who questions God’s motivation by saying Adam and Eve were commanded not to eat from the tree to deprive them of something desirable. In a heartbeat, Eve doubts the beneficence and superiority of God and chooses disobedience. The consequences of that choice—which Adam followed, apparently without hesitation—were significant. They were significant for Adam and Eve, for their family, for the generations that followed them, possibly even for all humankind. From the cushy ease of the garden, Eve appears quick to doubt and disobey. From the depths of tragedy that an ephemeral perspective would easily label evil, Job, though he feels and expresses grief and anger, does not disobey. He does not lose sight of the eternal.
Friday, June 09, 2006
The Preeminent Verity
Let Me Not to the Marriage of True Minds
by William Shakespeare
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is the ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
1 Corinthians 13
(NIRV)
Suppose I speak in the languages of human beings and of angels. If I don't have love, I am only a loud gong or a noisy cymbal. Suppose I have the gift of prophecy. Suppose I can understand all the secret things of God and know everything about him. And suppose I have enough faith to move mountains. If I don't have love, I am nothing at all. Suppose I give everything I have to poor people. And suppose I give my body to be burned. If I don't have love, I get nothing at all.
Love is patient. Love is kind. It does not want what belongs to others. It does not brag. It is not proud. It is not rude. It does not look out for its own interests. It does not easily become angry. It does not keep track of other people's wrongs.
Love is not happy with evil. But it is full of joy when the truth is spoken. It always protects. It always trusts. It always hopes. It never gives up.
Love never fails. But prophecy will pass away. Speaking in languages that had not been known before will end. And knowledge will pass away.
What we know now is not complete. What we prophesy now is not perfect. But when what is perfect comes, the things that are not perfect will pass away.
When I was a child, I talked like a child. I thought like a child. I had the understanding of a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me.
Now we see only a dim likeness of things. It is as if we were seeing them in a mirror. But someday we will see clearly. We will see face to face. What I know now is not complete. But someday I will know completely, just as God knows me completely.
The three most important things to have are faith, hope and love. But the greatest of them is love.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
While these passages may allow an interpretation that love is something that "happens" to one, or something "found," I think it more likely eternal love is a choice. Love is not an external force sweeping us off our feet and out of control, not something we "can't help," not subject to the vagaries of time, wealth, or status. It is not a part of the ephemeral, ever changing, world, but a part of the eternal spirit of God.
by William Shakespeare
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is the ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
1 Corinthians 13
(NIRV)
Suppose I speak in the languages of human beings and of angels. If I don't have love, I am only a loud gong or a noisy cymbal. Suppose I have the gift of prophecy. Suppose I can understand all the secret things of God and know everything about him. And suppose I have enough faith to move mountains. If I don't have love, I am nothing at all. Suppose I give everything I have to poor people. And suppose I give my body to be burned. If I don't have love, I get nothing at all.
Love is patient. Love is kind. It does not want what belongs to others. It does not brag. It is not proud. It is not rude. It does not look out for its own interests. It does not easily become angry. It does not keep track of other people's wrongs.
Love is not happy with evil. But it is full of joy when the truth is spoken. It always protects. It always trusts. It always hopes. It never gives up.
Love never fails. But prophecy will pass away. Speaking in languages that had not been known before will end. And knowledge will pass away.
What we know now is not complete. What we prophesy now is not perfect. But when what is perfect comes, the things that are not perfect will pass away.
When I was a child, I talked like a child. I thought like a child. I had the understanding of a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me.
Now we see only a dim likeness of things. It is as if we were seeing them in a mirror. But someday we will see clearly. We will see face to face. What I know now is not complete. But someday I will know completely, just as God knows me completely.
The three most important things to have are faith, hope and love. But the greatest of them is love.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
While these passages may allow an interpretation that love is something that "happens" to one, or something "found," I think it more likely eternal love is a choice. Love is not an external force sweeping us off our feet and out of control, not something we "can't help," not subject to the vagaries of time, wealth, or status. It is not a part of the ephemeral, ever changing, world, but a part of the eternal spirit of God.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Ontological Proof
Rene’ Descartes
Descartes, as I understand it, in his Discours de la méthode (1637), was attempting “to unify all knowledge as the product of clear reasoning from self-evident premises.” Following the 11th century work of St. Anselm, Descartes added his reasoning to something called the “Ontological Proof.” It appears to be an attempt to assert the existence of God rationally. I find the proof compelling for that very reason, rationality reaching to explain what many rationalist appear to consider irrational.
There are different versions, possibly translations, of the proof. What follows I owe once again to Dr. Tom Morris’, Philosophy for Dummies. In short, the proof says, “God's existence is inferred directly from the fact that necessary existence is contained in the clear and distinct idea of a supremely perfect being,” or in a longer version as a construct:
Morris writes, “Descartes compared the ontological argument to a geometric demonstration, arguing that necessary existence cannot be excluded from idea of God anymore than the fact that its angles equal two right angles can be excluded from the idea of a triangle.” The ontological proof asserts God’s existence is as obvious and self-evident as basic mathematical truth.
Descartes and Morris point out this proof is intuitively both compelling and unsatisfying. I am less troubled by the ambiguity of their responses. In fact, Descartes ambiguity is part of what I find compelling about the proof. He is represented as believing the most compelling proof of God is primarily experiential, making rational proof just an addendum to faith already embraced, and not evidence bringing the unbelieving rationalist to faith. He presents rational argument asserting God’s existence is “obvious and self-evident,” but draws his faith from what he perceives to be God’s actions in his life.
To me it is as if Descartes recognizes the inherent weakness of rationality. Rational conclusions are only as valid as their supporting data. Rational conclusions are subject to the changes brought about by new data, more complete data, or a new understanding of old data. Rationality is ephemeral because it is totally dependent on evidence from an ephemeral world. Rationalists claiming to have found something eternal or universal, by that very claim, step onto metaphysical turf and away from their core belief, for nothing in the rational world can be eternal or universal.
I believe, by presenting rational proof as secondary to the faith engendered by experiencing God in his life, Descartes asserts faiths’ supremacy. The faithful are sure their hopes will be fulfilled and are certain of things they do not see. The faithful are irrational. They develop faith by believing others testimony about God, by responding to the loving acts of God in their own lives, by making leaps of faith, by any or all of several inherently “irrational” actions. When the faithful step into their core beliefs, embracing the certainties hopes will be fulfilled and that the unseen exists, they embrace the only things eternal and universal accessible to anyone in the transient ephemera of this world.
Descartes, as I understand it, in his Discours de la méthode (1637), was attempting “to unify all knowledge as the product of clear reasoning from self-evident premises.” Following the 11th century work of St. Anselm, Descartes added his reasoning to something called the “Ontological Proof.” It appears to be an attempt to assert the existence of God rationally. I find the proof compelling for that very reason, rationality reaching to explain what many rationalist appear to consider irrational.
There are different versions, possibly translations, of the proof. What follows I owe once again to Dr. Tom Morris’, Philosophy for Dummies. In short, the proof says, “God's existence is inferred directly from the fact that necessary existence is contained in the clear and distinct idea of a supremely perfect being,” or in a longer version as a construct:
1. Whatever I clearly and distinctly perceive to be contained in the idea of something is true of that thing.
2. I clearly and distinctly perceive that necessary existence is contained in the idea of God.
3. Therefore, God exists.
Morris writes, “Descartes compared the ontological argument to a geometric demonstration, arguing that necessary existence cannot be excluded from idea of God anymore than the fact that its angles equal two right angles can be excluded from the idea of a triangle.” The ontological proof asserts God’s existence is as obvious and self-evident as basic mathematical truth.
Descartes and Morris point out this proof is intuitively both compelling and unsatisfying. I am less troubled by the ambiguity of their responses. In fact, Descartes ambiguity is part of what I find compelling about the proof. He is represented as believing the most compelling proof of God is primarily experiential, making rational proof just an addendum to faith already embraced, and not evidence bringing the unbelieving rationalist to faith. He presents rational argument asserting God’s existence is “obvious and self-evident,” but draws his faith from what he perceives to be God’s actions in his life.
To me it is as if Descartes recognizes the inherent weakness of rationality. Rational conclusions are only as valid as their supporting data. Rational conclusions are subject to the changes brought about by new data, more complete data, or a new understanding of old data. Rationality is ephemeral because it is totally dependent on evidence from an ephemeral world. Rationalists claiming to have found something eternal or universal, by that very claim, step onto metaphysical turf and away from their core belief, for nothing in the rational world can be eternal or universal.
I believe, by presenting rational proof as secondary to the faith engendered by experiencing God in his life, Descartes asserts faiths’ supremacy. The faithful are sure their hopes will be fulfilled and are certain of things they do not see. The faithful are irrational. They develop faith by believing others testimony about God, by responding to the loving acts of God in their own lives, by making leaps of faith, by any or all of several inherently “irrational” actions. When the faithful step into their core beliefs, embracing the certainties hopes will be fulfilled and that the unseen exists, they embrace the only things eternal and universal accessible to anyone in the transient ephemera of this world.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Surgery
Blogging from the Dentist's chair because I can.
While I appreciate the care and skill of my dentist, and admire the business acumen that has build his practice, I cannot sit in the chair for him to work on my teeth without thinking of the scene from the Neil Simon play The Good Doctor (adapted from a Chekhov short story entitled "Surgery" I believe). In the play an apprentice dentist does every painful maladroit thing imaginable--a nightmare dental session, but the effect of the scene is comic. I mentioned it to my dentist once and, as personable and charming as he is, he couldn't quite cover the distress he felt at what to him must have been yet another stereotyped dental nightmare. When we produced Little Shop of Horrors, I didn't even mention the dentist character. My dentist doesn't deserve the discomfort.
Actually, my dental sessions have always been so painless and uneventful that a different kind of comedy comes to the fore. More than once as I'm sitting in that chair, mouth stuffed with cotton and tools with both the dentist and his assistant staring intently at me from their little rolling stools, I begin to laugh. It seems so ridiculous for two grown people to be so intent on my teeth. It seems even more ridiculous for me to submit my teeth to such scrutiny.
While I appreciate the care and skill of my dentist, and admire the business acumen that has build his practice, I cannot sit in the chair for him to work on my teeth without thinking of the scene from the Neil Simon play The Good Doctor (adapted from a Chekhov short story entitled "Surgery" I believe). In the play an apprentice dentist does every painful maladroit thing imaginable--a nightmare dental session, but the effect of the scene is comic. I mentioned it to my dentist once and, as personable and charming as he is, he couldn't quite cover the distress he felt at what to him must have been yet another stereotyped dental nightmare. When we produced Little Shop of Horrors, I didn't even mention the dentist character. My dentist doesn't deserve the discomfort.
Actually, my dental sessions have always been so painless and uneventful that a different kind of comedy comes to the fore. More than once as I'm sitting in that chair, mouth stuffed with cotton and tools with both the dentist and his assistant staring intently at me from their little rolling stools, I begin to laugh. It seems so ridiculous for two grown people to be so intent on my teeth. It seems even more ridiculous for me to submit my teeth to such scrutiny.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Class of 2006
I'm sitting at Hopper Field watching/listening to the roll call of graduates, my son's classmates, as they graduate from highschool.
A big climactic moment for many, but for my son and most of his friends it's the beginning of the education that is likely to define the rest of their lives more than anything they have experienced so far.
A big climactic moment for many, but for my son and most of his friends it's the beginning of the education that is likely to define the rest of their lives more than anything they have experienced so far.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Leo Lindy's is Gone
At least it's not where it used to be.
For the last ten years, when I've been in New York I've made it a habit to go to Lindy's on Time Square, sit in one of the window seats, linger over cheesecake and coffee, and people watch.
Today I wandered up and down the west side of Times Square, thinking my mind had slipped a cog and my memory was not to be trusted. Finally I propped myself against a window, huddled over my Treo, Googled "Leo Lindy's" and learned it was on the block at which I was staring . . . except it was not to be seen.
The storefronts along the block were a uniform, shiny aluminum and glass, rather than the jumble I remembered--Lindy's had been some kind of black tile--the windows down the block now looked like a 1950's mall, identical and bland.
I gave up my search and hobbled into the Marriot, headed towards a restaurant called "The View" that some magazine had said, "Gave an unparalled view" of Times Square from its rotating dining room. It was closed.
I eventually wandered to the eighth floor into the "Broadway Lounge," where I got a table at a window overlooking Times Square peopled with scurrying 1/4" tall people--what would that be--a hundred feet below. So much for people watching, I could count bald spots, I guess.
I started to rant here about how even something as innocuous as people watching had, rather than watching people eye to eye, become instead something where you looked down from such dizzying heights there was no possibility of personal interaction.
It was pointed out to me that Starbucks still had seats facing out windows at pedestrian level. That diffused my rant. I like Starbucks--like their pastry and cookies more than Lindy's cheesecake, though I didn't find a Starbucks with a good view of Times Square.
Not to slight the Leo Lindy cake, apparently it's world famous, but it's too gummy for me. The--now defunct--Sandy's Sweets in Lake Jackson made a cheesecake much more to my liking, and it was far from world famous.
For the last ten years, when I've been in New York I've made it a habit to go to Lindy's on Time Square, sit in one of the window seats, linger over cheesecake and coffee, and people watch.
Today I wandered up and down the west side of Times Square, thinking my mind had slipped a cog and my memory was not to be trusted. Finally I propped myself against a window, huddled over my Treo, Googled "Leo Lindy's" and learned it was on the block at which I was staring . . . except it was not to be seen.
The storefronts along the block were a uniform, shiny aluminum and glass, rather than the jumble I remembered--Lindy's had been some kind of black tile--the windows down the block now looked like a 1950's mall, identical and bland.
I gave up my search and hobbled into the Marriot, headed towards a restaurant called "The View" that some magazine had said, "Gave an unparalled view" of Times Square from its rotating dining room. It was closed.
I eventually wandered to the eighth floor into the "Broadway Lounge," where I got a table at a window overlooking Times Square peopled with scurrying 1/4" tall people--what would that be--a hundred feet below. So much for people watching, I could count bald spots, I guess.
I started to rant here about how even something as innocuous as people watching had, rather than watching people eye to eye, become instead something where you looked down from such dizzying heights there was no possibility of personal interaction.
It was pointed out to me that Starbucks still had seats facing out windows at pedestrian level. That diffused my rant. I like Starbucks--like their pastry and cookies more than Lindy's cheesecake, though I didn't find a Starbucks with a good view of Times Square.
Not to slight the Leo Lindy cake, apparently it's world famous, but it's too gummy for me. The--now defunct--Sandy's Sweets in Lake Jackson made a cheesecake much more to my liking, and it was far from world famous.
Monday, April 17, 2006
That's Still Not It
Simply doing what is right because it is right is also an incomplete answer (from previous post). It doesn't address all I think and feel about why I try to do what is right. My desire to do what is right is also a love response. I love God and try to do things to please him. It is feeling and emotion based. It's a reciprocal arrangement, but not an equilateral exchange, not barter. I don't love God hoping he will bless me. I love him partially out of desire to serve a greater good and partially out of gratitude for blessings already received.
Oddly enough, I feel that love response, that gratitude for blessings received, even though by some assessments I have not been particularly blessed. I’m not blessed with wealth, honor, or authority; at my physical best, I hobble along on crutches. Of course, others would count me blessed. In our age’s shifting sea of values, all assessments are slippery and subjective. As I ponder the apparent on again, off again status of my personal blessings, I begin to wonder if gratitude for them truly motivates me.
Maybe we're back to doing right for its own sake, or perhaps we're back to Job again, this time looking at Satan's taunt:
"Is it for nothing that Job fears God? Have you not made a hedge around him and his household and all that he has on every side? You have blessed the work of his hands, and his livestock have increased in the land. But extend your hand and strike everything he has, and he will no doubt curse you to your face!"
Satan was wrong. Yes, Job was blessed, and in less ambiguous ways than I, but ultimately Job remained faithful even when he was, from an earthly perspective, unprotected and greatly harmed. Reading the account, we are hard pressed to discern Job's motivation for faithfulness. What was it he said? "Should we receive what is good from God, and not also receive what is evil?"
Job's response appears to me to reveal an unshakable conviction that God's actions, however they appear in the moment—even if they appear evil—are ultimately and eternally right.
Contrast this with the ease Satan's mere suggestion to Eve--another of God's children who had a hedge around her--that God was keeping something desirable from her turned her toward disobedience. His words were, “God knows that when you eat from it your eyes will open and you will be like divine beings."
I think Satan was wrong in a way that reveals his nature. His taunting was based on the assumption that Job's primary interest was self-interest, just as his strategy with Eve revealed his own desire to be "like divine beings." In Eve, Satan found a soul mate. In Job, Satan found God's man.
Oddly enough, I feel that love response, that gratitude for blessings received, even though by some assessments I have not been particularly blessed. I’m not blessed with wealth, honor, or authority; at my physical best, I hobble along on crutches. Of course, others would count me blessed. In our age’s shifting sea of values, all assessments are slippery and subjective. As I ponder the apparent on again, off again status of my personal blessings, I begin to wonder if gratitude for them truly motivates me.
Maybe we're back to doing right for its own sake, or perhaps we're back to Job again, this time looking at Satan's taunt:
"Is it for nothing that Job fears God? Have you not made a hedge around him and his household and all that he has on every side? You have blessed the work of his hands, and his livestock have increased in the land. But extend your hand and strike everything he has, and he will no doubt curse you to your face!"
Satan was wrong. Yes, Job was blessed, and in less ambiguous ways than I, but ultimately Job remained faithful even when he was, from an earthly perspective, unprotected and greatly harmed. Reading the account, we are hard pressed to discern Job's motivation for faithfulness. What was it he said? "Should we receive what is good from God, and not also receive what is evil?"
Job's response appears to me to reveal an unshakable conviction that God's actions, however they appear in the moment—even if they appear evil—are ultimately and eternally right.
Contrast this with the ease Satan's mere suggestion to Eve--another of God's children who had a hedge around her--that God was keeping something desirable from her turned her toward disobedience. His words were, “God knows that when you eat from it your eyes will open and you will be like divine beings."
I think Satan was wrong in a way that reveals his nature. His taunting was based on the assumption that Job's primary interest was self-interest, just as his strategy with Eve revealed his own desire to be "like divine beings." In Eve, Satan found a soul mate. In Job, Satan found God's man.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Selfish Isolation
Because I once had the temerity to hint . . . to imply . . . and finally to gently suggest that one of my oldest and dearest friends appeared to be making a major life-changing decision without considering her husband, children, family, friends, her fellowship of believers, or the teachings of the God she professed; I found myself vilified by her as self-righteous, blind to my own sinfulness, and out of touch with God’s will. This all because she knew God wanted her to leave her husband and marry the man she now loved.
I was stunned into silence. This was too close to home for me and my friend knew it.
She asserted her decision concerned only her husband and herself, and had nothing to do with her children, family, friends, the man she now had given her love to, or her church. There would be no lasting consequences for anyone else: “People might be sad at first, but they’ll forget about it after a while. No one cares, they’ll act like it never happened, and kids are resilient. It won’t affect them.”
I tried to process her assertions and accusations through the emotional fog created by feelings welling up from my own past and the feelings I had for the others who loved her. I felt the pain her husband and children would feel, the sadness of her family, friends, and church.
Achingly aware of my own sin, I knew, more than she could ever know, that my only righteousness was grace given and undeserved. The only self near any righteousness I had was my sinful self. I couldn't imagine why she appeared to think my sinfulness--whether admitted or denied--could validate or justify her choices. I concluded misery isn't the only state that loves company.
I didn't know how my friend knew God wanted her to leave her husband and marry another man. I have no response when someone asserts such direct and specific guidance from God. When I pray and ask for guidance that degree of specificity has seldom been my experience. I had read in the scriptures that God hates divorce, even as I concluded from other passages that he gives grace to those who choose it. I have also read enough scripture to avoid saying, "God wouldn't do that, and he would never let that happen.” I've read Job, what do I know? I wasn't around when God spoke everything into existence.
She added that Christianity was at heart selfish, because believers did good in order to receive a heavenly reward and blessings from God. That rang wrong with me, like a bell choir playing a song with one bell just a little out of tune. Christianity was selfish, she said, and I thought, "Well, she’s right, rewards and blessings are promised.” I did not offer a response, couldn’t find the thought, the words to counter what she said. I let the statement stand between us as if it were unassailable truth, even as it echoed falsely in my mind.
The longer I thought about it the louder the false ringing. I've decided her assertions were suspect. Christianity isn't selfish. Rewards and blessings are promised, but I knew I hadn’t tried to do the right thing all my life just in order to get a blessing, or to get some future heavenly reward. That wasn’t my motivation. I believe in God. I try to be what I think of as God's man. I try to honor him with my life, but I have always tried to do what I thought was right in God’s eyes, not as a barter, but because to do otherwise is . . . well . . . wrong.
It seems so simplistic to say it that way, but that’s the plain fact of it. There are blessings and rewards, but they are consequences, not results of right choices. We can’t barter our feeble good deeds with God for his blessings. I try to please him in response to his love, out of gratefulness for the blessings he's already given me, but I don't expect to earn any reward. Our relationship is not based on what secular law calls a bilateral contract.
Besides, doing right is its own reward. I wish I could testify to that truth because I have always done what is right, but I cannot. I miss the mark, fall short, and still I know trying to do right is the best way to exist. It is the true way and to do otherwise is wrong. Maybe it is not so antithetical, so black and white. Maybe there is grey, but still, striving for the center--the most correct--is worth the effort for its own sake.
I also believe one of the verities is interdependence. There are consequences for other people in every choice we make. The lie is that individuals are alone, that the consequences of our choices fall only on us. This only appears true if we narrow our perspective to the briefest ephemeral slice of time and space, if we cripple our perceptions with rationalization and self-deception. My friend's assertions were suspect because she had carefully walled up a place in her mind, blocking out all other valid considerations, until it seemed to her the thing she wanted most to do was the only thing she could do.
The grief of everyone who cared for my friend and her family was palpable when she left her family, and sadness moves through them like recurring waves of darkness still. No one, except her ex-husband perhaps, continues to be overwhelmed and drowning in the darkness of her choice, but waves wash over them still. A no longer celebrated anniversary or birthday, a smiling face missing from a table of family pictures, a sweet memory of a time and association that will never be again, the dry black hole of doubt in the part of their hearts formerly filled with the certainty of that love. All these things well up and wash over them momentarily, occasionally, calling up sadness ranging from a brief pause, a sigh, perhaps a tear hidden from those around them, or an unexpected sob that springs out in a solitary moment to hijack their present well being and take them back to that past deep sadness. I've seen it in others. I've been a hijack victim. The darkness doesn't go away. People move on, but the sad shadow trails after them.
To believe you can be so isolated, separate, or alien that the consequences of your choices fall on yourself alone is to believe a lie. Even the most selfish isolation ripples dark waves through the world around you. What you do affects all for good or ill in ways you cannot predict and in ways you may never know.
I was stunned into silence. This was too close to home for me and my friend knew it.
She asserted her decision concerned only her husband and herself, and had nothing to do with her children, family, friends, the man she now had given her love to, or her church. There would be no lasting consequences for anyone else: “People might be sad at first, but they’ll forget about it after a while. No one cares, they’ll act like it never happened, and kids are resilient. It won’t affect them.”
I tried to process her assertions and accusations through the emotional fog created by feelings welling up from my own past and the feelings I had for the others who loved her. I felt the pain her husband and children would feel, the sadness of her family, friends, and church.
Achingly aware of my own sin, I knew, more than she could ever know, that my only righteousness was grace given and undeserved. The only self near any righteousness I had was my sinful self. I couldn't imagine why she appeared to think my sinfulness--whether admitted or denied--could validate or justify her choices. I concluded misery isn't the only state that loves company.
I didn't know how my friend knew God wanted her to leave her husband and marry another man. I have no response when someone asserts such direct and specific guidance from God. When I pray and ask for guidance that degree of specificity has seldom been my experience. I had read in the scriptures that God hates divorce, even as I concluded from other passages that he gives grace to those who choose it. I have also read enough scripture to avoid saying, "God wouldn't do that, and he would never let that happen.” I've read Job, what do I know? I wasn't around when God spoke everything into existence.
She added that Christianity was at heart selfish, because believers did good in order to receive a heavenly reward and blessings from God. That rang wrong with me, like a bell choir playing a song with one bell just a little out of tune. Christianity was selfish, she said, and I thought, "Well, she’s right, rewards and blessings are promised.” I did not offer a response, couldn’t find the thought, the words to counter what she said. I let the statement stand between us as if it were unassailable truth, even as it echoed falsely in my mind.
The longer I thought about it the louder the false ringing. I've decided her assertions were suspect. Christianity isn't selfish. Rewards and blessings are promised, but I knew I hadn’t tried to do the right thing all my life just in order to get a blessing, or to get some future heavenly reward. That wasn’t my motivation. I believe in God. I try to be what I think of as God's man. I try to honor him with my life, but I have always tried to do what I thought was right in God’s eyes, not as a barter, but because to do otherwise is . . . well . . . wrong.
It seems so simplistic to say it that way, but that’s the plain fact of it. There are blessings and rewards, but they are consequences, not results of right choices. We can’t barter our feeble good deeds with God for his blessings. I try to please him in response to his love, out of gratefulness for the blessings he's already given me, but I don't expect to earn any reward. Our relationship is not based on what secular law calls a bilateral contract.
Besides, doing right is its own reward. I wish I could testify to that truth because I have always done what is right, but I cannot. I miss the mark, fall short, and still I know trying to do right is the best way to exist. It is the true way and to do otherwise is wrong. Maybe it is not so antithetical, so black and white. Maybe there is grey, but still, striving for the center--the most correct--is worth the effort for its own sake.
I also believe one of the verities is interdependence. There are consequences for other people in every choice we make. The lie is that individuals are alone, that the consequences of our choices fall only on us. This only appears true if we narrow our perspective to the briefest ephemeral slice of time and space, if we cripple our perceptions with rationalization and self-deception. My friend's assertions were suspect because she had carefully walled up a place in her mind, blocking out all other valid considerations, until it seemed to her the thing she wanted most to do was the only thing she could do.
The grief of everyone who cared for my friend and her family was palpable when she left her family, and sadness moves through them like recurring waves of darkness still. No one, except her ex-husband perhaps, continues to be overwhelmed and drowning in the darkness of her choice, but waves wash over them still. A no longer celebrated anniversary or birthday, a smiling face missing from a table of family pictures, a sweet memory of a time and association that will never be again, the dry black hole of doubt in the part of their hearts formerly filled with the certainty of that love. All these things well up and wash over them momentarily, occasionally, calling up sadness ranging from a brief pause, a sigh, perhaps a tear hidden from those around them, or an unexpected sob that springs out in a solitary moment to hijack their present well being and take them back to that past deep sadness. I've seen it in others. I've been a hijack victim. The darkness doesn't go away. People move on, but the sad shadow trails after them.
To believe you can be so isolated, separate, or alien that the consequences of your choices fall on yourself alone is to believe a lie. Even the most selfish isolation ripples dark waves through the world around you. What you do affects all for good or ill in ways you cannot predict and in ways you may never know.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Taksation Without Representation
TAKS testing day @ B'wood and this year I'm assigned A Hall Down boys restroom duty. I suppose I can imagine a more meaningless duty, but there is something about the assignment thst seems to bleed all imagination from me.
Actually it is a necessary duty, if not particulary significant or frought with meaning. It's one of those "in case" jobs. I'm not perched outside the boys restroon because high school boys need or want assistance, but because some one of them might want to do something disallowed, like -- I don't know what -- exchange answers, look at a crib sheet, hide in a stall and terrorize some unsuspecting student into a state of catalepsy, causing them to fail the test.
There are so many "in case" situations, so many possibilities for deviant behavior, that you can't possibly anticipate them all. People, in this case test directors and principals, make their best decisions placing guards and watchers who may be able to intervene or, more likely, who's mere presence may prevent someone from attempting wrongdoing knowing an incident is as likely to happen beyond the perview of a guard as within it. As you sit and stare at the hallway, it is too easy to pick at the choices made. I would rather be at work on the rather long list of tasks that I always have at this time of year.
I wonder how seriously the students are taking this? They seemed really wired as they came in.
Okay so one thing I've found out is it is hard to hold the shape an form of a piece of writing in my head well enough to write coherently. I can't tell wherw I've been and direct myself where to go only seeing five six wor lines of text. At best this Blogging by thumb typing on my Treo has the fragmentary style of an old-style newspaper story.
Actually it is a necessary duty, if not particulary significant or frought with meaning. It's one of those "in case" jobs. I'm not perched outside the boys restroon because high school boys need or want assistance, but because some one of them might want to do something disallowed, like -- I don't know what -- exchange answers, look at a crib sheet, hide in a stall and terrorize some unsuspecting student into a state of catalepsy, causing them to fail the test.
There are so many "in case" situations, so many possibilities for deviant behavior, that you can't possibly anticipate them all. People, in this case test directors and principals, make their best decisions placing guards and watchers who may be able to intervene or, more likely, who's mere presence may prevent someone from attempting wrongdoing knowing an incident is as likely to happen beyond the perview of a guard as within it. As you sit and stare at the hallway, it is too easy to pick at the choices made. I would rather be at work on the rather long list of tasks that I always have at this time of year.
I wonder how seriously the students are taking this? They seemed really wired as they came in.
Okay so one thing I've found out is it is hard to hold the shape an form of a piece of writing in my head well enough to write coherently. I can't tell wherw I've been and direct myself where to go only seeing five six wor lines of text. At best this Blogging by thumb typing on my Treo has the fragmentary style of an old-style newspaper story.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Hurt Feelings
Avoiding emotional pain probably should not be a high priority in life. Certainly, a life free from emotional pain is not an absolute value, not one of the verities. If I flee all emotional pain, I flee human interaction. I have hurt before; I will hurt again. I choose to make myself vulnerable to being hurt when I care about other people, and when I choose to love. Though this choice makes me vulnerable to pain, my personal experience is that it also opens me to joy. The risk of pain is the price of joy.
Some are so fearful of emotional pain they flee from all feelings. I have actually been with one timid little mouse who twitched back from the height of joy, disoriented by and fearful of its strength and power. The timid and fearful flee so far from their feelings they are lost. They deny all feelings, forcing them into a bland midrange, indistinguishable one from the other. When feelings do wash over these timid souls, they are blindsided. I believe it is better to risk pain, or actually to be hurt, than to deny all feelings. Both joy and sadness come to us via the same channel. Avoiding agony pushes away joy.
In fact, I believe feelings will out, to use an Elizabethan turn of phrase. Feelings will not be denied forever. The only choice we have is whether to acknowledge them in proximity to their causes (where we can deal with them in a healthy way), or to have them surprise and confuse us because they have returned to us disconnected from their source events. Inevitably returning from their hidden darkness, denied feelings overwhelm and push us into actions we do not understand, could not predict, and cannot control. We can only squeak in concert with the timid mouse, “I don’t know why. I can’t help it. It’s just the way I am.”
Some are so fearful of emotional pain they flee from all feelings. I have actually been with one timid little mouse who twitched back from the height of joy, disoriented by and fearful of its strength and power. The timid and fearful flee so far from their feelings they are lost. They deny all feelings, forcing them into a bland midrange, indistinguishable one from the other. When feelings do wash over these timid souls, they are blindsided. I believe it is better to risk pain, or actually to be hurt, than to deny all feelings. Both joy and sadness come to us via the same channel. Avoiding agony pushes away joy.
In fact, I believe feelings will out, to use an Elizabethan turn of phrase. Feelings will not be denied forever. The only choice we have is whether to acknowledge them in proximity to their causes (where we can deal with them in a healthy way), or to have them surprise and confuse us because they have returned to us disconnected from their source events. Inevitably returning from their hidden darkness, denied feelings overwhelm and push us into actions we do not understand, could not predict, and cannot control. We can only squeak in concert with the timid mouse, “I don’t know why. I can’t help it. It’s just the way I am.”
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Stupid in America, How Lack of Choice Cheats Our Kids Out of a Good Education
It struck me several years ago that for my entire professional career I have endured regular news reports proclaiming the poor quality of the American education system. Invariably, the ills these reports cite seem plausible and possible to me, but are outside my personal experience. Perhaps I am blind, failing to see problems around me. Perhaps I always have taught in those rare, exceptional, schools where the ills of our education system do not exist, but I do not think so. I use to be quite exercised over these reports, but there seemed to be nothing I could do to stop them. Eventually, I included research on school effectiveness in my regular personal studies, tried to do the best work I could with my students, tried to exert as much positive influence as I could in my school and I.S.D., and tried not to take the criticism personally.
Friday night a television program entitled “Stupid in America, How Lack of Choice Cheats Our Kids Out of a Good Education” (link below, and also at: http://www.reason.com/hod/js011306.shtml) was presented by John Stossel on 20/20. It joined the career long chain of negativity I’ve had to endure. Unlike much of the negativity, the program did offer a solution to the multitude of ills facing American schools, voucher schools.
"’It's just like, do you get a Sprint phone or an AT&T phone,’ . . . Why can't kids benefit from similar competition in education?“ My answer to this is they may. However, there does not seem to be enough objective evidence to prove conclusively that they will. Offering even less evidence than exists in current education research, Stossel’s report makes a strong emotional case, gives a few examples, makes many unsupported assertions, but does not prove “lack of choice cheats our kids out of a good education,” rather it claims there is a single simple answer to a complex problem.
The answer to the question, “Why can’t kids benefit from similar competition in education?” is possibly they can. However, because educating just one child is more difficult, complex, and important than choosing a cell phone service provider, such competition is probably not the solution.
Teaching a whole classroom of children is incrementally more complex than educating one child, and educating all of America’s children deserves and requires the kind of thoughtful lifetime commitment that many people, myself included, have made, keeping us at work in public education for decades. That same commitment will keep many of us working to provide the best education we can for as many children as we can for many more years, long after Stossel has moved his intense emotional focus to the next topic, winning the “unusually good ratings” that seem to validate him.
Friday night a television program entitled “Stupid in America, How Lack of Choice Cheats Our Kids Out of a Good Education” (link below, and also at: http://www.reason.com/hod/js011306.shtml) was presented by John Stossel on 20/20. It joined the career long chain of negativity I’ve had to endure. Unlike much of the negativity, the program did offer a solution to the multitude of ills facing American schools, voucher schools.
"’It's just like, do you get a Sprint phone or an AT&T phone,’ . . . Why can't kids benefit from similar competition in education?“ My answer to this is they may. However, there does not seem to be enough objective evidence to prove conclusively that they will. Offering even less evidence than exists in current education research, Stossel’s report makes a strong emotional case, gives a few examples, makes many unsupported assertions, but does not prove “lack of choice cheats our kids out of a good education,” rather it claims there is a single simple answer to a complex problem.
The answer to the question, “Why can’t kids benefit from similar competition in education?” is possibly they can. However, because educating just one child is more difficult, complex, and important than choosing a cell phone service provider, such competition is probably not the solution.
Teaching a whole classroom of children is incrementally more complex than educating one child, and educating all of America’s children deserves and requires the kind of thoughtful lifetime commitment that many people, myself included, have made, keeping us at work in public education for decades. That same commitment will keep many of us working to provide the best education we can for as many children as we can for many more years, long after Stossel has moved his intense emotional focus to the next topic, winning the “unusually good ratings” that seem to validate him.
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