A Speeding Pilgrimage

I don’t always plod; sometimes I speed.  More careless than reckless, I am easily distracted.  My speed hovers somewhere between “heavy footed” and  “clueless.”

I was reminded of this last Tuesday.

The view from Goodnow Mountain

I took a vacation day to go hiking - called a friend and made ambitious plans to climb four fire towers in the Adirondacks.  We started early, leaving my house at 5:30 and arriving at the first trailhead by 8 o’clock.  We spent the morning summitting Vanderwhacker and Goodnow mountains.  Moderately difficult hiking, cool weather, good company, and stunning views made for a wonderful morning. 

The clock was creeping into early afternoon as we drove toward Long Lake for our third destination – Mount Arab.  Having been tailgated and passed by two vehicles on the way, I was self-conscious of holding up traffic.  I pushed the speed a bit and gave my attention to conversation with my hiking partner.  This was a mistake.  My mind never got the dual core processor upgrade.   I am a poor multi-tasker.  My wife will vouch for the fact that I can’t run two programs simultaneously.  As soon as I open the conversation program, the speed-monitoring program grinds to a halt.   The next time I looked at my speedometer, I was passing a slowing police vehicle traveling the opposite direction.  The needle was hovering around 70 – fine for the Interstate, but not good for a backcountry highway with a limit of 55.  I was low hanging fruit for this officer. 

Fifteen minutes later, the officer told me to watch my speed and to be careful pulling out.  I drove off…ticket in my hand and frustration in my heart.  “Kind of ruins the day,” my friend noted.  “Yeah, it does,” I sighed.  Then I sunk into a sullen silence, providing ample space for the rush of thoughts that followed.

     How could I have been so stupid? 

     Why do I never get off with just a warning?

     Where am I going to get the money for this?

     How many points will this be on my license?

     How long ago was that last ticket?

     Should I drive out for my court date or just send in a guilty plea?

     What will I tell to Sue?

     How could he have missed the two guys that passed me fifteen minutes earlier?

     Why can’t I learn to use cruise control?

I was angry, ashamed, and frustrated; feelings that lingered throughout our third hike.  A pity party on Mount Arab.  I was still picking confetti out of my hair when we reached the fourth fire tower of the day, Cathedral Rock.  The short hike brought us to a pavilion just before the summit.  Beside the pavilion was a large stone with a plaque.  I wish, now, that I had written down the inscription.  Instead, I can only offer a summary.  It was placed by a family as a memorial to their eleven year old son who fell to his death off a nearby cliff in 1996.

I have four children, including a son the same age as the boy who fell to his death.  I can’t imagine what it would be like to begin the day hiking with my family and to end the day mourning the death of my son.  My day of hiking was ruined by a speeding ticket; their day of hiking was ruined by the death of a son.   This brought perspective, a corrective lens for my spiritual myopia.

My sullen reaction to my speeding ticket highlights my aggrandized view of self.  The universe is crafted; the orbit is set; all things revolve around me.   But on Cathedral Rock I got a glimpse of a bigger universe, a grander story, a more complex narrative.  I am not the only character in this play; not even the star of the show.  I’m hung up on court dates and traffic fines while others are planning funerals.    I’m ashamed at the pettiness of my troubles and disappointed that something so small could put me in such a funk.

And this is why God charted this course, from the speeding journey toward Long Lake to the panting stillness on Cathedral Rock:  This was a journey not measured in miles.  God was guiding me from selfishness to self-awareness.  My troubles, because they are mine, loom large in my field of vision.  Everything from speeding tickets to allergy symptoms, from a restless night, to a stressful day, these take center stage in my drama.  But from any other vantage point, these are really quite small.  Reading this memorial, my speeding ticket shrunk in magnitude.  I needed this. God knew.

I’ll be traveling out to Long Lake again soon.  I have a court date set.  Maybe on this trip God will teach me a lesson about mercy.  Or maybe justice.  But this time I’ll be traveling with a new perspective…and I’ll be setting the cruise control.

Blog News:  With warmer weather and summer vacation I am writing less.  This piece in nearly three weeks old.  It just took a while to finish.  It's hard to sit at a computer when the sun is shining.  Plus, opportunities to write for other outlets are growing.  Those pieces often appear on the blog in one format or another, but require further editing (for length and polish) before submission.  So through the summer I'll probably only post every couple weeks.  This is by design.  I'll get back to weekly posts in the fall.   Thanks, as always, for you encouragement and support.

A Shocking Hope

Consider a psychological experiment done at Maastritch University in the Netherlands. The subjects were split into two groups and hooked up to a device that would deliver an electric shock.  Both groups would receive twenty shocks.  The first group was told that all of them would be severe, while the second group was told that seventeen would be mild and three severe. 

Imagine you could choose which group to be in.  Which would you pick? 

Cue the Jeopardy music.  My logical mind thinks this through very carefully. “Okay, let’s see.  I can choose to be jolted with twenty severe shocks, or three.  Hmmm.  Tough choice.”  Okay, times up.  My decision is made.  I’ll join the second group and take the three shocks.  Final answer.

Seems logical, doesn’t it?  If I’m going to be shocked 20 times either way, why wouldn’t I choose the group with less overall intensity?

It turns out that our reaction to an experiment like this is dictated by more than just the sum of the voltage.  There’s another variable at play that is more powerful than the jolt of electricity.  It’s the variable of uncertainty.  It’s a variable that I didn’t really give thought to while the Jeopardy music was playing.

The results of the experiment showed that those with less chance of receiving a severe shock were more anxious than those guaranteed to be shocked severely.  Their hearts beat faster and they sweat more profusely.  Getting three shocks spread out randomly over twenty was more stressful than getting blasted twenty times in a row.  Ironically, we feel worse when something bad might occur than when something bad will occur. 

Harvard psychologists Dan Gilbert, in reflecting on this finding, summarized by saying, “…when we get bad news we weep for a while, and then get busy making the best of it. We change our behavior, we change our attitudes. We raise our consciousness and lower our standards. We find our bootstraps and tug. But we can’t come to terms with circumstances whose terms we don’t yet know. An uncertain future leaves us stranded in an unhappy present with nothing to do but wait.”

In my plodding pilgrimage, I recently drifted back into a rut that I believed I had left behind long ago.  It was frustrating to find myself rehashing a pattern that I thought had been broken.  I wanted to believe I was beyond this – wiser, more mature, more disciplined.  But here I was again, revisiting this barren terrain.  When I saw it for what it was, I was discouraged.  The shadow of hopelessness was growing long. 

Then God spoke to me.  Not in audible voice, but in whisper - multiple sources echoing the same theme; converging “coincidences.” He reminded me that hope is what sets me apart as a Christian. Hope is an anchor for the soul (Hebrews 6:19). A certain future infiltrates the present and changes my outlook.  The swells of discouragement cannot pull me from my mooring.

In a previous post I talked about the entangled snare of twists and turns that is the course of my life (A Plodding Pilgrimage).  This rut revisit certainly felt like a pretty significant zig (or maybe a zag).  But hope is the assurance that this course does have a certain destination, and the destination is good.  In 1 Timothy it is described as “the life that is truly life” (I Timothy 6:19).  So this is the hope – that God can use all these twists and turns to get me closer and closer to real life.

And if that’s where I’m heading, all these set backs are surmountable.  With hope I am never stranded in the present.  Even if the electrodes suggest otherwise. 

Blog News: For those who subscribe by e-mail, it has come to my attention that the formatting can get a  bit convoluted in the e-mail version.  Mostly it is spacing issues between words.  I assure you that I am not that poor of an editor.  I haven't figured out how to fix this yet.  If this is a distraction for you, just use the link in the e-mail to get to the web posting and it should be easier to read.  And, as always, thanks for your support.  It means a lot.

If you've enjoyed this post, consider subscribing by e-mail.  If you think others would benefit, share it with them 

MLK's Letter From Birmingham To Me

Forty-nine years ago, in April of 1963, Martin Luther King Jr. was imprisoned for his participation in civil rights demonstrations in Birmingham, Alabama.  He was peacefully protesting segregation and, in so doing, was violating a court ordinance against such demonstrations.  In the tension surrounding these protests, a group of eight white clergymen had issued a public statement questioning the timing and methods King was employing. King penned a 21 page response while in prison that has come to be known as the “Letter from Birmingham Jail,” now considered a classic in civil rights literature.  It is an eloquent expression of the philosophy and rational of the non-violent movement.  It is brimming with passion and clarity. 

It is disturbing to read, particularly as he writes of why he can no longer wait patiently for change.  Example after example is given of what prejudice looks like, day in and day out, for black men and women and children.  The string of examples concludes, “There comes a time when the cup of endurance runs over, and men are no longer willing to be plunged into the abyss of despair.”  That line alone conveys the power of King’s rhetoric, and the pain that incites it. 

Even more disturbing is that the letter is written to me.

Not directly, of course.  I was still eight years shy of conception at the time the letter was written.  But I am reminded that King was writing to people in agreement with his goals.  He opens the letter with “My dear fellow clergymen” and closes with “Yours for the cause of peace and brotherhood.”  These were men who agreed with King’s goal of racial harmony but questioned his methods.  They implored patience, particularly as the brash segregationist Eugene “Bull” Connor had recently been voted out of office as Public Safety Commissioner.  The rationale was that the new leadership should be given time to bring about change. 

The focus of the letter is not on the active prejudice of segregation, but the passive prejudice of those who will do nothing (but wait).  King goes as far as to say that “I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro's great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen's Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to "order" than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice.”  He goes on to say, “Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will.” 

I don’t consider myself prejudice.  I suppose no one ever does, not in polite society, at least explicitly.  I can build my case, point to all the relationships I have with black men, and women, and children.  They are customers, co-workers, friends, and even family (I have two black nieces).  I don’t think much about the color of a person’s skin. 

But I also recognize that I have done little to combat the racism that still exists today.  I am, I suppose, one of those white moderates.  My goodwill runs deep, but my understanding is shallow.  I have only known life in the privileged majority.  I don't know what it is like to be treated with disrespect because of the color of my skin.  It is a hard pill to swallow when King suggests that my passivity may be a greater stumbling block to racial harmony than the activity of true racists.  But it is the pill he prescribes. 

The book of Revelation offers a vision of the kingdom of God, the culmination of all things.  It is a time when all wrongs are made right. Creation is redeemed and mankind is judged.  It includes a picture of people from every tribe, people group, language, and nation worshipping around the throne of God (Revelation 5:9).  The net is thrown wide with the use of the adjective “every” to define how expansive this racially diverse choir is.  Every tribe, every people group, every language. every nation.  And this racial diversity, wide as we can fathom, is held together in racial unity.  Their worship is introduced with the phrase “In a loud voice they sang” (Rev. 5:12).  “A loud voice” is relentlessly singular.

This is what history is plodding towards.  Racial diversity as wide as we can stretch it and racial harmony as narrow as we can hem it in.  As a Christian, my roll is to offer a foretaste of that terminus now. To be truthful, I’m not sure where that leaves me.  This is a reflection with no real conclusion.  I know I gravitate toward what King describes as peace as the absence of tension rather than as the presence of justice.  This is a pattern that infects all spheres of my life - my marriage, my parenting, my workplace, and, yes, my reaction to prejudice.  I know I don't like it.  I am making progress in many of these areas.  This opens my eyes to one more sphere. And awareness is a first step.  So I keep at it...plodding on.


If you've enjoyed this post, consider subscribing by e-mail.  If you think others would benefit, share it with them. 

A Plodding Pilgrimage

In the Old Testament we find a number of depictions of journeys that serve as pictures of the Christian life.  So the story of Abraham, with his journey from Ur to Canaan.  And the story of the Exodus, with the Israelites journey out of Egypt, through the wilderness, and (eventually) into the land of promise.  And the story of the Babylonian captivity and the return to the land 70 years later.  These travel narratives serve as fitting parallels to the Christian life.  So in the New Testament, Peter calls Christians “pilgrims” (1 Peter 2:11).  Life is a pilgrimage, a journey with a specific purpose and destination.  This blog is a like a travelogue.  A journal of reflections in the course of the journey. 

But my pilgrimage has been a bit circuitous at times.  Years ago, Eugene Peterson wrote a book entitled A Long Obedience In the Same Direction.  And while I enjoyed the book, my own experience has not lived up to that billing.  Long – yes; obedience – sometimes; in the same direction – not by a long shot.  Even the more forgiving adage “two steps forward and one step back” is too tidy to depict my journey.  It still suggests a track that allows only for forward and reverse. 

For all my forward progress and backward regress there are many sidesteps. My pilgrimage is (unfortunately) not resolute. Seems I chase my tail sometimes. I distractedly sway to and fro, thinking I have a better route, a short cut, a new idea.  I lack initiative, hesitant to make decisions that I know should be made. I choose entertainment over enrichment, aimlessly surfing the net, browsing a magazine, flipping the channel. I procrastinate.  I make excuses.  I rebel.  I settle for the good rather than pursuing the best.  I wallow in self-pity and get bogged down by regret.

My pilgrimage is a convoluted mess; an entangled snare of twists and turns that I look back on and say, “How in the world did I end up here?”  I never would have projected that this is where I would be at the age of 39.   Never.  And the route I took to get here is still difficult to unravel.  Parts of it are just a jumbled snarl.

So a journey that could have taken a few weeks by the most direct route takes me forty years (well, 39 and change) as if I’m…well, as if I’m an Israelite wandering in the wilderness.  This is a plodding pilgrimage, a slow, heavy-footed progress.  But there is progress, as incremental as it may seem.  It is still a pilgrimage.  I am moving closer toward the goal to win the prize for which Christ has called me heavenward.  So today, in this plodding pilgrimage, I’ll walk resolute…barring distraction.