A 1972 Dime with a Roosevelt Imperfection

I really enjoy a television show called Scrubs.  Maybe you’ve seen it.  If you haven’t, it’s a hospital show, but nothing like ER or Grey’s Anatomy or House.  The series chronicles the life and innermost thoughts of Dr. J.D. Dorian, a young doctor at Sacred Heart Hospital.  There is a unnamed janitor at the hospital who finds significant enjoyment in tormenting J.D. in all kinds of creative and not-so-creative ways.  In one episode, J.D. sees the janitor and his friend from food service waiting to thwart him in some new and ridiculous manner, so he acts quickly and distracts them with a riddle:

“What two coins, when put together, make thirty cents, and one of them is not a nickel?”

So the janitor and his low-IQed buddy spend the remainder of the episode slaving over the solving of this query.  After some research at the local library, they return to J.D. with an answer:  you can make thirty cents out of a penny and a 1972 dime with a Roosevelt imperfection, which today is worth twenty-nine cents.

Or, as J.D. points out, you can avoid searching through United States Mint files and simply make thirty cents out of a quarter and a nickel.  Remember, only ONE of the coins isn’t a nickel.  We never specified anything about the other coin.

Hmm . . . the janitor worked pretty hard to come up with an answer that is correct.  There’s no denying his logic.  Yet finding two coins that add up to thirty cents really isn’t the point, is it?  The point is recognizing and exposing the nuance in the riddle itself.  It could be so very simple, but somehow, the way our minds process things, it becomes so very difficult.

So when a well-known pastor writes a book that asks a few questions that challenge the way we typically process this existence we call life, he gets death threats.  And if not death threats, he gets told that he can’t ask those questions.  No, because to ask those questions is to undermine what we believe, and this would change far too much about how we live our lives, and that’s absolutely unacceptable.

This post, contrary to what it may appear, is not a defense of Rob Bell or Love Wins, though I’m happy to have that conversation in another setting.  This post is a critique of the state of the Church that has been exposed in obvious ways since even before the book hit the shelves.

See, we Christians are pretty quick to pull out our long-winded explanations for how and why everything is the way it is, and these spiels are often quite similar to the janitor pulling out a collector’s book and pointing out this particular dime’s current value.  It’s intelligent, sure, and it’s the kind of knowledge that will get someone his or her M.Div.  But is it the point?  And if it’s not, then what is the point?

When asked what motivates me to be an English teacher, I respond with a quote from literary critic Roland Barthes:  “Literature is the question minus the answer.”  Harriet Beecher Stowe could have released a pamphlet explaining academically why slavery is unjust, but she chose to let readers of Uncle Tom’s Cabin make their own decisions.  Jane Austen could have written a convincing essay on the flaws of the Victorian class stratification in Britain, but she chose to tell several stories in which this struggle was explored.

It is astounding to think that most of the things that are supposedly a part (or not a part) of a Christian’s life or church organization are not discussed in the Bible at all.  They were decided somewhere along the way by church leaders who spent their lives searching for Truth.  Except, for some reason, church leaders can’t challenge the status quo anymore.  We can’t ask those questions, because our beliefs have already been established.  We can’t add to doctrine because doctrine is already complete.  Says who?  Not Christ, and isn't that who we're following?  The truth is the story is still being written.  The question hasn't yet been answered.

Because it’s not really about finding an enigmatic dime worth twenty-nine cents; it’s about knowing that, despite the fact that one coin isn’t a nickel, the second coin may be exactly that.

The Exorcism of Linus

At the school where I teach, there are two staff restrooms.  I use the name “restroom” purposely in place of “bathroom,” for I have never taken a bath at school, and fellow teachers understand how a potty break quite often doubles as a wonderfully good time for some R&R.  One staff restroom is kind of out in the open in a main hallway where chaos is still to be heard, even with the fan running.  The other is nice and out of the way, a place where one can enjoy a break from bewailing students and thus, the desire to take the life of . . . (let me clear my throat).  Anyways, there is a intriguing nuance of my behavior that I have discovered by way of another difference between the two.

In one restroom, there is a sink and a single stall.  The other has the same equipment, a sink and a toilet; however, there is no stall.  The toilet sits in the open beside the sink.  Now, here’s the quirky thing:  when I use the restroom equipped with a stall, I always lock the bathroom door, enter the stall, and close and latch the stall door.  Two locks.  Double security.  It makes some sense.  But when I use the other restroom, I am by no means uneasy with the idea that the only barrier I have between my business-doing self and the outside world is the bolt keeping the restroom door shut.  (This is so even in light of a marker-written sign taped to the outside of the door reading, “PLEASE knock before barging in.  Thank you!”  This warrants some speculation on the whos and whens of the story that made this little warning a necessity.)

Having taken note of this little phenomenon, I made a grown-up decision that it is entirely ridiculous to continue double-locking myself in the stalled restroom.  Such a tendency would be described by my college friends as a “barfer move.”  No more would I allow paranoia to control me.  No more would I sit there wrapped in my shroud of comfort, harvesting the idea that I have taken compulsory measures to ensure that none of my coworkers were going to hacksaw their way through the bolt lock on the restroom door so that he or she could see me sitting there in all of my glory and vulnerability.  (Pants on the ground, pants on the ground, looking like a fool with my pants on the ground.)  It would be the same experience as the restroom without the stall.  I’d never complained about a lack of safekeeping there.  No need whatsoever to be under the aegis of two locked doors.  It was always fine, just fine.

The time arrived to begin my new journey of empowerment.  The out-of-the-way restroom, always my first choice, was available, but I had something to prove, so I kept walking.  I knocked on the door, and upon silence, confidently swung it open, swaggered in, and threw my hands up in the air, as if to declare my dominance over the silly supports this restroom sought to entrap me in.  Gritting my teeth, I nudged open the stall door and strolled over to the toilet.  There I was, in the open, battling my preposterous previous notions of susceptibility.  Nothing could take me down from my pedestal of puissance.  And as I sat there . . . I was sore afraid.  Golly gee, I couldn’t take it.  With my foot, I slammed the stall door shut, then leaned forward and fastened the latch.  Phew, I was safe again.

Why?  I don’t know.  But it had to be done.  And it continues to be done.

Sigh.  Linus, I understand.

The Marvelous Mike Mussina Moves Away

I live in Baltimore, Maryland.  I enjoy saying that as if my roots extend deep into the generational soil of the Charm City, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth.  In reality, I’ve lived here about a month.  Nevertheless, I live here.

And I live in the same city that was once graced by the presence of a chap named Mike Mussina, alternately known as the Moose—first affectionately, and later antagonistically.  Mussina was the dominant ace pitcher of our home baseball team, the Orioles, who, for those of you just tuning in to the world of baseball, were not always...well, this way.  (See http://mlb.mlb.com/mlb/standings/?tcid=nav_mlb_standings.)  Having made a quite name for himself in the Baltimore black and orange, Mussina found himself sitting pretty in the land we call “free agency,” able to choose between a host of suiting teams trying to acquire a top pitcher to bolster their rosters.  Once again, for our non-ballfan readers, there are fellows each winter in this situation, whose choices are most often decided by The All Powerful Dollar.  Much to the chagrin of my neighbors, this was the case for Mike.  The Orioles’ offer for him to stick around in the city that made him a star, which would no doubt have made him a multi-millionaire with job security out the wazoo, was thrown back in their faces as their beloved Moose spoke before reporters at Yankee Stadium shortly after.  Baltimore’s generous deal could never match what George Steinbrenner & Company waved in front of Mussina’s wallet.  Mussina’s wife was quoted as saying that they were “offended” by such a measly offer given by the Orioles.

A lot of us here in the small corner of the world called America that we think is the whole universe are much like the Mussinas.  We believe we’re entitled to a whole bunch of nice stuff, like comfort, safety, and recognition.  After all, we’ve worked hard to become who we are, so now we should get what’s coming to us and enjoy it.  So we wait for our proverbial Yankees to come knocking on our door with our ticket to the American Dream.  And even if that actually ever happened to most people, it’s the kind of life that makes me queasy.

So I smile when friends and strangers alike ask me why in the bejeebees I wanted to move to Baltimore.  I smile because I know that any life worth living is bound to cause confusion.  I’m not wearing pinstripes down here, and the only ring I’m wearing has nothing to with the World Series, but I’ll hang around in last place for a while.  It gives me something to work for.

By the way, you should look up how many World Series Mike Mussina’s Yankees won.  Here’s a hint:  it’s the same number as the Orioles total during that time.

My St. Petersburg

I'm an English teacher. This job casts me into one of two categories: people who love literature, and people who hate children. A quick look at my resume will prove me unqualified for the latter group, so you can use process of elimination to decide where I belong. Literature is all about stories. There are certain elements that every story contains: theme, character, plot, structure, setting, point of view, and style. If you examine your life, you'll find that your own story fits this model quite well. We may not realize this in the middle of a particular chapter of our story, because life in real-time tends to look more like a sporadic collage of events than a linear, structured tale that can be shared around a campfire or written down in a book. Yet, when we look into our past, we can connect the dots enough to see the picture that is formed by our choices and actions. And what we see can be pretty astounding.

One element of my story that has been the topic of much of my thought lately is setting, the where and when of a story. If you're like me, you've spent most of your life taking your setting for granted, thinking your setting isn't a variable in the same way that your plot and supporting characters are; it's just the pages upon which the story is written. I recently realized that this isn't true. In my favorite novel, Crime and Punishment, Russian genius Fyodor Dostoyevsky spends much of the first chapter painting the picture of his setting. He describes the slums of St. Petersburg thoroughly, including color, smell, organization, sanitation, weather, use of space, and attitude.

Dostoyevsky takes these pains because he knows that we can't understand the story's protagonist, Raskolnikov, until we understand his setting. Think about your setting. What kind of area do you live in? What kinds of places do you go? What kind of people do you come into contact with? What is the general atmosphere of your surroundings? Now, think about the main character of your story--you. How are you shaped by your setting? What does your setting make possible in your life? What does your setting hold you back from? You are who you are because of where you are. And if you haven't been in your present setting long enough for that to be true, if you stick around long enough, it will become true. Because again, setting is not a non-variable facet that the rest of the story is thrown onto; it is a carefully crafted ingredient that is crucial to the story's plot, from start to finish.

Raskolnikov's setting made him an axe murderer. What will your setting make of you?

The Starting Gun

I spent the last three summers serving at Camp Hebron.  For over two months each year, I would spend my days ministering to children, families, and fellow staffers, all the while “connecting with God, nature, and each other” through games, theme meals, cooperatives, adventure trips, lots of yelling, powerful prayer sessions, and so many other ridiculous activities.  Without a doubt, I have not yet experienced the kind of freedom and abundance of life that can always be found just below Peter’s Mountain in Halifax, PA anywhere else.

Since the end of my time on summer staff at camp, I’ve been in an ongoing struggle to figure out the secret to finding such a rush of adventure and true joy every day in what I reluctantly refer to as “the real world.”  I’ve had plenty of theories.  But a theory that isn’t put into practice will never become more than a theory.  And I’m not looking for theories, I’m looking for fulfillment.

I realize that my use of the word “fulfillment” here might rub someone the wrong way.  After all, if my heart is in the care of Jesus, my fulfillment is in him, right?  Well, yes, ideally, but I know myself well enough to know that is the case much less often than it should be.  I got to hear one of my favorite authors, Donald Miller, speak last week.  He told a story (as he does so well) about a friend who once complained about the meaninglessness of life.  To this jaded negativity, Don boldly, but tenderly, suggested to his friend, “Perhaps all life isn’t meaningless, just your life is meaningless.”  It’s quite a point, and one that has resounded with me.  If at camp I feel alive and free in ways that I can’t seem to find elsewhere, I could resign to the idea that camp is different than “the real world” and it will never be the same.  From time to time, when I tire of trekking uphill, I take this route.  But there is another option:  recognize how such an environment is created at camp, and recreate it wherever I go—because, as the theme song from my first summer so eloquently and energetically puts it, “wherever we go, that’s where the party’s at.”

While each year of college and each summer at camp contained gradual changes, it’s been a few years since my life has undergone a serious and sudden transformation.  Suddenly, I find myself on the brink of simultaneously taking on what my fiancée was recently told are the three largest transitions an adult will experience, this side of the birth of a child:  marriage, moving to a new location, and beginning a new career.

So as I dive into this new adventure, or perhaps this compilation of adventures, I’m pondering what will bring that fulfillment I spoke of earlier to each new day, good or bad, simple or rough, laughter or tears.  I’m considering how to avoid a meaningless life, remembering that I have titled this blog after the idea that living such a life is entirely improbable in the world we live in.  Last night, a new inkling entered my neurological highway:  what if the key lies in the way I began the journey?

Think about it.  Doesn’t the start of a trip determine so much of the outcome, especially in regards to the way we are affected by the journey?  And as I chewed over this idea, I remembered what I was doing exactly a year ago—I had just moved into a new apartment, and for a month leading up to camp, I had no job or responsibility.  What started as the embrace of a break from schoolwork quickly turned into laziness, which grew exponentially.  Many days, I didn’t leave the house.  I wanted to.  I wanted so much more than this, but I guess not enough to do something about it.  Of course, I was able to immediately flip the switch to “adventure mode” as soon as the fresh mountain air filled my lungs at camp, but some considerable damage had already been done.  Not irrevocable damage, but it was enough to make the rest of year quite a fight.  My life in this apartment had already become associated with settling for a stifling, stodgy existence.  As awesome as my roommates were, and as much fun as we so often had, once I got back to the apartment, I could only feel indifference to the adventure of life I had so recently been committed to.

There was no reason for me to not live a fulfilling life.  I spent every day teaching literature to high schoolers, which may be vomit-inducing for you, but is ever-so-lovely to me.  Or at least I always thought it would be.  And I’m certain that it would have been, had I chosen joy.

And all this is okay.  I didn’t waste a year.  I may have not even strayed from the path of my journey.  But the blazes marking my way led me through some thick brush and sharp thorns that taught me what to avoid when I start climbing uphill.  As I enter these transitions, this time of drastic change, I’m making it a point to start strong.  To take risks.  To stop relying on comfort.  To let my surroundings become associated with adventure.  I think it will pay off.

A Lesson From My Brother

Today, I was thinking about my brother, Scott.  He’s had a rough few years trying to figure out what steps he needs to take in his life.  For a long time, his dream has been to become a professional golfer on the PGA Tour.  You see, he’s a natural athlete and has met great success in every sport he’s every played.  From dominating Little League hitters on the mound to scoring 1,000 points throughout his high school basketball career, Scott Levy has been known as an athlete.  But his golfing brought him even more success as he won tournament after tournament, championship after championship all over the tri-state area.  He had big plans to play in a top college program and then hit the pros.  Scott’s always seen himself as a champion.

Somewhere along the way, his road to success took a detour, and he’s struggled as a golfer for the last few years.  At this point, I have very little of an idea what he’s going to do in the near or far future, and I don’t think he knows a whole lot more.  But I admire Scott.  I admire him because, among all the adversity he’s had, he still believes that in the end, it’s going to turn out the way he’s always planned.

Because Scott Levy believes in himself, and that’s further than most people get to reaching their dreams.

It really is a rare case to see someone stick to it long enough to get even partially up the mountain that stands between us and our dreams.  And the few that do, well, those are the people we make movies about and write books on.  Those are the people that change the world.  Those are the people we begin our lives dreaming of becoming like, but end our lives being jealous of, because they had something we didn’t.

But the saddest part of this story, this story that keeps being told, is that what we didn’t have isn’t success.  It’s not riches.  It’s not fame.  It’s not a “big break.”  It’s a belief that we can accomplish what we set out to.  It’s a determination to become who we always wanted to be.  And if we don’t have that, perhaps we haven’t had people in our lives who affirm who we are.  And that’s probably because the people who should have been affirming us didn’t believe in themselves either.  It’s a vicious cycle of self-doubt.

So what would our world look like if we started believing in ourselves?  I’d like to stick around long enough to see that happen.

One Little Pronoun, One Big Calling

Matthew 5:1-2

“Now when he saw the crowds, he went up on a mountainside and sat down.  His disciples came to him, and he began to teach them saying . . .”

These words serve as the preface to the Sermon on Mount, probably the most popular speech given by Jesus during his time on earth.  I think we miss a little (or, perhaps, quite large) detail most often when reading through Matthew.  After all, it seems like these couple of sentences are no more than an introduction to the red letters that follow.  Perhaps this is so, but I think there’s an important and nifty connection here.

The pronoun “them,” in this case, points back to “his disciples.”  Matthew isn’t talking about the crowd here.  “He began to teach the disciples.”  Now, I’m sure Jesus wasn’t ignoring the multitude that had come all this way just to hear him speak.  After all, “he went up on a mountainside” to give this sermon.

But the point is, his teaching was geared not to the huge gathering of folks, but to the smaller group he called his disciples.  He was talking to people who had left behind everything to follow him—people who were sold out and fully committed.

Now Jesus was surely aware of the crowd.  I’d bet he quite well that there was a sizable percentage of them who would hear what he was about to say and dismiss him as yet another looney with a messianic complex, sounding off on Jewish doctrine.  Yet, he still said what he had come to say, and the Sermon on the Mount is nothing to scoff at.  There are some harsh realizations here.  It includes a call to live counter-culture, some new definitions of sin that even the Pharisees weren’t requiring, and a commandment to be perfect, like God Himself.

This is the first public speech that we know of in Jesus’ ministry.  Matthew records it right after he emerges from fasting and fighting temptation in the wilderness.  Jesus calls a few disciples, and then sits them down to tell them what he’s all about.  This is a mission statement.  It’s an explanation of the life he’s asking them to live.

He spoke to those who were committed, whose loyalty wasn’t going to fade away any time soon.  And he didn’t water down his message for those who would be offended or disappointed.  He wasn’t concerned with being “seeker-sensitive.”  Jesus just spoke.  And guess what?  People followed.