Marketing the Messiah

I haven't been writing for the blog much lately.  I'll get back to it soon.  But I have been writing.  This piece was accepted by Standard Publishing for their Adult Sunday School Quarterly, "Seek," and will appear in December this year.  

We live in a marketing saturated culture.  According to Consumer Reports, the average American is exposed to 247 commercial messages a day.  From the sixty second spots that interrupt our favorite television shows to the receipts that print out at the grocery store with coupons on the back.  From vehicle wraps that turn buses into billboards to sponsored phone lines radio call in shows.  Products are placed, logos are designed, jingles are sung, taglines are repeated - all with the intent of prodding us to purchase, or donate, or register. 

I’m not being cynical.  I’m part of the system.  I work as a retail manager, constantly thinking about how to generate revenue, increase loyalty, and improve profit margins.  I place products to maximize sales.  I train my employees to suggestively offer products and services.  I study sales figures to keep adequate stock levels and minimize spoilage. 

So when I hear, in John 3, that John the Baptist is losing market share in his signature service, I think marketing.  His disciples come to him with concern over a competitor siphoning off the stream of baptismal customers.  “Rabbi, he that was with thee beyond Jordan, to whom thou barest witness, behold, the same baptizeth, and all men come to him” (John 3:26).  This is a problem easily addressed.  Fresh strategies will breathe new life into John’s start-up and propel him back on top.  With some simple changes, he can set the standard in the baptismal marketplace.  As an innovator, his name will be forever linked to baptizing.

So here is my proposal.  Build a new viewing area with comfortable seating for family and friends.  If possible, include a pavilion to provide shade from the midday sun or shelter from passing rain showers. Comfortable locker rooms would be an attractive addition, as would regulated water temperatures.  As candidates exit the water they should be met by one of John’s disciples with a warmed terry cloth towel to wrap around them.  Photography service with a free 8x10 and numerous package options available would be an easy addition, as many photographers would jump at the chance to capitalize on such a memorable moment. 

New lighting would allow for evening baptisms and a café could offer refreshments.  Over time they might consider offering special “dinner and a baptism” deals, though I might recommend they outsource the catering, since food service is a whole mess of regulations.  These special events would be a perfect opportunity for an advertising blitz whether through direct mailing or media spots.

Some of this may demand a bit too much overhead, so they might want to put some feelers out for investors.  I’m sure they could convince people this is a worthwhile investment with a well-developed presentation for venture capitalists.

And this is just for starters, ideas that flow off the top of my head.  There is much more they can do to turn this around.  But just as I’m getting excited by the possibility, John douses my enthusiasm with his response. 

“John answered and said, ‘A man can receive nothing, except it be given him from heaven. Ye yourselves bear me witness, that I said, I am not the Christ, but that I am sent before him. He that hath the bride is the bridegroom: but the friend of the bridegroom, which standeth and heareth him, rejoiceth greatly because of the bridegroom's voice: this my joy therefore is fulfilled. He must increase, but I must decrease’” (John 3:27-30).

The disciples come with a concern.  Smaller crowds.  I’m thinking of a solution.  Drum up more interest.  This seems justifiable.  You can make a case for large crowds in ministry as much as the marketplace. If the ministry is worthwhile, then why wouldn’t we want more people exposed to it. More people means more influence.  Larger services, more visitors, better production, higher offerings become measuring sticks of ministry success, like profit and loss spreadsheets in the retail world.  Churches are measured by how effectively they fill the seats. But this is short-sighted.

John says this shrinkage is according to plan.  His decrease means Jesus’ increase.  As he fades, Christ is exalted.  He is not the groom in this wedding, the focal point of the festivity.  He is the groomsman, who is making sure that attention goes to the bridal couple. Before the wedding starts, he may be the most noticeable one, scurrying around making last minute preparations.  But when the bridal march begins and the groom enters from the side door, the groomsman is happy to stand off to the side, largely unnoticed.  His whole intent is to focus attention on the groom.

And so we see that John is more concerned about attention than attendance.  He will do all he can to direct people’s attention to Christ.  This is the measure of ministry.  How effectively does the church draw people’s attention to Christ?  John would prefer and handful of Christ-absorbed people over an auditorium full of John-absorbed people.  He recognizes that his time has come to fade into the background and turn the spotlight on Jesus.

And the corporate application wiggles its way down to the individual.  How effectively do you turn the attention of people you interact with to Christ?  Does your life point them to The Life?  Are you willing to say, with John, “He must increase, but I must decrease.”  He doesn’t need better marketing.  He needs you pointing those in your family, in your neighborhood, and in your workplace to Christ.

Losing And Still Winning

On the heals of my second place finish in the Adirondack marathon relay, I decided to run one more race this season – the Empire State half marathon. The unreasonable entry fees keep me from racing more often than I do, but having spent three months building up my conditioning, it made sense to capitalize on that with one more race.   Based on last year’s results I knew my goal time would put me right in the mix for an award in my age group.  My hopes were high.

The race was this past weekend.  I ran well, right on my goal pace throughout, and finished in 1:32:08, good enough for 41st overall in a field of about 1350.  I was anxious to see how that would stack up against the other 40-45 year olds.  Results were printed out and taped to the side of a trailer where a crowd gathered.  I wriggled my way to the front and found my listing.  The results were in.  I placed fourth in my age group.  Awards for the top three.  And I was fourth. 

All the satisfaction of my individual performance withered in the light of the posted race results that left me just shy of the podium.  My time was good.  But I was just another also-ran.  I got a finishers medal – same as Will Artley who finished 1349th overall and took two and a half times as long to cover the 13.1 miles.

The next day I interviewed for a new position at work, a district manager.  I wrote about the experience in my last post, comparing it to a coin toss.  From my vantage point it was a wholly uncertain outcome.  From God’s perspective, it was a settled physics formula.  He knew the outcome the moment he tossed the coin.  He controlled all the variables that determined whether the coin would land heads or tails. 

Since then the coin, flipping end-over-end, has come to rest.  All that spinning finished.  All that uncertainty settled.  I had called it heads as it was whirled through the air throbbing with vigor.  Now I gaze at a coin still as night, tales side up.  I did not get the job.  There was one candidate who beat me out based on experience.  I was runner-up, small consolation in a contest with only one prize.

Runner-up may be harder to stomach than back of the pack.  Close enough to taste victory, only to walk away with a mouth full of sand.  It’s a gritty chew that goes down hard.  Hope runs high and disappointment runs deep. The near miss has all the drama of victory and all the angst of defeat. It is being in the running and then losing on the final kick. But failure measured in inches is as much failure as that measured in yards.  There is little comfort is being the best of the losers.

I didn’t stay for the awards ceremony after the race.  Why bother?  I wouldn’t get anything for fourth place.  Later that day I went on the website to check out the results a bit more closely.  The results opened to a page entitled “HalfMarathon – Awards and Age Group Listing.”  I scrolled down to my age group and found my name listed in third place.  Third place?  But I was fourth.

It turns out that they also had an overall masters award for those forty and older.  The first place finisher in my age group was the overall masters winner.  Having won the masters, he was not included in the age group awards.  Everyone moved up a spot. I moved into third.  Knocked out of the awards only to discover a loophole allowing me to slide into third.  I lost; and yet I won.  This seems a formula that God employs frequently.

When he called to tell me the decision, the director of Human Resources said that he had bad news and good news.  The bad news was that I didn’t get the job.  The good news was that they recognized the need to create a career path to allow me to move forward.  They have decided to develop a new position for me – a regional supervisor.  As they build a third Syracuse location and expand the original Syracuse location to include full food service, they would like me to move out of a single store and begin to supervise six profit centers for Syracuse – three stores and three food service departments.  

I lost, and yet I won.  Missing out on the District Manager position hurts, but this regional supervisor may be better suited to me – less travel and more concentrated focus on three locations.  This is my strength.  I trained all the managers in the Syracuse market.  I am training two more now.  These are established relationships of trust and respect, easily leveraged for me to act as supervisor.  I run an increasingly profitable store, top line and bottom line and feel confident that this is reproducible.  I know our food service program well, from front line production to back house administrative work.  Even now I am helping a new food service supervisor in our store get his legs under him.  This seems a good fit, from every angle. 

It will be some time before the pieces fall into place, probably coinciding with the building of the new location in the next year or so.  But I am hopeful.  In losing the coin toss, I may still win the game.  The seeds of hope have been planted in the rich compost of disappointment.  On close inspection, I see the stem just breaking through the soil.

Successful Failure Pt. 5 - Setting a Standard

That's me on the podium, second from the left

I ran the Adirondack Marathon Relay recently.  I was the second leg of a two man relay team.  In a post about failure, I suppose it is unbecoming to mention that we placed second in the relay.  My legs recovered after a couple of days, but my ego is still a bit swollen.

But this post isn’t about my race.  In addition to the marathon and marathon relay, there was also a half marathon, which started at the relay exchange, about half way around Schroon Lake.  The half marathon began an hour after the marathon and I knew my partner would take a little over an hour and a half to reach the exchange.  So I was able to watch the start of the half marathon before warming up.

In the throng at the start line, I noticed an older man.  In many ways he looked like all the other runners - dressed in exercise pants with race bib pinned to the front of his tech shirt.  But while other runners fiddled with their ipods at the start, he gripped his walker.  The gun went off and the sound of pounding feet was joined by the scrape of a shuffling walker.  The old man’s hunched frame bore weight down on the metal bars as he crept across the start and onto the course.  He settled into last place.

For half an hour I bottled up my adrenalin as I awaited my relay partner.  He arrived, the exchange was made, and I was off, chasing down the pack of half marathoners who had a nearly thirty five minute head start.  I knew I would catch some of them over the ensuing 13 miles, but figured it would take a few miles to close the gap.  About a mile in, I reached the trailing half marathoner much sooner than I expected.  It was the shuffling old man.  There were many others I passed subsequently, nondescript and easily forgotten.  Not the man with the walker.  He stood out from the rest.

As I arrived in town there were crowds cheering, a drum band playing, a digital time clock  ticking, and an announcer naming incoming runners.  Medals were hung around the necks of finishers as they walked the shoot.  Warming blankets were available. The massage tent was crowded.  The refreshment tent was abounding.  The runners were giddy. And the old man, I suspect, was slowly trudging along somewhere near mile three. 

It had taken him nearly 45 minutes to walk the first mile.  Multiply that out over 13 miles and you realize that it would take him almost ten hours to reach the finish line.  Having started at 10 in the morning, he would reach the terminus at 8 in the evening, long after the race was over.  According to the information packet I had received, the course was officially open until 3:00 pm.  After that, closed street would reopen, officers controlling traffic would head home, and the finish line reverie would wind down.  Hours later, in dim light he would enter the village of Schroon Lake and shuffle down empty streets to the vacant park that had served as the post-race party site earlier in the day. 

I don’t know if he finished.  He gets no mention in the official race results.  All the timing mats were long gone by the time he would have finished.  I like to think he did.  A man with enough resolve to enter a half marathon though dependant on a walker seems like someone who would finish no matter how long it took.  Supposing he did, he most certainly was in last place.

Last place sounds like failure.  But who, watching this man hobble his way through thirteen miles, would ever call his race a letdown?  His finish may have been the most inspirational of all the participants, even if few were there to witness it.  He didn’t run to win.  He ran to finish.  And for him to finish was a greater display of courage and commitment than the hundreds who finished before him.   Completing a half marathon is an accomplishment that even fully mobile people find difficult.  When is the last time you traveled thirteen miles by foot?  You could argue that the failure of last place was a greater success then my second place finish. 

So this, my last post on failure.  We have considered how failure can be our ally (Part 1).  It allows us to develop persistence (Part 2), make progress (Part 3), and establish credibility (Part 4).  I close with this thought – success and failure are contingent on a standard.  To succeed is to reach or surpass that standard.  To fail is to fall short of that mark.  Sometimes, the issue isn’t with the execution, it’s with the aspiration.  We aim for the wrong things.  We embrace the wrong standard.  It may be that we expect too much of ourselves…or too little.  Or maybe I have accepted someone else’s standard for me, allowing them to define the measurement of my success.

To have finished a half marathon in 10 hours would have been a horrible failure for me, but for this old man, it would be a raging success.  Like the woman who puts two small copper coins into the temple treasury who Jesus says gave more than all the rest.  Others gave out of their wealth, she gave out of her poverty and put in all she had to live on (Luke 21:1-4).  Sometimes success for one person would be failure for another. 

As a writer who believes in absolute truth, I bristle at the subjectivity of those last two paragraphs.  They feel too wily nilly; untethered to anything absolute.  It comes with a caveat.  In the realm of morality, there is an absolute standard that has been set, a standard that is encapsulated in the biblical theme of holiness.  That would be a whole other post. 

But here, as I think about success and failure, I have in mind the many instances when the standard is not set out as a black and white moral absolute.  These are goals, aspirations that we strive for.  To finish a half marathon in under two hours or in under ten hours, either one may be appropriate.  Goals must be personally relevant, set high enough to make you stretch and low enough to be attainable.  That will be different for me and you.  Failure may be an opportunity to reevaluate the goal to determine if you are aiming at the right thing. 

I race again in a week and a half at the Empire State Half Marathon.  I’m shooting for 1:32 , which is a respectable pace by any standard.  But it’s attainable, for me at least.  I don’t race with a walker.   

Successful Failure Pt.4 - Credibility

After introducing this series with the idea of failure as an ally (Part 1), I went on to write that failure allows us to develop persistence (Part 2) and make progress (Part 3). Here I offer a third way that failure can be to our advantage.

Whoever conceals their sins does not prosper, but the one who confesses and renounces them finds mercy. Proverbs 28:13

Sometimes I get caught with my hand in the cookie jar.  I am pinned down with no escape.  My guilt is evident.  I cry “Uncle.”  But more often, my failure is not so obvious.  There is an opening, whether a crack or a gaping hole, for me to escape the charge.  Fingers, after all, were made for pointing.  I can shift the blame, make excuses, hide the evidence, redefine my intention, deny my role.  These, the currency of avoiding responsibility.  My wallet is full of them.

And yet, I know how unappealing I find this in others.  It is hard to trust those who always take credit and never accept blame.  When appearance is paramount, truth and honesty are eclipsed.  When given an excuse, I usually accept it graciously.  But seeds of doubt are planted.  The more excuses offered, the less plausible they appear.  I wonder if they realize that in saving face, they are losing credibility.

I’m a retail manager at Delta Sonic, a carwash / detail shop / gas station/ convenience store /brick oven pizza / Tim Hortons / deli.  I oversee the store and foodservice.  A chunk of my job involves interacting with customers, particularly those that are dissatisfied.  Sometimes I botch this. 

Recently, we were running a special where if you spent $12 on our foodservice, you would receive a $5 gift certificate for wash or detail services.  It was well promoted, displayed on every table menu and poster sized clip signs on the building exterior. 

Then we ran out of gift certificates.  I didn’t realize until one of my cashiers asked if we had any more.  I checked the safe, which is on a three minute time lock, and told my cashier that we had run out.  By this time, the customer had already picked up their food and sat down at a table to eat.  Knowing how prominently we were advertising a promotion that we could not fulfill, I collected all the table menus, removed all other advertising, and sent an e-mail requesting more gift certificates.  I did nothing for the customer.  When she returned to the counter to ask about the gift card, my cashier explained that we had run out.  Again, I did nothing for the customers.  She didn’t seem visibly upset, but I did not take any initiative to make things right. 

Later that day, she sent a blistering e-mail to our customer service department about my indifference to her, accusing me of being more concerned about “scurrying around to confiscate all evidence of the promotion.”  Ouch.  Painful - not only in the forcefulness, but in the truthfulness.  She was right.

I know the contents of the e-mail because my district manager wanted an explanation.  I had none. I had delivered poor customer service, for which there was no excuse.  I could have easily offered her free wash passes or a handwritten $5 gift certificate.  I didn’t.  And no matter how good the food, the customer left with a bad taste in their mouth.  I made a mistake, which is what I told my district manager.   I took responsibility for my failure, resisting the urge to offer any excuse.  This was a blow to my pride, but a boost to my credibility. 

About a month later, I was the subject of another e-mail, this time related to a customer who had trouble pumping her gas.  When she spoke with me about it, I asked if she was able to pump her gas in the end.  She said she was, but thought someone should know that the pump was not acting properly.  I told her I would have someone check it out.  She appeared satisfied when she left.  End of story.  Except that she sent a scathing e-mail to our customer service department, accusing me cheating her out of gas.  She is convinced that the pump was charging her when no gas was going through the line.  This was not what I understood her complaint to be.

My district manager wanted an explanation.  I told him that what she was communicating in the e-mail was not what she communicated with me in the store.  Even in hindsight I felt like I had handled it well.  Hearing two sides, my district manager accepted my account.  He took me at my word.  I suspect that is, in part, because I have shown a willingness to take responsibility when I am wrong.  I had built of reputation of standing in the truth rather than leaning on excuses. 

After telling the disciples not resort to oaths to establish their credibility, Jesus says, “Simply let your ‘Yes’ be ‘Yes,’ and your ‘No,’ ‘No.”  (Matthew 5:37).  Our credibility should be so well established that we need not resort to emphatic promises of truthfulness.  When the truth of our pronouncements must be verified by calling God as witness (“I swear to God”) or inviting personal harm for deceit (“cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye”) then we are implicitly acknowledging our dishonesty.  A monosyllabic “Yes” or “No” should be adequate. 

Which brings me back to successful failure.  Failure is a testing ground for truth, an opportunity to establish my credibility.  Anyone can be honest in the light of success.  Candor comes easy when the accolades flow.  But in the shadows of failure, honestly is an act of courage.  Chastisement and blame are bitter pills to swallow.  To take that medicine may provide the opportunity to fix the failure, but not always.  What is certain is that taking that medicine will build your trustworthiness.  If I admit it when I am wrong, then I am believable when I am right.  And if I had to chose, I’d rather be known for my unwavering credibility than for my unblemished competence.