Big Shoulders

     God has big shoulders, bigger than I can imagine.

     As some of you know, my youngest son struggles with a variety of issues, including substance-abuse and all the related problems that cascade from it. Some parents rejoice at weddings, graduations, and grandchildren. We rejoice over a chore properly completed. I find innocuous decisions evidence of a long hoped for turn. At a time when I expected to move into a more relaxed stage of parenting, I must adopt the familiar persona of a drill-sergeant, treating my son as I would a recalcitrant soldier. I tread carefully when talking with siblings and other family members lest I poison their relationships with my frustrations and anxieties. I draw heavily from God’s abundant supply of joy. Recently in a fit of pique my son stormed off disappearing for a couple of days; returning to knock at the door and stand abjectly on our front porch. Oddly, I took the short duration as a good sign.

     So there we stood on the front porch a disconsolate son and testy father. As always in these moments my mind wandered to the story of the prodigal son found in Luke, the parable father, my father, and now I faced the same challenge. As the evening son colored the billowing clouds in the Southeast apricot, gold, and orange, I struggled to find words that meant something, words previously unsaid, words that might carry weight, words that might influence or touch. I know this path very well, every pothole, ditch, smooth spot, defile, chasm, and hairpin turn. I’ve been here many times before and I do not find the view encouraging. This is a dark place.

     As I stood there on the porch my reality shifted, presenting a new, disquieting perspective. A father and son no longer stood on the quiet West Texas porch; instead to brothers stand jaws clenched faces hard and set. I over estimated my spiritual maturity. I do not deal well with repeated insults or infractions, assuming incorrectly that I’m the offended party. Like the older brother in Luke I find a dismal hard core of resentment in my heart. Why should I go in and rejoice with my family? How will I put this offense in “the depths of the sea (Micah 7:19)?”

     This is no longer about my son’s spirituality. That struggle is between him and God. I may help by setting appropriate boundaries and creating an environment where God is glorified. If the color and character of my life somehow reflect the Holy Spirit’s leavening influence I might be of use. This does not mean that I enforce no standards; however, I do so understanding my own spiritual poverty. Focusing on my perception of my son’s offenses against me leads me to anger and resentment. Remembering my own repeated offenses and God’s gracious forgiveness leads to compassion. Now this is more about how I let God conform me to His shape. Will my story end with me on the front porch, refusing to join the party? Perhaps, with patience, God will lead me gently home, home to join the party. 

Pascal Lamb

     The garage door complains slightly as it rumbles up, admitting our van into the somewhat cluttered interior. As I swing out of the van the smell of roasting lamb, shallots, garlic, Rosemary, olive oil, potatoes, onions, and carrots greets me. I anticipate an excellent family dinner. Thoughts of Passover and the Pascal Lamb rise, competing with hunger. Soon, apron donned, I hustle around my kitchen, mixing, measuring, and yes, tasting. Horseradish, sour-cream, and dill work together in subtle bitterness. The lamb, rubbed with a puree of shallots, olive-oil, Rosemary, and garlic emits increasingly pungent odors as I make final preparations. Hastily, combined coarse flour, cumin, and caraway seeds kneaded, shaped on a stone replace the lamb in the oven. Coarse grains heat adding sweat earthiness to the mélange filling the kitchen. Glancing out the window, I smile as the final participants arrive.

     A few minutes later, sliced lamb, warm bread and vegetables steam on the table as we all gather round. We share a few thoughts about sacrifice, guilt, cleansing, bitterness, and forgiveness. Strange how God uses simple everyday things, meat, bitter herbs, crushed grapes, unrefined grains, and vegetables to remind us of His deep abiding sacrificial love. After prayer, thanking Him for His largess, we engage in our own Passover. Laughter and food pass round the table. Through His work and gift we enjoy each other. His forgiveness is the healing balm, the relational oil, which lubricates such joyful gatherings. His work, His sacrifice, His Love make this goodness, all goodness, possible.

     

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?

Leadership Qualities

     Every day an unrelenting stream of messages appear in my email boxes and Facebook feed. Some of them proclaim support for a particular candidate; far too often they simply demean a candidate and those who support them; eroding any possibility for meaningful exchange of ideas. Very rarely do we seriously consider what one ought to look for in a candidate for high office. We seem to settle for sound-bite prattle instead of thinking through what we desire from the person who seeks public office. We ought to carefully consider what character traits best meet the demands and responsibilities generated by positions of great responsibility. Often our discussions focus on a few narrow issues. Sadly often the issues we spend so much time wrangling over either come up infrequently or the person has little ability to effect substantive change regarding the issue which enflames our passions. What character traits qualify an individual for public service?

     We need honesty in the public domain. We need office holders who will speak candidly with the public, and each other. Difficult problems need full disclosure and straightforward discussion concerning possible solutions. Dissembling disqualifies. Candidates are not the only ones who must embrace honesty. We must be willing to face difficult decisions and not penalize candidates that speak honestly with us.

     We need statesmen and stateswomen.  A statesman puts the nation above party. A stateswomen seeks office to solve difficult problems and understands that doing the right thing may result in personal or party loss. A statesman takes the long view, recognizing that intractable problems requiring incremental progress over an extended period of time.

     We need men and women who will partner with and work with individuals from the other party. We must demand progress instead of posturing. Party wins often levy a considerable burden on the nation. Meaningless votes delay meaningful action. Working together requires cooperation and a willingness to engage in compromise. We must learn to get along to move along.

     We need public servants who fully understand and are committed to the concept of protecting the resources of our nation, both natural and human. We’ve been blessed by an unusual abundance of resources, which with appropriate management will enable continued growth and prosperity. We must not needlessly squander or abuse these great assets. Natural resources do not comprise our only responsibility. We need leaders who fully commit to encouraging all members of our society to reach their full potential. This requires a wide array of programs designed to open doors, not shut them. Education, health, and employment opportunities must reach all sectors of our nation. Our leaders must work to end marginalization of peoples, incorporating them into full partnership.

     We need leaders who value kindness. Most of us do not place great value on kindness; however, it is much more powerful and strong than we realize. Kindness indicates strength and depth of character. Kindness helps ease interactions and the highly competitive political world of the twenty-first century we should embrace those things which help.

     Of course this simple list does not solve all problems or address all issues. It does give us a few things to measure potential leaders by. If we spend more time looking for leaders with the ability to lead instead of those who demonstrate party purity and a proclivity for parroting key phrases in the form of sound-bites we might see more progress in problem areas.

A Gentle Gag

     The green field reaches for the horizon stretching tautly across gently undulating hills. Golden bales of hay glow in the late afternoon sun as they cure in near patterns that hint of a larger order to the world. Off to the west the newly painted roof of my barn gleams as it glances over the hill. Cattle

gaze contentedly as they ruminate bovine thoughts unseen behind large, liquid blinking eyes. Some cluster under a copse of Live-Oak trees while others dip into the tank raising dripping wet noses when slaked. Two white caliche ruts follow the neat ordered fence as it marches between field and pasture to the field-stone farmhouse. Pale and tender prim-roses cluster pastel pinks and yellows, nodding in the gentle afternoon breeze. Resting on a small hill its broad porches reach out in welcome, embracing the coming eve. A larger knoll lifts its bulk showing off rippling rolls of tawny wheat waving in the breeze sweeping up its flanks. A clear rill meanders down the shallow valley between hills over and between ancient rocks discarded by a slowly retreating glacier. In shallow pools languid fish troll for nymphs hoping to reach the ecstasy of a twenty-four hour maturity.

     All is well ordered in my spread. Visiting neighbors nod their approval when strolling my fields on occasional business. They appreciate the disciplined effort to bring order from disorder. Ours is a community which values restrained order. Building success season by season we carefully develop and execute a plan based on long-term experience. Departure from established norms raises eyebrows and concerns in an interlinked community such as ours. What happens on one place often oozes under fences and down streams so we keep a watchful on each other. I bask in the glow of quiet approval as we lean on a fence gazing out over relaxed cattle. Community binds us together. But I never share the real beauty of my land.

     Follow the track past the barn and around this knoll behind the house and you find another fence bordering the edge of the field with its full heads of grain. Just past the fence a dark forest stands, silent sentinels guarding the wild country. Wear sturdy clothes and tough boots. Tough clothes fit for pushing past and through tangled woods and clambering over fallen timber.

Once through the dark woods you enter a rugged domain. Here among steep defiles and churning streams real beauty flourishes. Here true wild-flowers grapple for preeminence. Strew about in reckless profusion they flourish amid the mossy boulders. This land, raw and rugged climbs up toward distant mountains. Streams plunge down steep defiles pounding themselves into mist amid jumbled dark wet basalt slabs. In this country, dangerous and primitive, I find vistas that satisfy a deep primal urge to explore and see. Standing on the edge of precipice looking into the roiling vapors I loose myself fighting an urge to lean over and descend, pin wheeling into the deep unknown. Despite the dangers I find my boots, muddy and scarred perched on the edge while I look deep into the mists hopeful of what I might find.

     It is here that I occasionally meet the old shepherd. He shows up unexpectedly, staff in hand wrapped in a worn red blanket with his sheep scattered behind him. Ancient and ageless, he wanders among the familiar hills as if they were one. I don’t fully understand him. He never says much; often staring deep into the mists in long silence. When he does speak it is frequently in short, cryptic messages that often do not make sense until much later. Of all the wild things, he’s the most wild of all, yet in many ways the most gentle. At once familiar with and at home in these rugged wild reaches

he clambers easily from rocky prominence to steep trail. Despite his craggy appearance and demeanor his hands deliver tender ministrations to his often confused and hurting charges. Somehow he and these most weak animals survive and thrive in this desolate, unhospitable, place. I’ve grown to cherish our time together, wandering the bleak regions to which I’m drawn.

     My neighbors would not approve of wandering in such dangerous places. Yet, despite the peril, I’m drawn to the vistas and the company. Here amid the deserted, untamed hills I find great beauty and in the company of the old shepherd safety, as he knows the dreadful dangers. I know my community eschews such explorations. They view such forays into the uncharted expanses unproductive at best and perilous in general. And while there is peril, with a steady guide such explorations open breathtaking outlooks which astonish and reward.

     

Unawares

     Teaching often catches me unawares. Little moments creep up and surprise me with a sudden plunge into a depth unseen. With no advanced notice I find myself gasping in surprise at a startling revelation. Perhaps this is what keeps me coming back. Humans are marvelously intricate and subtle and each day I watch as seventy-odd young people unpack some new bit of data. Sometimes they look at me, hoping I kept the receipt in order to get their money back. But more often, they joyfully examine this new thing; turning it this way and that as they seek to fit it into their growing body of knowledge. Occasionally, and these moments are teaching at its most sublime, they unveil a new insight an unexpected vista spreading out before us in pristine beauty.  In those moments, the relationship is not one of teacher and students. It shifts and we become fellow explorers on an amazing journey of discovery together. This happened to me recently.

     I use debate to help my eighth grade American History students review for chapter tests. Aside from covering the material in an enjoyable format, I get a chance to help them develop reasoning skills. They initially balk at the requirement to eschew emotion and argument, but as the term passes they find great joy in developing a good, logical argument. Some of them find particular pleasure in marshalling facts into an unassailable formation. A few discover that they enjoy public speaking. And everyone hungers for the chance to be one of the judges and make decisions. They hear about the debates while they are in seventh grade and savor their arrival at this plateau of ability. Once the students understand how debates work, I enjoy this time almost as much as they do. Our most recent debate centered on the Treaty of Paris which ended the American Revolution; specifically the requirement to return Torrie property to its rightful owners. I set up the scenario so that one team represents a Torrie family which had fled to Canada and returned after the Treaty of Paris only to find another family had moved in and occupied their land. The other team represents the occupying family.  Each team argues from the standpoint that they alone should occupy the land; however, the judges frequently develop some sort of creative way to solve this problem. These debates usually take about three days of class-time. In the most recent event I learned something new.

     Like all other history teachers, I continually harp about the need to carefully examine primary source documents, holding them up as the holy grail of historical thought and accuracy.  This day, the team which represented the occupying family came in loaded for bear. I could tell from their demeanor, their excited whispering, their heavily underlined, circled, and annotated papers that something was afoot. They spoke first and very quickly unveiled their discovery. The Treaty of Paris did not “require” the returning of the property! I was a bit surprised as we normally teach about the requirement for returning of seized property. It is, after all, a generally agreed upon interpretation of the treaty.  Well, this group had taken the time to read the pertinent section of the treaty and had uncovered some very important language. I quote directly from the treaty, “It is agreed that Congress shall earnestly recommend it to the legislatures of the respective states to provide for the restitution of all estates, rights, and properties, which have been confiscated…” Those pesky words, “…shall earnestly recommend…” Frankly I was surprised and had to look it up in order to make sure, but there it was in black and white, a new wrinkle that changed my view. The other team and I struggled momentarily to reorient ourselves to this new bit of data.

     My students had done it to me again, surprised me with excellent scholarship that refreshed my own view of history. I reveled in the moment as the tables turned and the teacher found himself the student. This is history at its best when the historian peruses some dusty tome and uncovers a bit of data that enhances our understanding of how our world assumed its current shape. Aside from the changes I will now need to make in my presentation of the Treaty of Paris, I now have more color to add to the next chapter on the Articles of Confederation. You see that language reflects the prevailing view of our nation at its birth. Under the Articles of Confederation we struggled with an almost powerless central government and here was the result. “Congress shall earnestly recommend.” Our own government was powerless to make its own citizenry do the right thing and return that which was stolen. I love learning, it often catches me unawares.