Everyone has pet peeves. I would say I’m no different, but I feel like I’m a bit of an overachiever. My pet peeves seem to grow in both number and intensity by the day. So it’s time to declare war against these irritants, these testers of patience, these pickers of nits. With that stated, below are the first to face the onslaught. I shall show no mercy.
1. People who yell “Get in the hole!” at golf tournaments
These people are among the most insufferable individuals on the face of the Earth. What’s worse is that many of them save their bellowing for their apparent personal hero, one Eldrick Woods. They are the scourge of golf courses from Pebble Beach to Balmoral. If “Caddyshack” were made today, Carl Spackler would be chasing a redneck in a Titleist cap instead of a gopher.
Although I don’t personally know anyone who makes a habit of this infernal practice, I have a theory about those who do. 1) They routinely make decisions about whether to attend social functions based on the amount of beer that will be available to the attendees. If the beer is free, their attendance is guaranteed. 2) They like to display their cultural refinement by quoting Tim McGraw lyrics. 3) They habitually underreport their own golf scores because they are incapable of counting high enough to report them accurately.
These people should all be sent to the rim of the Grand Canyon. Then I can yell “Get in the hole!”
2. Political advertising
For much of my life, I’ve been rather gung ho about the political process. But now, I understand why some people just completely disengage from politics and forgo their right to vote: I have hit my political ad saturation point. For one, the endless robocalls. Caller ID is a brilliant invention, but it can only do so much. For another, the countless campaign signs. If one is good, 100 must be great. And the TV ads? Is there an FCC rule against touting your own platform and accomplishments?
Subtlety is dead in our society. People responsible for political ads are desecrating the body.
(As I wrote this, I received a robocall for a state senate candidate who I’ve met personally. He’s a good man who would make a great senator. I want to kick him square in the junk.)
3. Bon Jovi
Seriously. Just stop.
4. Microwaves in the workplace
I like the smell of popcorn. Really. Just not at 3:30 in the afternoon. Every. Single. Day. And people who bring leftover fish for lunch? That’s no less offensive than going around and farting in every cubicle and office in your department. It’s also not nearly as impressive.
5. “Motivational” aerobics class instructors
No sound is more soothing in the gym than the caterwauling of an impossibly perky spin class leader. Her voice defies the laws of physics. It permeates the densest wall like it’s a string of beads hung in the doorway of an apartment full of hippie squatters. Lead-lined concrete may have protected us from the eavesdropping efforts of our Cold War foes, but it doesn’t stand a chance against a step instructor fueled by Red Bull and Sport Beans.
(I must admit one positive of these people: their voices drown out the Autotuned drivel playing over the gym’s PA. That’s like saying a Singapore cane feels better than a length of rubber hose.)
6. Bill Belichick
Do I really need to explain this?
7. Puns
They are not funny. They never have been. They never will be. If you think they are, I’ll pray for you. Unless I’m within reach of you.
8. Soccer
Requires no justification.
9. Dueling talking heads
I guess all three news networks do this, but I know for a fact that it is an epidemic at Fox News. It’s manufactured conflict, usually between two people who can print their entire CVs on postage stamps. It accomplishes nothing, it isn’t entertaining, and it takes the place of, you know, actual reporting.
10. The color orange
Not just burnt. Every shade must go. Deer hunters can switch to Safety Fuchsia. Traffic cones in lime green would be refreshing. Day-Glo yellow triangles would look great on the backs of tractors. And Amish buggies. And people who play with their smart phones while they walk down busy hallways.
Consider the gauntlet thrown down. I feel that my quest is an honorable one. Beware, evildoers.
Former NFL star Junior Seau’s suicide has done more than just end the life of a man who, whether he wanted to be or not, was a role model for countless people. It also has further removed the veil from a very ugly side of human behavior: speculation about the personal lives of others.
We all have done it at some point: when a celebrity, a family member, or a friend does something that seems to be out of character, we jump to conclusions about his or her motivation for doing it. In Seau’s case, the overwhelming speculation has been that more than 2 decades of playing a violent game in a violent manner resulted in neurological damage that he felt could only be cured by ending his own life.
This is an easy conclusion to draw, but are easy conclusions always the correct ones? No one in the media who has been quick to blame the sport of football for his untimely demise really knew what was going on in Seau’s home or professional life. Or in his head. The only thing we know for sure is that he was distraught enough to kill himself in a nightmarishly gruesome manner despite the fact that it would leave his family and friends haunted by it for the rest of their lives. All you have to do is watch only a few seconds of his poor mother’s reaction to the news to understand the effects of his death on those closest to him.
So why do we do it? Why do we feel the need to offer an opinion on the motivations behind other’s actions? In the case of celebrities, it’s almost inescapable. With Fox News, CNN and MSNBC inundating us with wall-to-wall coverage of the details of celebrities’ lives, those of us who are more worried about people we know than about people we think we know are likely thought of as oddballs for not weighing in on the motivations of these people. It’s easy to ignore supermarket tabloids and celeb magazines. It’s harder to ignore a virtual onslaught of digital media.
The question that bothers me much more is this: why do we feel the need to speculate about the reasons those we know and love do the things they do? These are supposed to be the people we try to protect against such questions, yet we often become their Public Enemy #1.
Put yourself in their position. You go through a traumatic circumstance, you don’t handle it gracefully, and you make choices that are much less than optimal. Guess what: you’re human. Join the club. But when it’s you at the center of a maelstrom, your perspective is skewed. You feel like others only see the negative in you, that they don’t empathize with you. Your nerves are frayed to the point of unraveling already from wondering what others are thinking and saying about you. What do you do when you find out those who are supposed to have your back are actually spouting off their opinions about you behind it? When it happens, who can you trust anymore?
Although this problem is nothing new, I suspect it has multiplied like frenzied rabbits since the outbreak of social media. Unfortunately, in large part, we only have ourselves to blame for it. How many times have you seen a tweet or Facebook status update that is a veiled, or even overt, attempt to garner sympathy or criticize someone else? Cryptic statements, song lyrics, movie quotes…we’ve all seen it. Many of us have done it.
I’ve been as guilty of both sides of this equation as anyone. I’ve found out that when you’re on the receiving end of the questions, though, it gives you a new conviction not to question others. For a good year and a half, I’ve felt like I’ve been wearing a scarlet “D” on my chest. I still spend a good portion of my day wondering what I look like to people who know that I’ve succumbed to the evil of divorce. I’ve tried to develop a new perspective, to see myself through God’s eyes, even to just distract myself. But like that hangnail you just can’t get to and yank out, the wondering holds on. Once it gets its talons into you, they seem impossible to pry out. You just have to wait for it to let go.
As much of a hell as it’s been to plague myself with these questions, I prefer the unknown to the known. Mystery isn’t always a bad thing, even though it’s rarely the best thing. You have to pick your battles. At least for now, I’ve battled enough.
“Why is there so much pain? Why is there so much violence? The Word of God is silence.”
February 25, 2012
We all want answers to our questions. Sooner rather than later, clear rather than ambiguous. It’s human nature. Thus the conundrum: if God made us this way, why does He sometimes let our questions of Him go unanswered?
I’ve gone quite a while wondering about this. A year to the day after I spent mere minutes in my county courthouse listening to a judge put an end to a marriage that lasted well more than a third of my life, the questions continue to haunt me, rattling their chains with seemingly no rhyme or reason.
I feel a tremendous lack of spiritual strength about this, because I know full well that many of the mysteries of this life will only be resolved in the next. God never promises us easy resolutions to all of our problems. If He did, faith in Him would come too easy, sapping it of its worth. Growing in faith comes via the refiner’s fire, not the refiner’s day spa. So why do I keep asking Him…why?
I know people who have faced much, much more tragic circumstances than I have have asked the same questions. I cannot imagine having to deal with the loss of a child, the loss of innocence at the hands of a predator, the loss of a limb on the battlefield, the loss of identity and memory from a neurological disease, the loss of freedom via false imprisonment.
Unlike those scenarios, in my situation, I held a certain amount of responsibility for the mess I was (and continue to be) in. Perhaps that is why I’m so dogged by my questions. I’ve turned into an all-American Monday morning quarterback, second-guessing decision after decision I made as they replay in my mind.
The situation is a bit frightening at times. For example, it makes me a bit more understanding of people who turn to drink or drugs to escape their problems. I have no desire to dip my toe in those waters, but I empathize with those who do. I kind of get it now. I can also understand how people can completely withdraw from the world and live a hermit’s life. Again, not an option for me, but one that I could see myself selecting over a bottle or needle.
So, where to turn? I’ve heard that keeping busy is the way to go, as it will take your mind off of what’s bothering you. That seems like somewhat of a fool’s errand, though, a distraction rather than a solution. No, I’d rather get down in a proper three-point stance and take on my burden with focused aggression instead of throwing a lookout block, merely delaying the inevitable collision with my foe. As a wise man once told me, I just have to keep my pads low and maintain a solid base. And pray for someone to come alongside and chip in for a double-team.
The heart of a lonely hunter guards a dangerous frontier
November 12, 2011
Trust. The concept has been on my mind quite a bit lately. Specifically, how difficult it is to earn it but how easy it is to lose it.
I’ve found that the old axiom about finding out who your friends are when you go through tough times to be true. Likewise, you find out who you can trust.
And who you can’t.
Perhaps the horrific story out of Penn State has intensified my focus on the topic. Up until this week, countless people felt like they could count on Joe Paterno to the point of placing their trust in him in many different ways. Parents trusted in him to lead their sons as they left their homes to play football for him. His employer trusted in him to conduct his program in a way that would remain free from NCAA sanctions. His players trusted in him to put them in the best position to win every time they stepped onto the field.
Paterno built his reputation over more than a half century as an assistant or the head coach at Penn State. In the span of a half week, his foundation of trust has been transformed from rock to sand.
More important, what of the alleged victims of Jerry Sandusky? When a seemingly altruistic person of authority accepts your trust and then steals your innocence and dignity, how can you be expected to trust anyone ever again? It’s a question that makes one shudder.
Granted, when you place your trust in another flawed human being, you know that circumstances can go awry. Even in the best of situations, trust doesn’t last forever, because we don’t live forever. God doesn’t promise tomorrow to any of us, so we should relish having people to trust in while we have them.
Whereas God doesn’t promise that life here on Earth will always be hunky-dory, He does promise that if we trust in Him, He will never violate that trust. He will not let us down when we need Him. He is not fickle. In other words, He’s not like us.
That can be hard to remember, though, especially when your trust in other people is shaken to the core. The temptation to give up and draw inward can be a compelling one. The belief is that if you don’t trust in anyone again, you won’t get hurt again. This is cynicism at its worst.
Certainly, a high degree of caution is healthy regarding the objects of our trust. But the cynicism described above will ensure that no one will ever want to grow close enough to you be trusted. It’s a self-imposed death sentence for your mental well-being, resulting in bitterness that grows exponentially.
So what’s the take-home message? I wish I had one. I suppose the ultimate message is that no matter how many times someone you trusted in let you down, it’s no reflection of God’s attitude toward us when we trust in Him. He’s flawless. Our flaws are seemingly bottomless. People will hurt us. We will hurt others. God never changes, though. That we can count on.
Depression is a funny thing. Not funny ha-ha. More like funny numb. And sometimes funny spaced-out. And occasionally funny weeping-in-fetal-position.
For the first time in my life, I have become acquainted with depression. The reason is obvious in some of my previous posts. It was an expected effect of the most traumatic event in my life. What has been unexpected are the manifestations of depression that I have experienced.
Anyone who was watched television for more than an hour or two knows the typical symptoms of depression. Commercial breaks are saturated with advertisements for prescription antidepressants. Before the seemingly endless list of potential side effects of the drug commences, we hear that “loss of interest” may be a sign of depression. For me, it has been THE sign of depression.
Ironically, this effect of depression has had somewhat of a cleansing effect on my life. I no longer get worked up about trivial things that I once took way too seriously. For example, sports. Whereas I’ve still gotten upset about the Aggies’ blown leads and the Astros’ systemic ineptitude, in the grand scheme of things, they are mere blips on the radar screen.
Another example is in the area of theology. I once tended to get wrapped up in theological debates on issues that cause denominational discord. Now, it all seems like a complete waste of time and energy. While Christians scrap and claw about issues that differ among denominations, countless people sit in the pews wondering how to escape the feelings of guilt that haunt them, rescue their children from the clutches of addiction, forgive others of abuse. Or save their marriages.
Although I feel like my depression has sort of winnowed the chaff out of my life, it has really been cold comfort. Depression is a pathogen: all it needs is a point of entry into your soul, and a full-blown infection is soon to result. Depression is a parasite: it attaches to you and gradually feeds on your energy and happiness. Depression is a thief: it steals your emotions, your affection for others, your joy. Depression is an abductor: it takes your mind hostage and demands a ransom that seems impossible to pay. And in some cases, depression is a murderer.
Depression is also subtle and sneaky. I didn’t even know that I was depressed until I was already in the throes of it. The realization came at around New Year’s when, out of the blue, I realized that couldn’t remember the last time I had laughed, really laughed out loud. And suddenly, I was in it full-on. It has been a constant battle ever since.
That word “battle” is the key to recovery. As in literal warfare, surrender to depression is not an option. The prospect of this battle can be affirming if, like me, you tend to be an optimist. You cannot engage in a battle without a goal, whether it’s just taking a hill or rail head or simply overall victory. Fighting toward the goal of defeating depression gives you a reason to get up in the morning and face the day. It also keeps you encouraged in the midst of a setback.
In the end, though, fighting a battle against an intimidating opponent like depression requires the help of an ally. We who are born-again believers have the ultimate ally in Jesus. He walked in our shoes and faced what we who have suffered from depression face. But unlike a mere mortal, he is not fickle or inconsistent, so we do not have to wonder whether He will continue to fight alongside us when the enemy is at its most fearsome.
Best of all, while we fight our battles, we do so with the knowledge that Jesus has already won the war. And that’s the greatest antidepressant of them all.
I’ve often found that I’m best able to exercise my flabby brain when I’m in motion. For most of my life, that has meant behind the wheel of a vehicle. However, over the past 4 years, that has also meant running (or what real runners call jogging). Perhaps the mental engagement required to navigate a busy highway or maintain a steady running pace provides a spark that ignites the cognition needed to deal with matters of great import.
I have noticed this more than ever over the past year. Multiple circumstances in my life and the lives of those close to me have, to say the least, been preoccupying. The fact that I drive every day and run almost every day has given me a lot of time for thought. Some would say that’s a dangerous thing. Although such sarcasm would not be wasted on me, sometimes it indeed has been dangerous. I can clearly remember several instances last fall when I would pull into my parking garage at work and actually wonder how I got there. I mean, I knew that I drove there, but I was so concentrated on thinking through the shambles of my life that I didn’t remember making any turns, changing any lanes, stopping at any red lights. In a city known for its harrowing traffic, that feeling was truly frightening. That was about the time that I decided that when I was driving, the most important think I should think about is, you know, driving.
Thankfully, I have the haven of my long Saturday morning runs to make up any slack in this area. I’m fortunate to enjoy access to a great hike and bike trail that doesn’t cross any streets, so apart from a few dense cyclists who mistake the trail for the Champs Elysees, I don’t have to worry about being run over while I exercise my mind and body.
I’m often fascinated by the number of runners who train in pairs or groups. I sometimes feel like I’m viewed as an oddball (at least more than usual) for running alone. But like I stated above, my training runs are valuable times of introspection and thought, and that means going solo. I also can’t talk and run at the same time, so a run with me would be an even greater disappointment than normal for someone looking for a stimulating exchange of ribaldry and wit.
Whereas I do my best thinking when I’m on the move, more importantly, I do my best praying at such times. If I’m just sitting still and praying, I often become distracted by things that ordinarily wouldn’t faze me. At best, I tend to fall into reciting a list of requests of God that is identical to the one I recited the day before, and the day before that, and so on.
In contrast, when I’m driving or running, my prayers are more likely to be fresh and spontaneous. I also am more likely to actually be attentive and listen with spiritual ears. Granted, I also spend a good deal of time praying that I don’t end up wrapping my truck around a bridge abutment or keeling over with heat stroke, but at least I’m not limited to such petitions.
One of the most famous passages in Scripture is the Lord’s direction in the Sermon on the Mount to pray in your room with the door closed. At the same time, we are told to pray without ceasing. At face value, that may seem contradictory, but it is actually consistent with God’s nature and commands. We are not to make a show out of prayer (hence the admonition to pray in solitude), but ours is a faith that does not take lunch or coffee breaks, and one way in which we live out our faith 24/7 is to pray for and about all things at all times. That also means that no issue is too small for prayer. God cares about every aspect of our lives no matter how big or small, so we should not hesitate to pray for the little things along with the big ones.
I can imagine many ways in which getting off the couch or recliner can help out others in this way. Pick your poison: yard or house work, a stroll around the neighborhood or through the mall, a bike or horse ride…you name it. That life becomes increasingly complex with age is no great insight on my part. That we can approach life’s complexities from more than one angle may be helpful. Seeking out a new angle toward a vexing issue is likely worth the effort.
(In)dependence Day
July 4, 2011
As we celebrate our country’s freedom from the tyrannical reign of a monarchy, I’m reminded of the day of my own personal freedom from tyranny: that of sin. On October 28, 1990, I received that freedom by acknowledging and declaring my dependence on Jesus Christ, the one true Son of God. That day, He showed me in no uncertain terms my life was a lie, one I told to myself over and over and lived out every day.
We’ve all heard people say (and probably said ourselves) the phrase “scared the hell out of me.” On the day of my salvation, Christ scared me out of hell. He showed me that unless I repented of the manifestations of the sinful nature I was born with and embraced the free gift of His sacrifice on the cross, the death meant for me, I would spend eternity separated from Him.
A few years ago, I shared my story with a few online friends who I had gotten to appreciate as fellow believers. It appears in a slightly edited version below.
I was born to Christian parents who raised me in the Southern Baptist church. As a child, church attendance was not an option, so I learned quite a bit about the Bible and life as a Christian. When I was 8 years old, I was in a children’s service when my friend seated next to me walked the aisle when the invitation was given. Although I hadn’t been paying attention to the sermon, I followed him down and prayed with the children’s minister. I later met with our pastor, prayed again and was baptized. Nothing changed, however. There was no difference in me within or without. I managed to keep telling myself and others that I was indeed born again, however, as I knew the right things to say and do. Still, within my mind, the doubts remained like a nagging headache.
As a teenager, I kept attending church on Sunday mornings because I knew my parents would be upset with me if I didn’t. I never rebelled: never drank, partied or partook in any of the typical teenage vices. My sins were more dangerous for my spiritual state, however, because they were more subtle. One person in particular received the brunt of my sin, as my selfishness and immaturity made us both miserable. Other than my family, which was very tight-knit, I had two priorities during this time: grades and football. Everything else was a poor second.
After a tumultuous first semester in college out of state, I transferred to Lamar University so I could move back to the safety of my family. A year later, I ran into a young woman I had known for years and always liked. Totally out of character for me, I asked her out. She said yes, again shocking me. She quickly found out my attitude toward church was something less than positive and managed to get me to attend more. This time, it clicked: I found a love for my church that I never had before, a love that I couldn’t explain. Things started happening. I was fired from my part-time job, which became a positive in that it allowed me attend a Baptist youth camp as a team leader and travel with our church’s youth choir on a tour. I also was asked to direct our church’s 11th/12th grade Sunday School class. In short, I couldn’t get enough of church. However, my doubts about my salvation reignited and nearly erupted. I remember often making the 45-minute drive home from school in tears because I was so troubled and mentally anguished from worry about my destiny.
On that sunny day in the fall of 1990, I realized the cause of that mental anguish: the voice of the Holy Spirit telling me I had reason to worry. That morning, the first service of a revival, the guest preacher gave a sermon on the parable of the wheat and the tares in Matthew 13. I’d heard it before, but that morning, it was for me. I remember vividly the voice of our Lord saying during that sermon, “You don’t know me.” In that instant, all I wanted was to make things right with Him. I knew I had some big sins, but I knew if I repented, Jesus would forgive me. I did, and He did. No longer was I my own. I had always known that Jesus was the Son of God and had died and rose again. However, I finally understood that He died in my place and that He was not just THE Lord but MY Lord.
Soon after, the trials came, but I had a new perspective. For instance, instead of panicking about my major being dropped, I just asked God for help, and he delivered me to Texas A&M University (yes, God does have a sense of humor). I was also able to finally forgive people who I had been holding a grudge against for years. My outlook on life, others and myself did a complete 180. I couldn’t believe I had spent 21 years in such a joyless existence. I graduated, moved to the big city and got a job that is beyond my wildest dreams. All of these blessings are nothing but gifts direct from the graceful hand of God, who loves me in spite of everything.
Life continues to throw obstacles in my way, none greater than the end of my marriage earlier this year. The shame of my divorce haunts me, as it flies in the face of my testimony as a Bible-believing Christian. I’ll likely go to my grave wondering why it happened and what I could have done to avoid or prevent it. Second-guessing is one of my few talents, and I’m especially good at second-guessing myself. I am only comforted by the fact that I am not condemned for my actions. I’m free from that condemnation because of my dependence on Christ.
Happy (In)dependence Day.
If the dream is won though everything is lost, we will pay the price, but we will not count the cost
June 18, 2011
Father’s Day can be very painful for some people. Most obvious are those whose fathers have passed away and only have memories to revisit. Others, equally tragically, don’t even know their fathers’ identities. I was staggered when I recently heard that one in three children in the United States do not live with their fathers. That is a truly shameful statistic.
If you believe the media’s portrayal of absentee fathers, you’ll think the problem is limited to the urban poor. That, however, is hardly the case. The sin of abandonment of a child is not limited by environment, race, income or social status. The only relevant factor is selfishness to a level bordering on self-idolatry.
I saw how this can happen first-hand in my first job out of college. Each year, one of the middle managers at the company gave the sales staff what he called the “buy-in speech.” In it, he strongly advised that they buy into the company to a level much deeper than stock options (which weren’t available anyway for the privately held firm) by making their careers their top priorities. He even acknowledged what I’m sure everyone who listened to the speech thought regarding the effects of such an approach on familial relations. Stunningly, he stated that the economic security provided by a successful career would make up for the missed time together.
I was young and dumb when I heard that speech, but I wasn’t so dumb that I couldn’t see through the holes in his logic. First, it defies common sense. Second, every day growing up, I saw that a father can spend copious amounts of time with his children while providing for them through hard work.
I still marvel at how my father managed to deftly juggle a multitude of priorities. He maintained his own dental practice (often having to work extra hours outside of normal appointment times), trained several years to compete in marathons and other road races (and was faster than I’ll ever hope to be) and always, always had time for my sister and me. In my case, that usually involved throwing endless pitches for batting practice or passes for my feeble attempts at fly and out routes.
When I look back at my childhood, my fondest memories about my father have nothing to do with the material possessions he provided. Instead, every last one of them involve the time he spent with me and the rest of our family. If he had not given that time to us, nothing in this world could have made up for it. Buy into a career or company if you must, but be forewarned: if you do so at the expense of your family, you will live to regret it.
Spending that time with my father had numerous benefits. I learned a lot from him, about history, my ancestors, the value of hard work and, most of all, character and moral consistency. He not only spoke about it, he displayed it, lived it. He never made a show about living according to God’s principles, but he was consistent and behaved in a manner in line with both the Bible and his own advice to me. Even now, I can see him sitting at the kitchen table writing the check for his tithe even though his practice was suffering from the combined economic trauma of the oil bust and shutdown of our town’s biggest employer.
That’s character that has to be observed to be appreciated and learned from. Thank God he bought into our family rather than his practice. Otherwise, I would have only words to live by rather than words backed and confirmed by actions.
Mean, mean pride
June 8, 2011
Of all the negative attributes endemic to the human race, the one that never seems to wane is pride. It’s common in both front-page headlines and our own homes. The only question is how it will manifest next. Just when we think we’ve seen it all, we get the case of U.S. Representative Anthony Weiner, a man so prideful about his own ability to hoodwink the great unwashed masses among the press and his constituency that he can construct lies out of wet tissue paper and expect them to be accepted as gospel. Now that his pitiful fabrication has been exposed for what it is, his pride is preventing him from resigning from his position and saving his (apparently growing) family from further embarrassment.
Make no mistake, Rep. Weiner is not alone in such acts of pride. Politicians on both sides of the aisle have long demonstrated alarming lapses in judgment strictly because their pride has led them to believe that they can get away with their trespasses. The same goes for many prominent figures in the business world, several of whom are left to contemplate how their pride put them behind bars. Celebrities, athletes, clergymen…the list goes on and on.
As long as fame and fortune are with us, pride will be a common characteristic of those who benefit from them. The rest of us know this and recognize it. The more pressing problem for us is how pride infects us and our loved ones and becomes a problem that we experience rather than observe.
Pride is sneaky, which makes it a particularly powerful sin. We can justify prideful attitudes in many ways, which not only breeds more pride but also keeps us from seeing that we should repent of it. I can look at my own life and see instances in which I defended my pride in this way. For example, I’ve often battled pride with pride, using the silent treatment to elicit an apology that I felt was warranted.
That approach was consistently unsuccessful, ultimately causing more harm in the relationship in question. But it also exposed another symptom of pride: the inability to say the simple phrase “I’m sorry.” I’ve had to deal repeatedly with people whose primary manifestation of pride is the refusal to apologize. In addition to the failed technique described above, I’ve tried asking for forgiveness for things I didn’t do or say to shame another person into apologizing and even flat-out requesting an apology. In the few cases in which I did receive an apology, the feeling was less than satisfying.
So what’s the solution? Obviously, we can’t police pride in others. For one thing, it won’t do any good. For another, it will ultimately end up as an exercise in hypocrisy. The true answer is found in the mirror.
Lamentations 3:40 seems to sum it up quite nicely: “Let us search out and examine our ways, and turn back to the Lord.” In this life, pride will be a perpetual foe. We will combat it every day, and we will often fail to answer the bell. But if we heed the admonishment to search and examine ourselves, our actions, our motivations, we can live to fight another day and eventually notch more wins than losses.
The stakes in this fight are high. Most people have heard the Proverb stating that pride goes before the fall. But another Proverb, 29:23, provides the direction toward getting back up: “A man’s pride will bring him low, but the humble in spirit will retain honor.” The h-word, humility. Believe me, developing a spirit of humility is much better than having humility forced upon you. Although such a spirit will not immunize us against the morbidity of pride, it will, at the very least, strengthen our defenses against it.
Detached and subdivided
May 29, 2011
For thousands (millions?) of disaffected teenagers, Neil Peart’s lyrics in “Subdivisions” have served several beneficial purposes: rallying cry, emotional salve, personal encouragement. Many who’ve seen the video for the song identify with the pensive protagonist walking home from school rather than cruising away in the convertible. The images may seem cliched now, but they have hit home for more than a few people.
When I was in high school, I never really truly identified with Peart’s lyrics. I had a great home life, enjoyed growing up in Silsbee, and never felt like an outcast at school. Even while traveling my circuitous path through college (three schools and two majors) and entry into the real world in the big city, the outsider ethos described in “Subdivisions” remained foreign to me.
I guess some people are late bloomers.
Perhaps I’m being a tad extreme, but the “restless dreams of youth” waited until middle age to invade my slumber. The end of my marriage has resulted in the restlessness portrayed in Peart’s lyrics. So much of my life was wrapped up in my marriage that my identity was not that of an individual but of a married man. Until our separation, this seemed perfectly normal to me: this was the woman I would spend the rest of my life with, so why not feel like half of a whole?
Turns out that what I viewed as normal was actually pretty dysfunctional. As I’ve learned from people who not only are well versed in Biblical truth but also have been waist-deep in troubled marriages, God didn’t create us to be better or lesser halves. He made each of us as fully functioning individuals. Moreover, He made us to find our identities in our relationships with Him, not with our spouses.
I quickly lost sight of this once I became engaged. I had met a woman who was everything that I was not: friendly, outgoing, popular, social. As our marriage progressed, I depended on her to develop friendships. She was my conduit to meeting people and forging relationships with them. That was me being lazy. And unhealthy.
It would get worse. As time wore on, my only real social relationship was with my wife. When I went out to eat or to a ballgame or concert, I either went with her or by myself. I had essentially isolated myself within my marriage. My wife had gone from being my best friend to almost my only friend. I was comfortable in that situation, though, never dreaming that I would get chopped off at the knees.
I write this not to whine about my situation. I’ve always had a loner-ish streak, so my new-found solitude isn’t completely uncomfortable. But just as overinvesting myself in another person was unhealthy, so is not investing in anyone at all.
We aren’t meant to be alone. God formed Eve not to complete Adam but to provide a helper for him. Furthermore, God created the church not to be a social club that meets for an hour or two every week but to be the body of Christ: different tissues, organs, and limbs working together in fellowship to both glorify the Creator and encourage, advise, and convict one another. I had really lost sight of this.
Thankfully, the people in my church who know me best have been patient with and kind to me. My responsibility now is to reconnect with them and make new connections with others in deep, meaningful ways. I’m up to the challenge and prepared to take it on. The only alternative is to sink further into isolation, a path that is at best selfish and at worst self-destructive.
Time to venture outside the “insulated border” and into the “far, unlit unknown.”
