The Eye of a Needle

I have a problem with what is sometimes called “The Prosperity Gospel”—the notion that righteous believers (usually defined as those who uncritically accept the teachings of a particular minister or the doctrines of a particular church) will be blessed with temporal prosperity (wealth).

I have a problem with this “doctrine” because it seems to fly in the face of things the Bible reports Jesus actually said, and my understanding of what it means to be a Christian is based on what Jesus (reportedly) said and did.

I find it difficult to reconcile trends among many believers to expect their reward in this life with what Jesus said in passages like this one from Matthew 19:16-24 (New Revised Standard Version):

¹⁶ Then someone came to him and said, “Teacher, what good deed must I do to have eternal life?” ¹⁷ And he said to him, “Why do you ask me about what is good? There is only one who is good. If you wish to enter into life, keep the commandments.” ¹⁸ He said to him, “Which ones?” And Jesus said, “You shall not murder; You shall not commit adultery; You shall not steal; You shall not bear false witness; ¹⁹ Honor your father and mother; also, You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” ²⁰ The young man said to him, “I have kept all these; what do I still lack?” ²¹ Jesus said to him, “If you wish to be perfect, go, sell your possessions, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.” ²² When the young man heard this word, he went away grieving, for he had many possessions.
²³ Then Jesus said to his disciples, “Truly I tell you, it will be hard for a rich person to enter the kingdom of heaven. ²⁴ Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.”

Jesus says that the wealthy will have a hard time entering the kingdom of heaven, almost impossibly hard, “easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle.” So I have a question for those who subscribe to the Prosperity Gospel: Did Jesus Stutter?

Jesus does not tell the young man that obeying the commandments will bring him wealth. The young man already has wealth; “...he had many possessions.” Rather, he tells the man to surrender what he has and “give the money to the poor,” and if the young man should do as Jesus commands, he will himself join the ranks of the poor.

As I was pondering this scripture today, I got a glimpse of what one of Jesus’ motives may have been. Then (as now) most wealthy young men inherited their wealth. This young man likely had no real experience with or understanding of poverty. So maybe in addition to providing needed resources for the poor, Jesus wanted this wealthy young man to experience firsthand the tragedy that is poverty; maybe Jesus wanted this seemingly good-hearted young man to get a reality check.

It is easy for anyone who has lived a life of relative ease and security (myself included) to discount the horrors of poverty. But without intimate experience with the actual condition, we will get it wrong. Being poor is not a symptom of weak character or morality. Being poor is not always or even usually a choice. And poverty is not something that any strong-willed, determined person can bootstrap out of.

Being poor is not one thing. Being poor is a systemic problem, and those who are poor have the deck stacked against them. A child raised in poverty may be more sick more often than a child of the middle or upper classes, because poor parents often have to choose between food or shelter and medical care. A child raised in poverty is more likely to have an unstable home life. A child raised in poverty is more likely to be educated in a poor school because school funding tends to follow neighborhood affluence. And a child raised in poverty is more likely to have a disrupted education—poor families tend to move often as the parents seek opportunities to lift themselves out of the hole in which they are trapped.

A child educated in a poor school (and having missed more school due to illness) is less prepared to break out of the cycle of generational poverty, and may additionally be demoralized in a culture where a person’s worth is often measured based on the things s/he has.

Poverty disrupts basic health and well being. Poverty disrupts social stability and educational opportunity. Poverty begats poverty, and that is a human tragedy. Poverty is a slap in the face of humanity, and ought not to be tolerated. And Jesus had a heart for the poor.

Time and again in the Gospels we read about Jesus feeding the hungry, healing the sick, speaking for the downtrodden and against the powers that be. Time and again Jesus scolds the rich: for their complacency, for their arrogance, for their neglect of their fellow human beings. And Jesus did not spend a lot of time with the wealthy. He was himself a poor man—it is possible that he turned his back on affluence when he left Joseph and Mary to begin his ministry, but regardless he was a homeless itinerant throughout that ministry—and although he said that the poor would always be with us, nowhere in the Gospel do I get the idea that Jesus thinks that’s cool, or that it’s cool with Jesus if the wealthy lord it over the poor and let them suffer.

So this notion that “Good Christians” are going to enjoy comfort in this life strikes me as strange. Jesus was not a “family values” kind of guy—he told people to abandon their families to follow him. Jesus was not a “free market” kind of guy—those who knew him best established communities of believers where all things were held in common (Socialism if not Communism). And Jesus was not militant—he told people that if they were struck on one side of the cheek that they should turn the other cheek and allow themselves to be struck again.

Following Jesus is hard. Maybe that’s why many choose other paths—easier, more comfortable, more profitable paths—and claim that they’re Jesus’ paths. I don’t know.

Maybe that’s why so many young idealists, looking for something that gives them purpose and identity, are turning away from the Church. Maybe what they’re looking for is the path Jesus actually trod, and maybe they aren’t finding it in church.

That’s certainly why I tend to distance myself from Christians who point to their affluence as signs of God’s approval, or who have a thousand reasons why they don’t feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, welcome the stranger, clothe the naked, or visit the sick or imprisoned. I can make no excuses; in my opinion, Jesus clearly expects all his followers to do those things, and while I am certainly imperfect in my compliance, I will not claim that my failure is somehow virtue in God’s eyes.

Maybe those other Christians are right about this and I’m wrong. Maybe the reason I’m not wealthy is because I’m not a good enough Christian. Maybe I should be more like (many of) them: arrogant, condescending, judgmental, superior, exclusionary, condemnatory... Maybe if I were more like that, I’d be richer.

If so, I’d rather be poor.

Dear Lady Driving the Car Filled With Birthday Balloons

I know you didn't mean any harm. I know you're sorry you didn't see me. I know you were apologetic when I passed you after our little "dance."

I'm sorry I flipped you off, although in my defense, when I did it I'd only just avoided being killed. I was frightened, and that made me angry.

Here's the thing. I was riding in the fast lane right next to you. I was not quite even with the driver's window, but I was only a couple of feet back. I was not in your blind spot. But I had a premonition, so I put my thumb over the horn button, just in case. I trusted that a beep of the horn would alert you to my presence; I could see that your window was down a few inches.

I had a premonition, and sure enough you turned on your signal and began to move into the lane I was already occupying.

So I tapped the horn. Apparently you couldn't hear it, though, because you kept coming over. So I blasted the horn: several long blasts. Still you came over. I finally had to take evasive action and brake hard to avoid being forced into oncoming traffic.

If I hadn't been alert enough for both of us, you'd be looking forward to a lifetime of guilt and I...well, I'd be lying in a morgue.

That's why I flipped you off, lady. Because you nearly killed me.

I'm a biker, and that kind of thing happens fairly frequently. Usually, though, a toot of the horn and the car swerves back into the lane it was coming from.

After more than 37,000 miles on the Harley, I've learned that I have to be alert enough for everyone on the road, because too often four-wheel motorists (who bikers frequently refer to derisively as "cagers") are completely oblivious to the presence of motorcyclists.

Maybe it would have happened even if I was in a car, and maybe not, but even if it had, here's the difference: if you hit someone in a modern car, chances are everyone's walking away (maybe cursing, but still alive and well).

If you hit a biker, that biker's day has been ruined. It's entirely possible that biker's life has been ruined. It is in fact pretty likely that the biker will not survive the encounter (and you will).

So I'm sorry I flipped you off, lady. I'm sorry I wasn't more gracious when you tendered your mimed apology. I believe you meant it.

I know that you came very close to ruining two lives (maybe more; I don't think those birthday balloons were you, and what effect would your guilt have had on your child over the course of a lifetime?)

And I just can't figure out why you couldn't hear my horn. Your window was almost half down, and my horn is not very quiet. For that matter, my motorcycle itself makes some noise. How did you not hear me? What were you paying attention to when you should have been paying attention to the road and the proper control of the 4,000 pound Juggernaut you were responsible for.

No doubt your impression of me, formed when I flipped you off, passed you and glared angrily at you, is not a good one. Maybe after that, you weren't feeling so apologetic any more. Maybe I helped reinforce a stereotype of what kind of person rides a Harley.

So I'm sorry. I'm sorry I reacted badly. I'm sorry I flipped you off. I'm sorry for anything I did that might make you think bikers are perhaps too uncouth, too rude, too violent to deserve the consideration civilized folk do.

I'm just glad you didn't hear what I said.

I'm not sorry I survived, though. Survived to ride another day.

Winning Can Be a Very Lonely Thing

(Disclaimer: While the seed of this entry is a real situation, the conclusions are general, and not specific to that situation or the wonderful people involved.)

I'm not a big sports fan. I don't hate sports—I like to play intramural sports and admire the commitment made by world class athletes—but I'm just not that into them, and can't imagine sitting down on a regular basis to watch professional athletes do their thing. When the Olympics comes around, I might tune infor an event or two, but really, sports isn't that important to me.

I don't think there's anyone wrong with being a sports fan, mind—some of my best friends are sports fans—just saying that for me, sports aren't as important as, say, reading a good book or seeing a new play. I'm entitled to my own tastes...I don't insist that others share mine, and I appreciate it when others don't insist I share theirs.

What brought this to mind was a recent situation where an argument was brewing. In this argument, I held one point of view while others involved held a differing viewpoint. I'm good with rhetoric—I know how to argue—but once everyone aired their perspectives and I saw that a win was unlikely (and more, unproductive), I made a conscious decision to just stop; to concede the argument rather than go for the win. I decided that "winning" wasn't worth what it would probably cost.

I do that a lot, actually. I count the cost of winning and decide that it just isn't worth it. I don't seem to have much of the drive to win that is so common in our culture. Maybe it's in part because I'm not a sports fan.

The sports culture in the U.S. seems to foster a fierce competitive spirit. It isn't a bad thing—it's often a very good thing, providing an impetus for achievement—but it can have negative consequences. We've all heard stories about the Little League coaches (or parents) who get so caught up in competitive fervor that they lose sight of the rest of the story: things like sportsmanship and the character-building possibilities widely touted as a benefit of athletic competition. And most of us adults have at one time or another encountered other adults who "go for the throat," willing to do whatever it takes to win.

My high school athletic career was as a swimmer. Swimming is the red-headed stepchild of high school athletics, and while it's a competitive and scored as a team sport, really it's individual and swimmers compete first and foremost against themselves and the clock. It isn't a sport that fosters the kind of fervor and passion found in soccer or basketball or football. Swimmers swim alone (even in relay events, each swimmer swims her or his own leg), and they often can't see their opponents at all. Your best may not be enough to win, but if you don't swim your best you've already lost the most important competition you face.

I'm sometimes mocked because I don't have much of that drive to defeat others. Some see it as a weakness, and they are of course entitled to their opinion. I see it as a peculiar strength. The person I must first master is myself, and that is the labor of a lifetime. I find no nobility in beating down another, even (maybe especially) if I'm right; I'd rather win against my baser instincts than let them drive me to trample another.

I'm the last choice for the general of an army or the admiral of a fleet. I'm the last choice for the captain of a rugby team or union negotiator. I'm the last choice if aggression is what's needed. That's not who I am.

Although I'm not aggressive, I'm not weak, either. I am strong on defense, I am strong on commitment, I am strong on forgiveness, I am strong on relationship.

My sense of self and sense of self-worth are not determined by whether or not I win or lose, whether or not I defeat (or denigrate, or humiliate) others. My sense of self and sense of self-worth are determined by how well I collaborate, how well I compromise, how well I support others.

Winning can be a very lonely thing, and I'm lonely enough, thank you very much. If winning is important to you, then you win. If defeating me is important to you, I concede the battle. I don't want to be in the battle. I don't want to fight. So mostly, I don't.

Mostly, I don't.

R.E.S.P.E.C.T.!

Respect.

You may remember Rodney Dangerfield's trademark complaint: "I don't get no respect!" It's a complaint most of us find ourselves making from time to time. And who can forget Aretha Franklin's "All I'm askin' is for a little respect?"

Respect is a highly desirable, often elusive commodity. In my classroom, students often demand it (although they aren't always good at giving it). In the workplace, supervisors expect it and employees crave it. Mutual respect is a hallmark of healthy interpersonal relationships. Respect is important.

So if it's so important, and pretty much everyone wants it, why don't more people have it? If people know how valuable it is, why don't more people render it unto others? According to popular wisdom, you've got to give respect to get respect...if people really believe that, why aren't they more generous in giving respect? Because if you're paying attention, you've noticed that most people seldom and reluctantly give respect.

I think that, for whatever reason, we humans are under the impression that the intangibles—respect, love, consideration, good will—are limited resources, the way tangible resources are. It isn't true, by the way: the human psyche generates things like respect, love, and good will on demand and to any extent needful. They aren't really finite resources. Yet we tend to think of them the way we do finite resources like oil and coal and chocolate. Because we think of them as finite resources, we only want to render them when they are "deserved." We know that in an economy based on scarcity, it's important to be careful how we spend our finite resources.

I totally get that. I do. I am as much a product of our cultural conditioning as anyone else is.

The problem is, not all resources are scarce. This is a lesson we're having to learn in the digital age. Information used to be scarce; it took enormous time and energy to make a discovery, and then it took more time, energy, and material resources to duplicate it. Ask any college student about the cost of textbooks, and you'll get an earful on how expensive even mass-produced duplicated information (a.k.a. "texbooks") is.

Even in the digital age, it may take enormous time and energy to make a discovery. Once it's been committed to digital form, however, it becomes quite inexpensive to reproduce it for consumption. The information economy is going to have to come to terms with abundance.

When dealing with intangibles like good will, love, respect, we have to come to terms with abundance. When we give someone love, it doesn't deplete our own "love account." On the contrary, it tends to increase the love we have. When we give good will, we don't lose anything, and we often gain good will in return. When we render respect to another, it doesn't make us respect ourselves less; it doesn't cost us anything.

I don't want to say that we should respect all people in the same way or to the same degree. I've actually imagined a hierarchy—a kind of layer cake—of respect. It looks something like this:

1. all people are due a certain baseline respect by simple virtue of their humanity
2. some positions (firefighter, police officer, volunteer military, supervisor, president) are due (a somewhat abstract) respect for the position
3. excellence or competency earns additional respect
4. respect for others when it is due earns additional respect
5. kindness and generosity earn additional respect
6. integrity and honesty earn additional respect
7. "goodness" and selfless sacrifice earn additional respect

I try to render at least baseline respect—the respect due all human beings by virtue of their humanity—to everyone, regardless of whether or not I like them, regardless of whether or not I feel their choices are "good," regardless of whether or not I think they're good at what they do. Anyone who additionally holds a position that I think merits respect gets at least that much additional (somewhat abstract) respect. My highest respect, however, is reserved for those who are "good," have integrity, and are kind. Those who mistreat others (even me) have less of my respect than those who do. Those who don't render to others (even me) the respect they are due have less of my respect than those who do.

Like just about everyone, I crave respect and I am lucky enough to get it. I don't get it from everyone I ought to, and maybe sometimes I get it when I don't deserve it, but I am blessed with respect. Sometimes I forget that—sometimes I say, like Rodney Dangerfield, "I don't get no respect!"—but whether I forget or remember, I am respected, even highly respected.

How lucky I am!

You Gotta Compromise a Little

We've all been there.

We've all been in a relationship (and I'm not talking exclusively or even primarily about romantic relationships; consider relationships familial, professional, or friendly) where one party feels—sometimes justifiably—that s/he contributes more to the relationship than the other. And we've all felt that it isn't fair that we do so much and the other does so little. And sometimes it isn't fair—sometimes one or both of you aren't getting what you really need or are giving more than you can afford—but sometimes we treat relationships like business transactions, expecting a value-for-value exchange that balances out on some imaginary ledger, and that's just crazy.

There's no real economy in relationships. It is almost impossible for two persons to contribute equally to even the best, deepest, strongest, most meaningful relationships. Each of us has different needs and different strengths, and it's unlikely to the point of impossibility that two people who happen to come together should match up perfectly. In the immortal words of Trentell (one of the characters in the musical revue I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change), "You gotta compromise a little, you dickheads!" In fact, you always gotta compromise a little.

It's a mistake to keep score in relationships. It's powerfully tempting to do so—our culture predisposes us to think of things in terms of profit and loss, "you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours," quid pro quo—but it isn't needful, it isn't helpful, and it isn't fair.

Fair has nothing to do with ledgers and balances and scores and everything to do with everyone getting what they need to be healthy and whole. There's nothing unfair about doing more for someone who needs more.

This is how relationships can be "unequal" and healthy. If the people in a relationship respect one another's rights, give what they can, and receive what they need, who cares about scoreboards and ledgers? Keeping score is a wonderful way to ruin a relationship. Imbalance is only an issue when people aren't getting what they need (emotionally and relationally—I'm not talking about "things").

So tear up your ledgers and scorecards. Stop keeping track of who does more for whom. Instead, ask yourself these questions:

• Am I respected and treated as a person of worth and dignity?
• Is the relationship satisfying?
• Am I giving what I can and should?
• Am I receiving what I need?
• Do I respect the other person and treat her/him as a person of worth and dignity?

If your answers are straight "yes's," what more do you want? You've already got treasure more precious than rubies.

Consensus Reality?

I find it strange how different my perceptions of myself are from the perceptions others have of me. I think I know myself pretty well—I'm self-reflective, (mostly) comfortable in my own skin, pretty self-aware, thoughtful, intelligent, perceptive—yet I keep encountering people who see me very differently than I see myself.


The most obvious (and startling, at least to me) disconnect has to do with my appearance or attractiveness. I have always thought I had a realistic view of myself—nothing special, not ugly but plain—and I was okay with that. I always felt my sterling character (LOLz!) would more than compensate for my rather ordinary appearance.


The fact of the matter is that I still think of myself that way—nothing special, plain but not ugly—but that perception seems to be skewed somehow, at least based on recent statements made by others, as well as an experience or two that would seem to suggest the reports are accurate and my perceptions flawed.


I'm currently in a play: Neil Simon's Laughter on the 23rd Floor. The cast (an amazing cast; I'm honored to be numbered among them) includes two lovely young women. Before last night's dress rehearsal, in the course of a conversation about my marital status (never married, no children, few relationships), both women said that they didn't understand; that I was quite good looking (and they'd talked about it frequently).


What?


The explanation that seemed obvious to me was that "there's no accounting for taste," until I remembered something that happened on Monday.


As I often do, I took myself out to dinner at a fairly nice downtown restaurant, BeX Bar & Grill. I often dine out alone; if you're comfortable in your own skin, it isn't really any different than dining in alone and you don't have to do the dishes after.


The hostess seated me and almost before I could blink, a very pretty waitress slid into the booth across from me, gave me a sultry smile, and asked me what I'd like...to drink.


"Gah, guh, uh, uhr, uhm..."


Not my finest moment.


In truth, none of my finest moments involve interactions with attractive women.


At any rate, I managed to stammer out a drink order, she gave me another sultry smile, and she glided away.


That exchange was repeated with minor variations throughout my meal. She'd glide up, sit down across from me or stand very close to me, maintain bold eye contact, grace me with sultry smiles, and speak...suggestively.


I think maybe she liked me.


What makes this event (as well as several other encounters that, on sober reflection, bear it a strong resemblance) and the observations of the two young women in the cast so baffling to me is that it represents a world-view completely at odds with mine. I look in the mirror and I see just what I expect to see, a man with plain features, not ugly, but not handsome, either. It would seem that at least some others see me in a very different light. How is it possible for human beings to see things so differently.


I don't know.


I wonder, however, whether the consensus (as evidenced from multiple sources) is more likely to be accurate than my singular perception. Is perception a case where the majority really is right?


I don't know.


I just don't know.

Let It Burn

I've never actually hyperventilated from fear before.

I don't remember ever exhibiting such a visceral, exterior, visible response to fear. Maybe I've never been so frightened. I've come close—asking a girl on a date is nearly as scary—but I've never gotten to the point where I had trouble just catching my breath. Today, I'm terrified.

But I did it anyway. I set the torch to the timbers, and the bridge is burning. It's taking all my strength to just let it burn, but I'm letting it. I'm resisting the impulse to rush in and stamp out the fire before it gets too hot.

Let it burn.

I've done a lot of daring things in my life. I've rappelled down a 90 foot cliff. I've leaped off a cliff into murky water. I've white-water rafted. I've zip-lined. I've eaten at Da Crack. I scuba dive, I ride a motorcycle, I teach high school...I live life on the edge. But none of that as turned my guts to water, made my breath catch in my throat, made me tremble, nothing—not even asking a girl out.

I am my father's son. I am my mother's son. Those two respectable, sensible, appropriately cautious apple pie citizens raised me to be respectable, sensible, and cautious and I'm grateful for that—it's given me a certain freedom to pursue my passion for learning, to pursue my passion for serving others, to pursue my myriad interests. I would not be who I am today if not for that upbringing.

But who I am today needs to take a big chance, a big chance. Who I am today needs a new kind of freedom, one that is only possible if I cast off those otherwise-admirable qualities of caution and restraint. Who I am today needs to embrace uncertainty and insecurity.

Still, it's scary.

Defying a fundamental fear is exhilarating. The fear is part of what makes it exhilarating: fear provokes an adrenalin rush. The exhilaration doesn't displace the fear, but it does counterbalance it to some degree. Additionally, there's an element of pride that contributes to the exhilaration: it feels good to face and overmaster something that's been an insurmountable obstacle before.

While I've been writing, the fire's been growing. Soon it won't be possible to stamp it out. In just a few hours, there will be no bridge; no retreat possible.

Let it burn.

Courage!

Not quite two weeks ago, I decided to pursue happiness even if that pursuit meant giving up the security I currently enjoy. This decision did not come easy for me and I find myself inclined to second-guess it even though in my heart I know it is the best decision I could make. I am, perhaps quite understandably, afraid to leap into the unknown (you can read my reflections on the subject here).

But (as I wrote before) I am unwilling to be ruled by fear. As Winston Churchill said, "Fear is a reaction. Courage is a decision." The reaction is appropriate—there are real risks if you Leap Before You Look—but decisions should be based on more than just fear.

Still, fear has kept me from implementing the decision I've made. The next step can't be taken while I hold onto the handrail of current security, but I've hesitated to let go. In fact, I'm still hesitating, though I think the time for hesitation is past. More and more urgently I find myself prompted by my conscience to "cut the cord" that both binds me to an unsatisfactory situation and provides me with a sense of security. Until I do—until I take real action, until I burn that bridge—I will find it too easy to "settle" for what I have rather than reaching for what I crave.

Ambrose Redmoon wrote, "Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear." There's so much that I want, that I look forward to, that I hope for, that is more important than fear, that courage is my only recourse. It's time to 'screw my courage to the sticking place' and trust that 'I will not fail.'

C.S. Lewis said, "You are never too old to set a new goal or to dream a new dream," and Anais Nin wrote, "Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage." Both those quotes—in fact, all the quotes I've cited today—resonate with me. It's time to cut the cord, to burn the bridge, to take that leap of faith, to toss the dice with everything on the line. Goodbye tenure, goodbye home-ownership, goodbye illusion of safety...

Hello possibility, hello liberty, hello infinity.

Brother Can You Spare a...

...dime?

So...I am a good writer—it's one of the areas in my life where my confidence is quite high. I'm good, I'm fast, and (if someone is willing to pay me) I'm even cheap; you can have all three in this instance.

A fan (God bless family!) asked recently, "Why aren't you published or writing articles for money in great magazines and newspapers?" My reply was, "Because I don't have a clue how to market myself as a writer."

Please note that I didn't say, "Because I'm not good enough." I am good enough—awesome is as awesome does, after all—I don't lack talent but rather knowledge. And ignorance is a curable condition.

Now is a good time to ask the question; I'm sure at least one of my readers can advise me, so... "How do I market myself as a writer?"

Show me the money!

My Awesome Life

A few days ago, my sister noted that since I've changed my diet/lifestyle a couple of weeks ago, my energy and mood seems more balanced. I hadn't really given it much thought, but she was absolutely right—I've been more consistently more upbeat and even optimistic since making these changes, and I attribute it to a metabolism that is just working better: I've had plenty of physical symptoms to suggest that my metabolism is working better, but I was too busy enjoying my "new life" to notice that my emotional state has been more positive.

In fact, my life is awesome.

I'm still facing the same challenges and frustrations I've always been, and I find them...challenging and frustrating. I am not immune to the vicissitudes we all must face, and I'm not always cheerful or happy. Yet none of that can change the fact that my life is awesome; it's wonderful to finally, clearly see it.

I've had an intellectual understanding that my life was awesome for some years. I've known it, in my head, and that's not to be denigrated. As an intellectual, I've always considered it important to have that cerebral "knowing." It's valuable. Yet experiencing it more viscerally, in the gut and in the flesh, is...

Well, it's awesome.

And because I'm finally "feeling it," I'm ready to make some changes. For example:

I'm too busy being awesome to fit personal drama into my schedule. I care about you, but I don't care about the problems you refuse to face or the challenges you refuse to accept, and aren't those things where personal drama begins?

My awesome life has little room in it for people who aren't sufficiently awesome. It isn't difficult to be sufficiently awesome... but if you're consistently negative, consistently selfish, consistently playing the victim, consistently refusing to accept help when it's offered, consistently standing still when you could be moving on, then really I don't. I still love you, you still matter to me, but there's just no significant place for you in my awesome life. I pray daily (and awesomely) that if you do not achieve awesomeness, that awesomeness will be thrust upon you.

I'm not expecting perfection—I'm well aware of my own imperfections, and don't expect something of others that I can't deliver myself—but I am demanding awesomeness. Please be awesome.

Because I'm awesome, it's important that I treat others awesomely. Even those who, sadly, aren't sufficiently awesome to have a significant place in my awesome life deserve to be treated awesomely. I will strive to treat everyone, from my most awesome friend to my least awesome enemy, awesomely.

And because I'm awesome and awesome people embrace challenges, I'm less fearful than I have been of some of the more daring decisions I've been contemplating. After all, I'm awesome, and awesome people don't settle for less-than-awesome lives. When the going gets rough, the awesome remain awesome.

Principles, in Principle

Just about everyone favors the principle of "principles." In an ideal world, everyone would live according to enduring principles that applied all the time and that changed only rarely and after careful consideration. In this ideal world, we could anticipate how people would behave—we could trust them, at least to be consistent, over the long haul—and plan accordingly.

I'm sure you've noticed by now that this is not in fact an ideal world. ;-)

Frequently—perhaps even usually—people today espouse principles they claim to live by, but those principles aren't enduring; whenever they turn out to be inconvenient or un-self-serving, exceptions are made or they are modified so that those "principles" (and I use the term advisedly) become utterly situational, inconstant, and unreliable. What I think of as actual principles, most people see more as guidelines, subject to ready modification at the first moment they place unpleasant demands on them.

Those aren't principles, people; they're guidelines.

Guidelines are great, and I have a great many of them. They aren't intended to be principles and I don't pretend they are; I identify them as guidelines because I don't think it's appropriate to be bound to them. I only have a very few principles, but I happily bind myself to them no matter what the circumstances or who they effect because I think they're that important:

• be honest
• be tactful
• acknowledge my own
• faults
• biases
• weaknesses
• be fair

I don't always live fully according to my principles, but I strive to and when I find I've violated one I work assiduously to correct my error. I am vigilant about this; I want to be the kind of person who operates on principle, instead of according to expedience.

I know full well that makes me a rarity in today's society. I'm well aware that it makes me vulnerable to those who are "pragmatic." The unscrupulous will always have an advantage over me, because I have chosen to bind myself to principles while they aren't bound to anything.

I'm fine with that. I'm not responsible for who they are, only for who I am. And I choose to be, to the best of my ability, a person of principle.

Gossip is a Drug

Yesterday I happened to overhear bits and pieces of a conversation among several people I know, like, and have always respected. I wasn't eavesdropping—in fact, I was "on the job," so to speak, and because I was on the job I didn't hang on every word—but these people didn't seem concerned about who might overhear them, and I picked up on a few words or phrases here and there; enough to get the gist.

The topic of conversation included situations I'm familiar with, and the tone and tenor of the conversation was sometimes condescending, often judgmental, generally snide, and just plain nasty...in short, it was gossip.

Like many drugs, gossip is intoxicating: it feeds the gossip's ego, it provides the illusion of an Olympian (god-like) point of view, and it's titillating—it feeds voyeuristic tendencies. Like many drugs, gossip is (psychologically) addictive: gossips become 'addicted' to the 'buzz.' And like many drugs, gossip is destructive: it's destructive of relationships, it's destructive of trust, it's destructive of character, it's destructive of integrity.

And like addicts who don't consider themselves addicts, gossips tend not to think of themselves as gossips  at all. "Everyone's entitled to an opinion" is part of the refrain, and "Don't I have a right to free speech?" And of course it's true that everyone's entitled to an opinion (even gossips), and everyone has a constitutionally protected right to free speech (even gossips).

This isn't about rights, but rather about what's right. Although I defend the free speech rights of neo-Nazis, I do not think them right, and I exercise my free speech rights in opposition to their arguments. Having a right doesn't make one right, and gossip is such a petty thing to stand on your rights for, destructive out of all proportion to its banality.

Gossip is a drug, destructive of lives and relationships, but too many gossips just can't stop.

And if there was a 12-step program for gossips, no one would go.

Free Ride

(Well, not free...)

Among the many things I claim to be—teacher, preacher, actor, writer, poet, student, scuba diver, biker—when writing I find I tend to neglect the "biker" part. And that's not fair.

I don't suppose I'm a "typical" biker. Sure, I ride a Harley, and sure I've got tattoos, and I absolutely love to ride, but I'm not really affiliated with a club and most of my riding is solo. I feel the fellowship of the road and the almost-mystical freedom bikers know, but I don't obsess about riding any more than I obsess about scuba diving or writing or whatever. I don't drop every spare dollar on my bike (a beautiful 2009 Harley Davidson Road King Classic), although I do spend money on it once in a while, and I don't ride every chance I get, though I prefer riding to driving in principle (and because it's more economical fuel-wise).

Still, there is a freedom I find when riding; there is something therapeutic about rolling down the road with wind in my face and sun on my skin and the rumble of the engine beneath. There is something profoundly empowering about twisting the throttle and accelerating away; away from my mundane existence, away from my worries and frets, away from my frustrations and anxieties, away.

There's more to two-wheel therapy than escape, however. Sometimes it's what's in the rearview, and sometimes it's what's in front of you, but often, often, it's the ride itself that is therapeutic. It's a powerful sensory experience: wind against your face, sun on your skin, the sounds of the engine and the tires on the road, the smells of the countryside, the warmth, the chill, the sights—all these things stimulate senses too-often anesthetized by our modern mediated lifestyle.

And riding is empowering...in a world where so many of us are so often at the mercy of forces outside our control that a sense of empowerment is precious and rare.

Physics may play a part in it; even a heavy pig like my bike—810 pounds plus rider—has a better power-weight ratio than all but the most extravagant of automobiles. Occasionally some young driver in a souped-up import will pull up next to me at a light and want to "race." I don't do that—I have nothing to prove—yet ironically my normal, measured acceleration is almost always better than said import can manage with the accelerator pedal floored.

Acceleration equals Force divided by mass (A = F/m), so for a given Force (engine power), the lower the mass the higher the acceleration. My motorcycle weights a third or less what even that little import weighs, and my engine produces a great deal of power (Force) for its size, so the little import really doesn't have a chance.While the import's engine is whining away and the driver is frantically rowing through gears, I smoothly, effortlessly just accelerate away.

Power like that can be intoxicating; that's why some riders do foolish things (and get themselves messily killed). I find it liberating, and I think many other bikers do, too. And yes, sometimes it's very satisfying to put other motorists in the rear-view, as well.

Maybe you're wondering what stimulated this blog. It isn't a subject I write on, really—it isn't really about the traumas in my life or the epiphanies that excite me—so what brought this on? Fair question...

This morning my Harley goes in for its 35,000 mile service, and while it's in I'm having a different pair of handlebars installed. All this is in preparation for next weekend's Laughlin River Run, an event that draws bikers from across the country. I've never been—let's face it, I'm not a "typical biker," not into drinking and dancing and breaking the rules for the sake of breaking the rules, so it's a bit of a foreign land to me—but with recent traumas (ah-HA!) and their effects on my schedule, I found myself free and some friends were attending, so I figured, "Why not?" Something new, something different, something outside my comfort zone, might be just what the doctor ordered.

So Friday morning a couple of friends are meeting me at my house and we're taking the scenic route to Laughlin: 350 miles, with lunch in Lake Havasu before the final leg. I'm looking forward to it. Escapism is part of the appeal, and two-wheel therapy is in there, too, and good company won't hurt...

Here's to riding free!

Worry Wart

(Okay, it's not a wart...it's a mole.)

It's a mole that my tattoo artist noticed on my back a couple of weeks ago. He said, "I'm not saying it's cancer, and I'm not saying it's not; I'm just saying it looks different than the other freckles on your back...it's got texture. You should get it checked out; I won't be putting any ink over it today."

Last week the doctor excised it and sent it out for biopsy. I'm due back in her office on April 26 to have the sutures removed, by which time she should also have the biopsy results.

I'm not all that worried. I'm concerned, but only in my most hypochondriacal moments am I more than a little anxious. Even if it is cancer, chances are it'll be easily treated and not too serious. And if it is serious, there's not much I can do about it until we know. I'm not borrowing trouble over a mole.

I wish I could say the same about other eventualities...

My post a few days ago, Leap Before You Look, is me grappling with my penchant for worry. Intellectually, I appreciate the importance of taking chances and the value of risk, but emotionally I am risk-averse. I tend to want to hedge my bets, cover my bases, play it safe.

The problem is, when I refuse to gamble on anything, I make it impossible to win anything. Sure, I can't lose, but neither can I win, and some things can only be won, never earned. If those things—call them the prizes in life—are things I want, then I have to be ready to risk and the greater the prize, the greater the risk. And as with my mystery mole, the outcome can't be determined in advance.

It seems everyone, or almost everyone, is encouraging me to leap, to jump, to "go for it." I hear it from my young, reckless friends. I hear it from my more seasoned, cautious friends. The voice of my heart clamors for it, what I used to call "the voice of reason" argues in its favor, and even Facebook's "Message From God" app told me this morning, "There is no failing, only results. Be courageous and push yourself to new heights."

I get it. I get it! I'm ready to leap, and leave worry for the warts (okay, moles.)

Leap Before You Look

I love it when the world changes right before my eyes.

It isn't that the world itself literally changes; rather, my perception of it changes radically thanks to a new thought or (more commonly) thanks to something someone else says. It's like the scales drop from my eyes and I see exciting new possibilities highlighted in neon light where before I saw only the everyday world of my limited imagination.

That happened again just recently. I crave a change—my life is currently literally unsatisfactory (and I know what "literally" really means) and I'm trying to change it—but I've tended to measure my efforts against the rulers of 'practicality' and 'common sense,' minimizing risk and 'being responsible,' and today I find myself wondering, "What the hell was I thinking?"

I'm not advocating irresponsibility, just for the record—I think it's important to take responsibility for the consequences of one's actions, and I think that it is important to "be responsible," whatever that really means—but I am suggesting that I got caught up in a false and artificial construct of what constitutes "being responsible." I somehow equated responsibility with conformity—to social norms, to family history, to other people's expectations—when that isn't it at all.

I believe that being responsible is and must be a personal synthesis. I believe that what it looks like is different: different for different people, different at different times, and different under different circumstances. I believe that "being responsible" depends.

I also think that for me, 'practicality' and 'common sense' and 'being responsible' made handy masks for the real issue: fear.

I was (and am) afraid. Afraid of the unknown, afraid of taking chances, afraid of the future, afraid.

But I am unwilling to be ruled by fear. I remember the Bene Gesserit Litany Against Fear (from Frank Herbert's Dune series):

I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.

Don't misunderstand me; I know the value of fear—as teacher and survival mechanism—and would never want to be fearless. Rather I want to be courageous, facing my fear and letting passion and judgment temper it. Fear gets a vote, but shouldn't get a veto, if you see what I mean.

According to "conventional wisdom," you should always look before you leap. It's reckless to jump when you don't know what you're jumping into...there may be jagged rocks just beneath the surface or a tiger hidden in the tall grass. And all that is true.

But "conventional wisdom" will quite likely lead to a conventional existence, and I crave something different—something astounding—rather than something conventional.

So perhaps-just maybe-to get what I want and be who I want, I should leap before I look.

This I Believe

I believe that the universe is God's.

By that I mostly mean that the universe is not mine. Its function is not to make me (or anyone) happy or treat me (or anyone) justly or please me (or anyone). Its function is to be what it is.

By the same token, I believe that the universe is no more against me than it is for me. The universe neither favors nor disfavors me. How could it? I am a part of the universe—a part of its fabric, a component of its body—and not separate at all.

The universe is God's—not mine, not yours, not anyone's—and I do not believe that God tweaks the universe to anyone's particular benefit (or detriment). God leaves that to those of us who (having free will) may choose to act in one way or another.

God's favor isn't something I look for from the universe. I don't see hard times as punishment from God or good times as rewards. I try really hard not to believe that the universe works like a scale, balancing evil with good or rendering justice from injustice. I am well aware of how lucky I am (and how little I 'deserve' the good that is in my life), and I am just as keenly aware of how unlucky others are (who 'deserve' far better than they get).

I believe that I am responsible for what I do in the universe, and that it is up to me to make the most of a bad situation or make the best of a good situation. I believe that I am responsible both for my own responses to circumstances and for the consequences of my own actions.

I believe that when bad things happen to good people, I am empowered to act on their behalf. I believe that when bad things happen to me, I am empowered to act on my own behalf. I do not believe that in either circumstance the universe will somehow 'make it right'—in this universe, that's up to me and other persons of good will.

I believe that the universe is God's, and that God expects me to do what I can to make it better—for myself and for others—so I'm not waiting for God (or the universe) to set things right; I'm doing what I can to set things right myself.

And I am grateful for the many dear friends who—consciously or unconsciously—are doing likewise.

Above all else, this I believe: that we are given the chance to be God's grace for one another in God's universe, and when we bless others, we are blessed.