A Comfortable LIfe

     I like comfort. I spent over twenty years in a career in which personal comfort did not matter. In fact, my superiors evaluated my worth on my ability to absorb significant does of physical and mental stress. I learned the value of being able to sleep almost anywhere or any time. I’ve spent long periods of time sleeping in the back of a HUMVEE. Periodically I placed extreme value on a fresh pair of socks or change of undergarments. During one particular stretch, I went for almost six months without a hot shower, occasionally bathing out of a bucket with a rag. At the end of that time, I was overjoyed to find out that what I thought was some sort of black fungal infection in the soles of my feet was simply dirt. A hot shower cured me. For a year I wore two uniforms; wash one, wear one. My experiences as a soldier are neither unique nor unusual. Ask any veteran and they will share similar stories, some much worse. Now, as a retiree, I enjoy a life of comfort.

     Very little discomfort intrudes upon my life these days. I sleep in a good bed. I enjoy ample chow of my choice. In the eve, when I start to yawn, I lie down for sleep. I slumber uninterrupted, save for the occasional trip to the latrine, until it is time for me to arise. After seven hours or so I awaken, usually before the clangor of my alarm. I trundle off to work which fires my passions and for which I’m adequately remunerated. I share this pleasant, abundance with a woman I love who returns my love. We relish the quiet rhythm our current situation affords. Most Sundays, after worship we share a communal lunch with our immediate family, enjoying laughter and interesting conversation. Yet, periodically, something roils the placid stream of my life.

     I forget that save for God’s grace I stand justly condemned and lost. Sometimes I fall into the trap of believing my own good press. I look over at someone, grappling with an issue foreign to me, and judge them as unfit. I think poorly of them. I forget that without the sacrifice of Jesus I stand of the wrong side of a vast chasm carved by the rushing torrent of my selfish intransigence. In my arrogance I conjure up an image of God being somehow glad that I’m on His side. As if I have something He needs. And in these darker moments I find myself sitting on the stoop, sulking.

     Recently someone came to me, seeking help and assistance; and not for the first time. This is a repeat performance for them. More than once they’ve spurned my extended hand and good counsel, heaping scorn on me. Now, they desperately need my succor. I can summon the willingness to help; but, at a cost. I want to extract my pound of flesh. My aid and assistance come at with conditions. I want to remind them of their previous boorish behavior and faulty decisions. I do not deal in grace. I charge a rather steep price for my “help.” This is not love. It is vengeance disguised as care and concern. It is a deep and dark place.

     God comes to me there, in my sulky solitude. “Why, He ponders, “are you sitting out here in the darkness? Come in and enjoy the light and party.”

     “Why are we throwing a party for those sinners? They’ve done nothing to cause such celebration. They’ve born no fruit. In fact, they’ve sullied our good name with their reckless immorality.”

     “Yes, it’s true. They have. But, now they’ve come home. How can we not rejoice?”

     “What if they do it again? How can we be certain that they will not wander off? They may hurt us…again!”

     “They may. But, today, we rejoice. Come inside, enjoy the moment. And for heaven’s sake, leave that baggage out here in the dark, where it belongs.”

      I so like to think I’m worthy. I enjoy a comfortable, buttoned-down, well ordered, disciplined life and I think that somehow that elevates me above others. In reality, spiritually speaking, I’m sitting out in the dark desperately trying to rearrange my filthy rags in such a way as to cover up my own dirty, wretched nakedness. I need God just as much, and perhaps even more due to my pride, as the person whom I’m called to help. Perhaps I’d better come in quickly before the queso is all gone.

Why Things Are The Way They Are

     I’m watching the current political campaign unfold with a mixture of interest, chagrin, embarrassment, and dismay. The Watergate scandal that roiled the final days of the Nixon administration marks my first political awareness. Watching those pivotal events flicker across my parent’s small black and white television in Abilene, Texas, I realized that decisions made far away influenced my life in strange and mysterious ways. Now, forty-two years later I follow politics, understanding that these things, not matter how grievous or mortifying, matter and greatly. Many reporters, politicians, pundits, and preachers lament the low level to which our national debate has sunk, including me. Most express surprise at the crass exchanges that daily scroll across our screens. I do not share their shock. We created this situation.

     During my life, which contrary to what my students believe is still short, we slowly exchanged substance for show. A well educated person used to read the great works of antiquity, developing the skills needed to plunge such depths and weigh serious matters. A classical education required careful examination, and memorization, of great literary works and large bodies of facts concerning the world around us. We spoke of areas of study as disciplines since it took discipline, time, and effort to master them. Civilized men engaged in debate, which consisted of a reasoned exchange of ideas, not red-faced men exchanging insults across the table. Sometime, before I was born, we started divesting ourselves of these standards, accepting in their place a paltry, anemic substitute that eschews scholarship and civility and instead embraces bombast and the one hundred and forty character sound-bite.

     Students, and adults alike, recoil at the thought of writing a well-reasoned and supported essay. We want everything packaged in small easily digestible bits. During interviews and what passes for debates, participants regularly avoid difficult topics and spew out an endless diatribe of sentence fragments designed to play well on the next thirty minute news segment. And we let them. Our embrace of the plasticized social-media driven culture produces such meaningless dreck. They get away with it because we will not summon the intestinal fortitude it takes to reject such pandering. Politicians from both parties and the media participate in this erosion of the national conversation. Perhaps we lack the acumen necessary to call these pretenders, and that is what they are men in suits pretending to be men of substance, out and demand legitimate solutions to very real and convoluted problems. They believe, and perhaps rightly, that we do not understand well enough to discern substance from Shinola (you need to have been in the Army the days of the universal suede boot for that particular reference). In our thirty second spot, thirty minute sitcom frame of mind we find it hard to seriously consider what character is and how to recognize it.

     Due to our mental laziness, or in some cases lassitude, we willingly support anyone who says a few things we want to hear. Often we choose to embrace a single issue as paramount, forgetting that often the person who drapes themselves in that particular issue may not be running for an office that can materially influence it or has not plan to attack the proximate cause of the problem we find so odious. Our continual willingness to overlook bombast and self-aggrandizement and not demand substantive plans coupled with a general unwillingness to sacrifice for the good of the nation draws politicians, not statesmen or patriots. Consequently we get the current crop of politicians; well coifed and stuffed suits who engage in the kind of sophomoric antics I see in the halls of my junior high each day, the big difference being my students act their age. We must change the paradigm.

     We must embrace the work needed to educate ourselves, to learn once again how to think, deeply and critically.  We must develop that discipline required to understand the complex issues which vex our nation, and world. Few problems require solutions that fit into a snippet of text. Those that will succumb to such a short solution do not merit our effort. We must refuse to support those who would ingratiate themselves by pandering to one or two issues. Those who seek high office need to apply armed with good ideas and a willingness to roll up their sleeves and work. Refusal to discharge Constitutionally mandated duties in the name of party or ideological purity is not the moral high-ground. And neither is shutting down the government to make a point. We must relearn that true patriotism is not about flag and bunting waving. The signers of the Declaration captured patriotism very well in these words, “And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.” And until we once again educate ourselves to these matters we will endure an endless parade of poltroons disguised as viable candidates.

     Since I am currently a teacher, I harbor great hope for the future. If my students are any indicator of the upcoming generation, they want and are up to the challenge. They willingly allow me to try and test them. Early on in the year I would get a few anemic scratchings passed off as a paragraph. Now, I regularly see fully formed thoughts in paragraphs that explore ideas. Recently one of my students came up to me in the hall and said, “Mr. Robinson, do you have a limit to how many pages I can write on this subject? I’m really enjoying this project and have a lot to say about it.”

     And she said this in front of my principle! Yes, I think they are up to the task. The question is, am I up to the challenge of guiding them into education?