Tune My Heart

A recent post at the Art of Manliness blog, which I discovered courtesy of the king of Whizbangery, Herrick Kimble, suggests that the significant difference between mature and immature men (and people in general, I’d suggest) is whether they spend their time and find their identity through creation or consumption. They state the matter much better than I have:

Boys are consumers. When they’re young, their parents set up their experiences for them; their only job is to sit back and enjoy it. They live in their parents’ house, eat their parents’ food, and use their parents’ stuff. Their free time in used in amusement. They consume their parents’ resources and are passive and taken care of. They make little to no impact on the world and have little ownership of their lives. They are dependent.

The problem is that men aren’t outgrowing this passive role. Instead of creating, they go on consuming. They may not depend on Mom and Dad anymore (although sadly, they often do), but they’re still dependent on stuff for their happiness. Consuming clothes, movies, video games, cars, parties, fast food, and even travel to make them happy. They live only for their own pleasures and amusements.

The great thing about an overarching theory like this one–that men create while boys consume–is that it can be applied to other areas. If it’s true, then it ought to hold true when applied in those areas. That’s why I got to thinking about church.

Recently, I read the gospel of Matthew. As I neared the end of the book, I read the familiar words of Matthew 28:19Matthew 28:19
English: World English Bible - WEB
19

WP-Bible plugin, the Great Commission: “Go and find a church that meets your needs, partaking of its programs when they help you feel better about yourself.” Isn’t that how the verse goes?

Today’s church endures far too many church consumers, spiritual children who have no interest in building anything. These people worry a good deal about musical styles and how the church programs fit into their lifestyles. When the pastor’s sermons cut a bit too close their own compromises, when the Bible study class spends too much time studying and not enough socializing, when the student ministry doesn’t click perfectly with their perfect students, these people flit to the next church. They’ll never manage to build anything in their church du jour.

Jesus didn’t call us to consume the church any more than he called us to watch all the latest things on HBO or eat at the best restaurants. Happily, we get to enjoy TV shows, good food, and the benefits of church life, but that’s not our purpose.

Jesus called us to create disciples, to build something. We are to build the church as a self-replicating entity, to be builders of builders.

As I arrived home Tuesday, I heard a veritable eruption of dogs barking somewhere to the south of my barn. My first thought was, “That sounds like it’s down by the trap I set out for my escaped pigs.” (Long story. Another time.) But then I thought better of it. This was, almost certainly, some deranged cast of canines over at Richard’s house.

Moving on toward the house, I could tell that the dogs were either moving quickly or were much closer than Richard’s place. Employing my finely honed sense of auditory triangulation, I determined that these dogs were indeed down in the woods near that box trap.

Grabbing my shotgun and envisioning a foam-splattered pack of rabid Great Danes, I headed down the hill. The three dogs in attendance at the trap wound up being considerably less forbidding. They scattered at my approach. Inside the trap, a mid-sized raccoon waited patiently.

After considering my options, I determined that releasing Rocky Raccoon held the most promise, but, given the sudden cloudburst that utterly soaked me as I looked down, I elected to wait for the next day.

Armed this time with welding gloves and a stout hoe, I set to work opening the trap. Generally, opening a box trap is a fairly simple operation, but that’s when the cage does not contain a sharp-toothed, definitely hungry, probably surly, and possibly diseased overgrown ferret. Eventually I stood the cage up on end and opened the door with Rocky down on the ground. Then I used the hoe to hold the door open as I knocked the cage over. Rocky walked quickly out and disappeared without a second look into the underbrush.

As I walked back up the hill, it occurred to me that this little feat of liberation would have been a great deal easier had Rocky not been so menacing inside that cage. You’d think that a raccoon could hear me say, “I’m going to let you go,” and then chill out while I made the necessary moves. Instead, Rocky made noises that a Cocker Spaniel-sized critter should not be able to make.

How like humans, that raccoon turned out to be. Trapped by sin because of our own stupidity and selfishness, we look at God, the benevolent being who wants to effect our release, and make ugly noises at Him. We resent Him, snap at Him, and treat Him as the enemy. When He provides the means of our escape, we accept it but scurry away without a backward glance, pretending that we’ve managed to get free by our own efforts.

Yes, at our best, we’re a step or two above Rocky the Raccoon, but how often are we actually at our best?

Does the name James Pouillon ring a bell to you?

How about George Tiller?

My guess is that far more people will recognize the name of Tiller, the Wichita abortion doctor, murdered at the end of May 2009 than that of Mr. Pouillon, the anti-abortion protestor murdered September 11, 2009r 11, 2009
English: World English Bible - WEB


WP-Bible plugin. A Lexis-Nexis search for the two men’s names returned 422 hits for Tiller in major U.S. and world publications. How many for Pouillon? Can you believe 13?

I will grant that Tiller’s murder deserved somewhat more coverage. He was, after all, a medical doctor. Pouillon was a mere human being and therefore less worthy of the attention. Tiller was gunned down inside his church, while Pouillon was shot outside a school. (Oddly, Harland Drake, the killer of Pouillon, claimed to be motivated by the lurid signs the protester carried outside a school. Apparently the pair of bodies he left were preferable to graphic signs.) Perhaps most significantly, Tiller had gained previous notoriety as a target of anti-abortion protests. I truly do expect that his killing would gain more attention, but 32 times as much?

Scott Roeder, the convicted killer of Tiller, is mentioned in 233 articles. Harland Drake’s name shows up in not a single article. Granted, Drake was only sentenced a little over two months ago. Perhaps some of those major news outlets have not gotten around to the story just yet.

While one can spin this disparate coverage in any desired direction, the bottom line seems fairly obvious. By a gigantic margin, our journalism establishment finds the murder of an abortion provider to be more significant than that of an abortion protester. Or perhaps the press simply does not desire to cover a story that runs counter to the grand narrative they like to advance.

Regardless, if you don’t know who James Pouillon was, it’s really not your fault.

A couple of days ago, as I sat around a table of missions writers in Atlanta, Penny texted me with a photo. The caption read: “What’s wrong with this picture.” As I looked more closely, I saw that my turkey pen, two chain-link dog runs connected end-to-end, which should have been standing in front of a concrete-block compost area, instead stood behind it, roofless.

“You’ve either moved the turkey pen or the compost pile. Which was it?” I replied.

She didn’t find that funny. Apparently, the wind had managed to pick up the pen and drop it twenty feet away, ripping the roof off in the bargain. I had visions of the turkeys stepping out in the morning and thinking themselves in Munchkinland.

Having checked with Penny, however, I’ve confirmed that the birds have taken the whole thing in stride. It’ll be a bit of work and some measure of expense for me to put things right. Such things happen.

I’m writing these words as I sit in the Atlanta airport. I mention this fact since a week ago, had I been traveling by air to, from, or around Europe, another act of nature, this time a cloud of volcanic ash. As I followed the news of that event, I marveled at the fact that European countries require airlines to reimburse travelers inconvenienced by such events. Perhaps I ought to live in Europe. Could I perhaps hold the makers of wind turbines accountable for my problems? After all, the argument is similar. Airlines use the sky. The volcano prevented the sky from being used; therefore, the airline should reimburse travelers. Wind turbine companies use the wind. The wind messed up my turkey pen; therefore, . . .  Okay, it’s not exactly the same argument.

Apparently, Europe is operating on the premise that nothing bad should ever be allowed to happen to anybody. If the rain messes up your dry-clean clothing, then either the clothing manufacturer or your local dry cleaner should make things right. Should hail dimple your car, then the auto manufacturer should cover your loss. When an ice-induced power failure knocks out your freezer long enough that you lose a side of beef, I’m not sure whether the power company or the grocer ought to cover the bill.

This little jaunt through the absurd is not intended as a call to utter individualism. I have no problem with taking help or giving help in times of need. I applaud those companies that attempt to alleviate problems not of their making. In many cases, it’s not just good business to go the extra mile; it’s simply the human way to behave. My problem is with the suggestion that somebody—a company, the government, your next-door neighbor—is legally obligated not just to be decent to you but to provide restitution for unpleasant events they had no hand in causing.

Bad stuff happens. Are we moving toward a world in which we attempt to kiss every boo boo and “make it better”? I hope not, because that sort of thing was a ruse even back when Mom did it. Grown ups don’t attempt to avoid all possibility of bad things happening; we live with those things, for along with the triumphs of existence, these things comprise the memorable aspects of our lives.

Here’s to keeping the over-protective governmental parents in Europe. I’ll fix my own turkey pen, knowing full well that next week something else bad is likely to happen. It’s okay. That’s (literally) life.

I’d love to claim to be a true-blue agrarian and to earn all of my living selling our one cash crop, limestone, and bartering with locust pods. Such is not the case, however. Several times a week, your faithful correspondent is compelled by economic necessity to travel from the wilds of rural Lafayette County, Missouri to the suburban smoothness of Johnson County, Kansas. At times, this journey is rather like visiting another country.

As I walked into the college on Monday of this week, an unwelcome and unexpected sight greeted me. Opening the door to my office, I saw water dripping from the ceiling. After making a quick phone call to the facilities people, I cleared the papers from my office mate’s desk in case the leak spread. Then, having strategically positioned waste cans, I sat down to watch the water flow and to prepare for class.

Later in the day, I pulled file drawers out, scrounged trash bags to protect my diplomas and better books, and repositioned our printer away from the spreading trickle of rainwater. I don’t mention any of this seeking commendation as some sort of leaky-roof hero. Frankly, this sort of defensive action seemed pretty unremarkable.

My colleagues, however, seem to respond differently.  Over the past three days, I’ve heard a good bit of hand-wringing about mold. Apparently, Nathan and I are doomed to a life of emphysema and worse. Various walkers-by have opined on the great danger we face from water flowing around light fixtures. It seemed to me that the electricians who visited us might have wanted to kill the relevant breakers before they killed us, but I’m sure my English-teacher friends know better about the perils of electrical doom.

This morning, the president of the college came in and said, “We’ve got to get you out of here.” It sounded like he was about to mobilize the Coast Guard to evacuate me. Perhaps the operation will involve helicopters and hovercraft. All in all, though, it seems to me that moving out, right at the end of the semester, would be far too much of a pain to countenance.

Reflecting on these exchanges, I’m convinced that there are two basic responses to events of this sort. The rural response almost has to be a can-do, roll-with-the-punches one. When you live in the sticks, you’d better be able to pull your own vehicle out of the mud and throw tarps over a leaky roof. Helplessness simply isn’t much of an option if you don’t want to be broke or utterly devastated.

In my office, I’m seeing the can’t-do attitude that can survive in the suburban/urban world. To be fair, there are plenty of can-do people in the ‘burbs and urbs, but the can’t-dos can survive there. They can pontificate on various threats, a few of which might be real, and wait for other people to rescue them from the vicissitudes of life.

The fact is, part of me thinks the whole hole-in-the-roof episode is kind of cool. (Granted, it’s the part of me that knows he won’t have to pay the bill for fixing the thing.) While I appreciate the trained and capable people who can do the things that I can’t do, whether it be fixing my car or building the roads I drive it on, I also value the measure of self-reliance that I bring to life.  It’ll turn an inconvenience like this into an adventure. Life should be an adventure.