Character Matters

            As the 2020 Presidential campaign spins up with increasing fervor, and perhaps acrimony, I thought I’d spend some time considering once again what makes for a good candidate for high office. As an independent voter, I try to consider all my alternatives. I do not espouse membership in any particular party. I do not wish to carry their baggage. If I join a party, then, in some fashion, I must support the platform. Every party expresses certain beliefs that trouble me, some minor, others major; consequently, I try to examine each aspirant to public office based on two things, their personal character and do they support most of the things that I consider important for the development of our country and society. So why should I evaluate character and why is it important?

            In our current cultural milieu, we tend to avoid character evaluation, misusing such passages as, “…Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her,” John 8:7, or “Judge not, and you will not be judged;…,” Luke 6:37a. These verses fit well our penchant for excusing our own misdeeds; but, taken in context they do not prohibit the evaluation of someone’s character. In fact, elsewhere in the Bible, particularly in I Timothy 3, we find instructions on how to evaluate a person for leadership within the context of the body of Christ. When considering a person for representative or high office, one ought to consider character traits. Has the applicant displayed the traits needed for great responsibility? We avoid quoting this particularly germane scripture, “For to everyone who has will more be given,…,” Matthew 25:29a. Here, Jesus reminds us that increase in responsibility ought to be proceeded by some evidence of good stewardship. Have they displayed the character traits that establish their trustworthiness for increased responsibility? So, when we examine a candidate, we not only evaluate their spoken and written policy pronouncements, we need to consider the tenor of their life.

            We’re not looking for perfection, otherwise none need apply. The last person that achieved perfection is otherwise occupied and not running for office. When examining a candidate for fitness, we should carefully consider how they’ve handled previous levels of responsibility. Did they faithfully discharge their duties, or did they shirk odious or difficult tasks? We need to examine their long-term relationships, and yes this includes familial as well as business relations. When granting high-level security clearances, the military considers extra-marital affairs as a negative factor, not out of puritanical devotion to the institute of marriage, but extra-marital affairs indicate a level of willingness to remain true to an oath. Divorce need not disqualify; however, moving from one relationship to another with various peccadilloes in between, indicates a certain character flaw. Therefore, obtaining a high-level clearance is an arduous lengthy task. The military seeks to discover any moral turpitude prior to granting access to sensitive information. And character provides a window, a preview as it were, into how a person will handle unforeseen situations and challenges.

            A person’s character reveals their modus operandi, their preferred way of doing things, their habits. And this, perhaps even more than their stated goals, reveals how faithfully they will discharge their duties. In the realm of responsibility, the how matters as much as the what, in some situations perhaps even more. Despite cultural myth to the opposite, most officeholders seek to make good on their promises. But there are always unforeseen situations and problems. Character and previous performance provide an indication of how a person will handle challenges. Additionally, a leader’s character influences the behaviors and character of the organization they lead.

            The military espouses this truism, “An organization adopts the personality of its leader.” And it’s true. An organization quickly assimilates the character traits of its leader. If a leader is of high moral fiber, the organization moves in that direction. If the leader is of low character, willing to dissemble and compromise morally, soon the organization behaves in a like fashion. The leader sets the standard. In this arena, character outweighs any policy pronouncements or campaign speeches. When we select a leader, we must consider their character as evidenced by prior behaviors. The organization they lead, in this case, our national government, will assume the norms of the leader. If a candidate behaves in ways we find reprehensible, soon the government will behave similarly. So if we care about the character of our government, we must care about those we appoint as its leaders. We will not find perfect individuals, but good individuals, men and women of strong moral fiber.

            We must avoid the temptation to wave away criticism of a candidate’s character with the bromide of, “Well they all do it.” Yes, we are all failed individuals. If you turn over enough stones in my past, you will find ugliness, instances of extreme failure. But we can judge a person’s worth for public office by their character. If their past indicates moral looseness, an inability or unwillingness to live a life governed by moral standards, then they do not deserve our support, no matter their professed political positions. Their previous actions foretell failure when in the crucible of unforeseen crisis. Character matters. And we must discipline ourselves to carefully examine those that seek public office, judging their fitness, not on party affiliation or professed policy but on their previous behaviors.

Unjust Laws

            “We have to enforce the laws, don’t we,” asked my friend gravely.

            I gazed at him through the rising coffee steam, considering his rhetorical question. We were discussing conditions at our southern border. We frequently meet at a local coffee establishment to solve world problems. On this day, we tackled illegal immigration. Like most, we’d seen the horrific photograph of a drowned father and daughter and were saddened. But beyond that our responses diverged. My friend framed the problem as one of rule of law. These people were trying to come across the border without proper documentation. That made them lawbreakers, and as lawbreakers, they represented an assault on the rule of law. The laws were on our books and as a civilized nation, one which protected its borders, we needed to enforce the laws as written. But does having a law on the books justify enforcement?

            What if the law is capricious, or unjust? May we simply say that “It’s the law. We’re only enforcing the law. And, we must enforce the law until we change or remove it.” My inner vision returns to the photograph of the bodies floating in the Rio Grande. Yes, it is true that the father chose poorly. He placed himself and his child at risk, paying a dear price for his choice. But, do we not share in the culpability? We knowingly set the conditions for such a choice. By refusing entry for those willing to await a decision of asylum, we increased his desperation. By adopting a policy of strict enforcement of familial separation, we pushed a man and his child into the desert margins. Yes, he bears the burden of his poorly considered decision; but, do we bear the burden of an ill-conceived law and draconian policy. We create our laws and develop policy for their enforcement. Must we enforce laws that lead to such tragedy? Are those that break the law always on the side of chaos and disorder?

            Many of our national heroes were lawbreakers, challenging what they perceived as unjust laws. We hold them up as men and women of great character, encouraging our youth to embrace such clear sight and boldness. George Washington, John Adams, Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King Jr., the Bus Riders, Cesar Chavez, and many others all ignored established laws in order to create a better future and improve our nation. And such heroes are not limited to our nation. The human story is rich with individuals that ignored, or challenged, unjust laws. We hold Mahatma Gandhi, Moses, Malala Yousafszi, and Jesus in special reverence for their willingness to challenge unjust laws. The Lord, no lover of chaos or disorder, speaks harshly about unjust laws.

            In Isaiah 10:1-4, the Lord, through His prophet warns “those who decree iniquitous decrees…,” about coming judgment for making and enforcing abusive laws. He makes a similar complaint in Jeremiah 5:27-29, again warning of impending punishment. Several hundred years later Jesus takes up the same refrain in Matthew 23:1-36. In this rather famous passage, often referred to as the seven woes, Jesus inserts a particularly pertinent passage, “²³ Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you tithe mint and dill and cumin, and have neglected the weightier matters of the law, justice and mercy and faithfulness.” And these are just a handful of the passages in which the Lord takes up the cause of the widow, orphan, poor, and sojourner. I do not believe that we can hide behind the fig-leaf of, “We’re just enforcing the law,” or “If we don’t enforce the law there will be chaos.” In James 2:13 we read these sobering words, “¹³ For judgment is without mercy to one who has shown no mercy. Mercy triumphs over judgment.” We should not enforce such iniquitous laws and ought to remove them from our books.

            The laws and policies as written and enforced stain our nation, revealing our inherent selfishness and churlish attitude toward the impoverished sojourner. Images like the one of the poor father and child ought to shame us into action. We ought to clamor for change. We may still need to send some of those that appear on our shores back, but I doubt that’s the case. Recent studies show that we need to increase the numbers of immigrants we let into our nation. We need an infusion of those willing to take those entry-level jobs that our society depends upon but would rather not do; however, that is a subject for another essay. The issue we face is an unjust law.

When we write laws or develop and enforce policies, that add to human suffering we must address the situation. It does no good to say, “We’re simply enforcing the law.” If a law or policy results in rending families asunder, when they are at their most vulnerable, we must change that law. And until we do so, not enforce that unjust law. Our laws must not add to human suffering. Fathers and mothers make the difficult decision to uproot their families, undertake an arduous trek with very little in the way of resources, crossing a desert, in order to hopefully obtain a greater measure of security and hope for the future. We must not increase their misery through ill-conceived policies that separate them at their most vulnerable. If we do decide that feeding our military-industrial-complex is more important than expanding the frontiers of human freedom and turn them back, we must do so with as much humanity as possible. We must provide those whose appeals for mercy we reject decent housing and appropriate food and necessary healthcare. Our humanity demands such treatment. The time for handwringing past long ago.

Now we must raise the clarion call to write the wrong and provide redress for the suffering cast upon our shores. The numbers of those seeking shelter and entry has steadily dropped since the year 2000. We do not face a crisis of chaos on our border. We face a crisis of our own moral failure. We’ve turned a blind eye to suffering and let crass politicians use these people as political sound bites in order to energize their base. These sojourners pose no threat, existential or otherwise. While we should exert an appropriate control over our borders, we must not create a situation which leads to needless tragedies. We extol and embrace higher ideals, ones that welcome the sojourner. No matter the law they broke in trying to come, no one should end up face down on the muddy bank of the nation they were trying to reach. It’s just not right and it’s not who we are.

On the Fourth

            Today, the Fourth of July, we celebrate the founding of our nation. As Christy and I walked this morning we noted all the flags and bunting; which sprouted like wildflowers across our neighborhood. In fact, I replaced a worn and bent flagstaff with a new, sharper one in order to fly my flag in an appropriate fashion. Now, it is up and proudly waving in the West-Texas breeze, and I feel appropriately patriotic. But, what does it mean to be patriotic?

            Does flying a flag and barbecuing beef, which I will do later this afternoon, make me patriotic? How about setting off fireworks in the evening? Does that make me properly patriotic? Do I need to attend a parade, armed with a small flag to wave at the floats and marching bands as they pass? I could drag out an old uniform, attempting to stretch it across my waist, and wear to a parade. Would that make me patriotic? What are intrinsically patriotic acts? Is it particularly patriotic to honor and revere our military machine? In some places, we will engage in a corporate flexing of military muscle with fly-bys, rumbling tanks, and other displays of our military prowess. Does patriotism require fawning at the feet of the military? Does our military might equate national power and greatness?

            Do not get me wrong. I served in the Army of the early eighties; a time in which many did not respect those in uniform. The national wounds of Vietnam still smarted. I remember walking off post in the evening, wearing the uniform, and having people in cars throw trash at us. So, as a soldier, albeit retired, I appreciate the periodic expression of thanks I receive from grateful fellow citizens. But is military service the way we truly express patriotism? Where can I go to gain clarity about patriotism?

            In its final words the Declaration of Independence offers a good, succinct definition of patriotism. “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.” Patriotism involves sacrifice. These men, not only wrote eloquently, they walked out their patriotism. They sacrificed for the betterment of others. True patriotism leads us to consider how we might better the world, not how we might better profit from the world. Our national might lies not in our military strength. In the final analysis, military strength does not equate to patriotic greatness. All too often, military strength is more an exercise in bullying. We fail to exert the influence we want so we resort to force. In our own revolution, we never fielded an army or navy capable of taking on the British military machine, yet we prevailed in the end. True patriotism involves listening to our better selves. And listening, cultivating, our better selves leads us not only to true patriotism but also, to true greatness.

            Our military might does not make us great. Our compassion and willingness to sacrifice for the good of others makes us great. When we bind up the wounds of others, we are great. When we take up the basin and towel to ease the hurts of the world, we find greatness. When we open our hands to the destitute, comfort the frightened, and welcome the homeless, we show true patriotism and our nation will be truly great. True patriots shift their focus, their gaze off themselves and onto the needs of others, seeking ways to make our country a better, more wholesome place. So this Fourth of July, I purpose that we spend some time thinking of ways to show our patriotism by taking actions that provide succor to the downtrodden, truly expanding the frontiers of freedom.

           

           

Led In Worship

            Regulations, checklists, field manuals, training manuals, and standing operating procedures circumscribe life in the Army. Twenty-seven years conforming to strictly enforced standards shaped me into a buttoned-down, squared away individual. I am on time. I place great value on self-control in all circumstances. I thrive on good order and discipline. I do my best to always follow through in every situation. I march to the sound of the guns and tend to conform to the standards of my organization. For the most part, this makes me a very successful individual. Discipline and willingness to follow orders works well in the civilian work environment as well as the military. Of course, such discipline and self-control do not work in worship.

            Worship in spirit and truth requires surrender of self. True, deep worship involves a certain reckless abandon. And when I come to the edge and look over into the abyss of the unknown, I hesitate and draw back. Emotions are tricky things and once unleashed, are not easily harnessed once again. Yet, in every worship service, the praise band calls me into unrestrained worship. They lead by example, giving themselves totally to the moment, surrendering to a greater, higher, power. They wade into the living water, turn and beckon to me, saying, “Come on in. The water’s fine. This is a safe place to be.”

            As with all humans, there are untidy places in my life, things I did poorly, things I failed to do, sins whose effects still echo in those quiet moments of my life. I have emotions I keep tucked away in a locked cupboard behind a carefully lettered sign which reads, “DO NOT OPEN!” God wants me to open the doors and let the sweet breath of His Spirit waft away those hurts and fears. I hesitate. And then I see them, reveling in His presence, preparing the way for those more timid souls. And as the waves of sound wash over me, they take me by the hand and usher me into a safer, closer place; a place where God softly and gently removes the “DO NOT OPEN” sign, opens the doors, and blows away the hurt, guilt, and pain, leaving healing, joy, and peace. They help me loosen the ingrained, well-practiced, comfortable constraints of military life. They open the doors to that special place. A place where effervescent joy sometimes bubbles up sometimes tears flow, and sometimes through them, the Lord leads me to a peaceful place where a sublime unexplainable calm floods my soul. Led by them and their example, I peek behind the veil and behold God. And isn’t that the purpose of worship.

Memorial Day 2019

            Every Memorial Day, I pause and think about those comrades who died while deployed. One sticks in my mind. We desperately tried to get him to medical treatment on time. He bled out as we carried him across the FOB in makeshift litter made of a poncho, his bootheels cutting grooves which collected his blood. On this day we honor him and all those like him that perished in the service of their country. I also think of Howie.

            Howie served in a subordinate unit. He did so with great efficiency and as required, bravery. During this deployment, we pursued a very aggressive set of operations designed to subdue Al Qaeda in Iraq, often known as AQI. In these operations, we sought to synchronize multiple services, and nations. We endured many stretches of uninterrupted labor, inside and outside the wire, often working thirty-six or forty-eight hours at a stretch. In some of our operations, we coordinated the movements of units from the United States and back. We enjoyed great success though at a great price in men and material. At the end of the operation, we’d either killed or driven key segments of the AQI organization from the operational field. We were exhausted. A picture of me snapped when I was unawares shows a man who was “rode hard and put up wet.”

            Howie returned to the states shortly after the end of the operation. He arrived in the states early in the week and as always attended the chapel, where he sang in the choir. There, on the first Sunday of his return, he collapsed while singing. He died in front of his wife, children, and friends while worshiping. We’d all noticed his haggard look, but we then we all looked pretty rugged. None of us could imagine the corrosive effects of the pace on Howie. The demands of the operational pace had consumed him. Though Howie did not die of wounds due to enemy action, his wife and children remain deprived of a loving husband and father and their grief and pain remain just as real as if he died in the violence of an improvised explosive device. I think of him and how hard he worked and how worn he was. Howie had poured his life out in Iraq and there was nothing left. So, I remember Howie and other friends like him who gave all they had and were crushed in the process.

Happy Easter

            Cool and quiet, darkness reigns. All light extinguished and banished. There is tranquil rest after labors. Nothing moves in this place of silent stillness. Sealed, locked away from a world that holds its breath, matching vacant and motionless lungs. Battered and torn flesh wrenched muscle and sinew chill in borrowed darkness. Far away, hidden behind sealed and locked doors frightened, red-rimmed eyes shed bitter tears of regret. Here, the silence of furtive fear and disillusioned darkness reigns. None gives voice to the silent questions of how and why. Everything is motionless as creation pauses.

            Then, it happens. With scarcely a rustle, a diaphragm moves and lungs fill. A breath slips past open lips and everything changes. A heart beats once, twice, three times settling into a steady rhythm. And life flows, and not just through one man’s veins. Life pulses out across time and space. Tombs, recently cracked open as the earth twitched violently, give up their grip on saints that now walk home. This life, this new life radiates outward infecting all it touches with a new type of existence. The once almighty death is defanged. Inside the previously silent grave, new life stirs; life that cannot be contained. The new, yet ancient of days, rises.

            Outside hands that once flung stars into their places now gently cup a grieving tear-stained face, dispensing comfort and grace. These same hands that crafted human form now bear scars, scars that remind all of a burden born, mission completed, and a crushing debt paid. God came down, became man, absorbed our punishment, experienced death and rejection by mankind and His father. Now He lives and those same scared hands now turn back death. Life and light now reign where darkness once walked supreme. His rising changed that. His blood, once again oxygenated brings life; not just to Him, but also to His body. Now, all is new. Happy Easter.

Corvair Blues

            Life often takes us down roads to destinations we would not have chosen could we have seen the end from the beginning. Such was the case for my brother and me in the Abilene, Texas of the middle 1960s. My father, an aspiring History Professor, taught at Abilene Christian University while working on a doctorate in Latin American History. Eventually, we would spend two years in Fort Worth, Texas while he finished his Ph.D., but that is an entirely different story with a very different ending. As a junior member of the faculty at a small, but growing, private school, my father did not earn a particularly large salary. We lived in a nice house, ate plenty of good food, and enjoyed a good standard of living; however, my father drove older cars in order to stretch his paycheck as far as possible. For a time the family heapster was four-door Corvair.

            We cruised around Abilene and out into the country in this light blue auto. For a time, my father preached at a small church in Shep, Texas, just a smidge over forty miles from Abilene. In those days of looser attitudes towards safety, my brother and I often wrangled over which one of us would ride on the small dash in the back of the car as we returned to Abilene after the evening service at Shep. I always enjoyed watching the stars wheel and turn as we rumbled down 277, a two-lane state road. Like any older car, our Corvair came with a variety of unique characteristics; one of which was a small hole in the rear floor-pan.

            I do not remember which one of us discovered this small aperture to the outside world from the back seat, nor do I know why looking at the asphalt rush past was so intriguing. But hey, who truly knows what goes on inside the head of six or seven-year-old boy, least of all that boy. We would clamber into the back seat and then wrestle to watch North or South first slip past at a scorching thirty-five miles per hour. Then we discovered a new game.

            Again, memory fails me in the exact origins, but one of us would slip small bits of trash through the hole while the other one looked out the back window to spy some familial litter bouncing down the road behind us. This was great fun and we never had to pester Mom or Dad. We scoured the car for gum or candy wrappers to shove through the hole. Light colored items were best as they were visible against the oil-streaked asphalt of the age. We could not foresee the unhappy destination that awaited us. We just enjoyed our new game. We were not hurting anyone. Then one day, we made a precipitously bad, no horrible, decision.

            My mother had to run a few errands. She gathered up her rather unruly bunch, secured her purse, applied a splash of lipstick, secured her hair under a fetching scarf, and headed out in our Corvair. Somewhere along the way her purse ended up in the back seat with Brian and I. In a brutal convergence of circumstances, we ran out of detritus to jettison at the same time. Which one of us was the dumper and which one of us was the spotter remains locked away in the deep vaults of the cave of my memory. It is enough to note that we discovered my mother’s purse to be a treasure-trove of items small enough to fit through our portal to the road; soon a string of lipstick, fingernail files, and other important ladies’ items were bouncing down South First…do not ask me why my memory is so clear on that point.

            Eventually, my mother wondered at the levity and general party atmosphere emanating from the back seat. As any good parent would, she inquired as to the cause of such bonhomie. Logic and good sense rushed into our minds a bit too late, so we sat there, mute lumps oozing guilt. Ultimately under the harsh spotlight of a mother glare, we stammered out an explanation. My mother, in a move Mario Andretti would admire, whipped the Corvair into the parking lot of Burro Alley on the corner of South First and Willis where she soon discovered the absence of several small items. In very clear and unambiguous language, we learned that her purse was never to be used as source material for our game and we were to spend the rest of the outing sitting in the back seat with our hands in our laps. I do not remember being told to stop playing the game, just that her things were not viable candidates for ejection. Yes, that day, we discovered that the Corvair was truly unsafe at any speed.