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.