Divine Twenty-Somethings

New York Times columnist David Brooks, a self-described progressive-conservative, addressed the Rome, Georgia intelligentsia last night at a lecture hall on a local college campus. Briefly stated, he described politicians as ego-maniacs, admitted his bias for John McCain, declared Hillary's campaign over, and indicated that he believed Barack Obama would be the next president of the United States.

Oh--and he pretty much deified twenty-somethings as the saviors of the world who might just manage to leave the globe better off than they found it.

I have to say that I agree with him.

I don't have a lot to go on, though I was glad to hear Brooks list his reasons.

My reasons are much more unscientific and are based upon absolutely no polling, no books, and no interviews with people who know.

I just find twenty-somethings to be genuinely nice people who are much more interested in relationships and in making a difference in the world than they are in getting a leg up on somebody else.

Like the young German guy who sat by me this week on a flight from Frankfurt, Germany to Atlanta. I'm sure we presented quite a comical sight, particularly as the two of us, seated in tight proximity (on an emergency exit row, thank God!) watched the movie, Enchanted. You know, the one about Giselle and Prince Charming winding up in New York City and the evil stepmother chasing them around town. We giggled at just the same moments and looked at each other as if to say, "That was a great line" or "What a cute little chimpmunk!"

It's really a sweet movie! My own wife couldn't get me to go see it--and there I was with a perfect (and male) stranger sitting closer than she and I would have sat if we'd gone to the local cinema. The flight attendant found it quite amusing and shook her head as she wandered by.

Afterward, my seatmate made his way to the back of the plane for a potty break. When he returned, he had two bags of trail mix--one for him and one for me. I hardly knew how to act! I've been traveling the world for years in close proximity to strangers--and no one ever bothered to bring me anything. I've never gotten water, peanuts, orange juice, or even those little fishy snacks they give you on Asian airlines. Nothing!

And then this twenty-something German guy hands me a bag of trail mix!

I know what you're thinking--and so I want to make it clear that I don't base my conclusions simply on this one little isolated experience. I find this younger generation to generally be about the task of making the world a better place. I know of a young woman in Ghana who has spent a considerable amount of time and energy engaged in HIV/Aids education among young girls and who spends some time in the markets doing domestic violence surveys. I've seen this generation hard at work in Chile and China, rural Alabama and rural Thailand. I've seen them digging wells and endorsing Millennium Development Goals and writing grants for Katrina recovery in New Orleans, and passing out mosquito netting in Kenya.

I like them! They know how to think about the other guy--to put themselves in other womens' shoes.

And they know how to pause just long enough in the flight galley to wonder if the guy seated next to them might be a little hungry.

So . . . maybe Brooks overstated it a bit and they aren't exactly saviors in the classic sense of the word--but I'm bending my knee a bit in their direction just in case.

On Ancient Athens and the Grand Scheme of Things

I wasn't prepared for the thoughts that gripped me, probably because I was much more focused on the meetings I had in Greece than I was upon the fact that I was standing on the Acropolis in Athens. For several hours this past weekend, I meandered around that ancient hill exploring the ruins, surprised to discover that the Parthenon had been temple, church, and mosque in its long and storied history, sitting as it does at the crossroads of east and west. Reflection didn't come easy--but I somehow managed to get there.

For about a half hour, I sat on the Areopagus Rock and considered this unique place of ancient Athens--its cosmopolitan character, its contributions to the way a significant portion of humanity understands and perceives its reality. My thoughts went to Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle and others among the philosophers and to their ability to think outside the box to such an extent that they essentially created the box for some of the rest of us as they struggled with the most basic question of reality: How do we know that a thing is real?

I was surprised to find myself thinking more about them than even about the Apostle Paul. It was into their world that he came when he stood at the Areopagus and presented a few audacious ideas about a tiny little cult out of Palestine. It was their ideas that he and others among the early Christians were up against. I found myself admiring the guts of a man who brazenly preached his new faith in such a context, finding in a statue to the unknown God some point of intersection between his little cult and the Athenian worldview.

But I am also quite aware that it was the Hellenistic world to which he and others among the early apologists had to appeal as they sought to communicate the Christian reality amid such a dominating perspective on reality. Jesus was risen indeed--but that resurrection needed a bit of interpretation in ways that conformed to the prevailing perspective on what was real and what was not real. After all, if the people who were hearing it couldn't receive it in ways that conformed to their understanding of reality, then what was the point really?

Isn't this the challenge for any faith that hopes to offer meaning and hope in whatever context it finds itself? It's not so much that a thing is true. It is much more essential that it resonates with the heart, mind and spirit of those with whom it is shared to the extent that it is made real for them. To put it another way, the only faith worth its salt is a faith that can be embraced fully by those to whom it is proclaimed because it speaks to them, to their reality, and in their language.

There, on that ancient hill, it came to me. I still live very much in the world of Socrates and Plato and Aristotle. They continue to frame the boundaries of my reality. I read the world through their lenses. Paul speaks to me in their language, due in large measure to the fact that, for centuries, theologians and philosophers have interpreted him for me in the context of my worldview.

But the vast majority of the world just doesn't wear those glasses. There are other ancient voices that shape their realities--philosophers of brilliance and stature, powerful storytellers, prophets and priests. They have their own hills and mountains, marketplaces and temples. Their sense of what makes something real and true is far different from my sense of what makes it real and true. And any faith to which they give their attention will be a faith that resonates with their reality and that doesn't have to pass the test of my philosophers and theologians in order to make some sense in their grand scheme of things.

A Pawley's Island Breather

I've just experienced a great reversal of the creation story in Genesis--6 straight days of rest with virtually no work accomplished at all! It was grand--indeed, rest is good for the soul--and it helps if you throw in an ocean and some beach and about six days of nothing but an NCAA basketball tournament and a couple of good books and some Scrabble.

We just spent a week at Pawley's Island on the coast of South Carolina. My wife and her family have been going there for at least a week every year for something like 50 years. I have to admit that the experience is hard to beat. We rented one of those old Pawley's Island houses right on the ocean and thoroughly enjoyed the experience.

Here's my top ten for the week!

10. That morning cup of coffee walking down the beach--and especially the last few cold swigs.

9. The New York Times read thoroughly with few interruptions--to the extent that you even get beyond the first section--and live for a moment with the illusion that you might finally finish the crossword puzzle.

8. A full moon directly outside your bedroom window and right over the ocean, with moonbeams playing off the waves.

7. Three cheap paperbacks with really good plots that are already forgotten.

8. A few hard-fought games of Scrabble and rummy.

7. Some great steamed oysters at Nance's in Murrell's Inlet.

6. An evening of shrimp and crab arond the dining room table.

5. Tossing the football around the beach while vainly compensating for the stiff breeze.

4. Turning "Out-of-office assistant" on knowing that it means you don't have to check email at all--for a week.

3. Louisville vs. Tennessee capped by a Louisville win.

2. Long bicycle rides from one end of the island to the other.

1. Good long talks that wouldn't happen otherwise and that are made special by the fact that it is the last Spring Break from high school that we will ever share with our children.

I wonder if the surf and sand don't grab something elemental deep within me. After all, God drew the lines between land and sea pretty early in the week and then he hung the sun and moon in the sky almost immediately thereafter. Perhaps this is why there is a certain peace that comes with standing on the beach with my toes in the water and the back of my feet on the sand while a full moon tugs gently at the water or a bright sun warms my face. Animals and people come along much later in the week--and they certainly complicate matters.

Oops--excuse me for a second! My cellphone is ringing.

It must be the seventh day.

Dinner--with Friends

I knew they were Filipino by the way they held their forks and knives and, I must confess, if I hadn't been dining alone, I probably would never have spoken to them. But there I sat in a restaurant by myself on a Saturday evening in Richmond, Virginia, more hungry for some good conversation than I was for the tapas that I had just ordered.

Twice I almost took the plunge--but then bailed out. It isn't easy to start a conversation with absolute strangers even if they are sitting just two feet away in a cramped dining room and even if you are convinced that you spent thirteen years as a child in the country that they hail from. We like our walls, after all--and separate tables generally mean separate conversations. It's just the way we're wired.

Finally, I caught the man's attention for the briefest moment and the words spilled out.

"Excuse me," I said (with as big a smile as I could muster). "Are the two of you from the Philippines?"

I was relieved when they smiled back--and covered their mouths with their hands as Filipinos always do when attempting to speak while chewing food.

"Oh, yes," they said in unison--and, of course, they wanted to know how I knew.

"I knew it by the way you were eating," I said, "You were pushing the food up onto your spoon with your fork." And I mimicked the action.

They laughed out loud--and covered their mouths again.

We talked for a long while--about old Filipino songs and television commercials, about Filipino food and friendliness, about what it is like to grow up in a culture far removed from home. They were newly-married--less than a year. And they wondered about the impact that growing up in the US context might have upon their children some day. Would they still appreciate the rich heritage of the Philippines?

I tried to reassure them. "It really is up to you," I said. And I encouraged them to give their kids the advantage of being bilingual. I admitted that my Tagalog was much poorer than it should be--and they complimented me on my accent when we did talk briefly in that national dialect.

Then . . . it ended. It was a single meal out of the thousands that I will share with other folks across my lifetime. But it was a dinner to remember.

It was such a small thing--the way they pushed their food up with their forks onto their spoons. But it was that small thing that enabled me to recognize them for who they were--and that encouraged me to take the risk of engaging them in conversation.

Such moments don't happen often. I've generally got plenty of people around to talk to at dinner. And there is very little reason to risk a conversation with strangers . . . who actually wind up not being strangers after all.

Remembering a Great Aunt

We buried my great aunt Dot on Saturday in Athens, Georgia. She was almost 97 years old and, for the past 33 years or so might as well have been my paternal grandmother. It seems strange to live in a world now that she does not inhabit. She has been a fixture in my life for 48 years--always just across the street from the Nash family farm in Athens. Always just across that street from the old home place--never anywhere else. Just always there. You could count on it as much as you could count on anything in life. A constant and unwavering presence--always ready to receive a hug and to walk with you into the living room where you could sit and talk about life and the weather and politics.

It was good to be family when it came to Aunt Dot. As my father said at the funeral, "If you were her friend, you were her friend for life; but if you were her enemy, woe be unto you." I was family--and so I didn't have to worry about whether or not I was her friend or her enemy. Family meant everything to her--so if you were blood kin, then you were in like flint. Everyone else was held at a distance until she could distinguish the friends from the foes.

She had a dry, biting wit that could somehow be sarcastic and loving all at the same time.

My father recalled the time that he and Mom accompanied Aunt Dot and Uncle Sid to the mall in Gainesville. Uncle Sid must have dressed in the dark because he had on one brown shoe and one black shoe. Aunt Dot was the first to notice (of course). "Sid," she said, "You got another pair of shoes like that at home?"

She and Uncle Sid had lived through the Great Depression and managed to survive. Like many of her generation, she saved 99 cents of every dollar that Sid brought home from the Athens hardware where he worked. I guess this was why she never understood why anyone would ever leave a tip at a restaurant that was more than 10 percent of the tab. Her reasoning--"The Good Lord only gets ten percent--and nobody in this world ought to get more than He gets."

It was hard to argue with Aunt Dot.

She demonstrated that careful blend of sarcasm and love in the final comment I ever heard her make. We went over to the hospital to see her this past Christmas. Our visits had become much less frequent over the last few years what with teenage children and work schedules. She waited until we were almost out the door before delivering the punch--"See you next Christmas," she muttered just loud enough for us to hear. I was almost to the elevator before I caught her drift!

My son calls her his favorite aunt (at least of the great-great aunt variety of which he has several). He says it's because you always knew where you stood with Dot. You didn't have to wonder--she let you know. And I count that as a real gift--in a world where lots of us wear masks and act lovingly toward each other when we really don't mean it down deep.

It's nice in life to bump into someone now and then who doesn't play the game.

I think we call that "integrity"--and I'm proud to have had an aunt who had it. She gave the rest of us in the family a marker to gauge ourselves by.

More Planeguage

I hate to keep picking on Delta--but I seem to be living on the airline these days, so I guess it's a bit like picking on family. My frequent flyer status has even started to earn me the coveted "upgrade" on occasion, especially on weekends when there are fewer business travelers. There's a bit of a trick to it, I'm learning. If you find yourself on the list of folks waiting on an upgrade, then make sure that you don't board the plane and take your economy seat until the very last minute just before the gate closes. Chances are that the other folks awaiting an upgrade will go ahead and board, and you'll get the seat with lots of legroom in the front!

Now--on to what is disturbing me about Delta! Last weekend I clambered aboard a flight to Dallas and was awarded a business class upgrade. I felt pretty good about it until I started overhearing the conversations around me and discovered that about seven Delta employees were sitting in business class. I was a bit astounded! Why would a company put its own employees in the best seats when there were lots of paying customers who were sitting in the cramped sections of economy class? I tried to imagine Walmart allowing its employees to park right in front of the store while its customers parked out in the boondocks!

It just didn't make good sense.

I decided to get a second opinion from the nice lady sitting beside me. We had become fast friends when I assisted her in placing her rather heavy carry-on in the overhead bin.

I leaned over toward her so that our conversation wouldn't be overheard.

"Is it just me?" I asked. "Or do you agree that it is a rather bad business practice for a company to move its employees to the front of the plane when paying customers are sitting in the back of the plane?"

Her eyes grew a bit wide.

"That's just a courtesy our company gives to those of us who work for Delta," she retorted.

Ooops!

Make that eight employees in the front of the plane.

And one of them didn't speak to me much at all for the rest of the flight.

Flying Over Suffering

I flew over suffering and death on Wednesday . . . literally. My Los Angeles to Atlanta "redeye" flight just happened to be in the air at just the time that dozens of tornadoes were setting down in Arkansas, Tennessee, Alabama and a number of other states. The pilot announced that there was a bit of weather off to our southeast and that we shouldn't be too concerned. He advised us to return to our seats and fasten our seat belts. It was a bit of inconvenience--but most of us complied.

I didn't pay much attention until I noticed lightning flashes outside the window. This got my attention. As I peered out, I saw a beautiful dark sky with twinkling stars above and a thick white cloud blanket below. The lightning splayed across the cloud blanket, bursting here and there all over the place. Occasionally a burst of lightning would rise above the blanket and create a brilliant flash. Generally though, the lightning was below the cover and the clouds would light up like some weird sort of neon cotton candy.

It was one of the most beautiful, awe-inspiring sights I have ever seen. The plane sailed peacefully on without a single bump while nature put on a dramatic show. We were somehow above it all--experiencing absolutely no effects--separated from the trauma below and at an altitude where we could simply watch and wonder.

Underneath, people were dying. I discovered this much later in the day after the flight had landed and I had started home. I tried to tell my wife about the beauty of it--and she began to share with me the horror of lives destroyed, of homes absolutely devastated, of communities in terrible pain and suffering.

It occurred to me that this is how it often is with suffering. Some of us endure the pain while others sail over it without even realizing that it exists at all. Our cocoons may not be metal tubes with windows--but they are cocoons nevertheless--shielding us from what life is really like for our brothers and sisters. The media tells us what we want to hear. Materialism is its own sort of cocoon, lulling us to sleep with full stomachs and lots of gadgets to keep us busy.

And the suffering passes underneath us virtually unnoticed, not so much because we don't care, but primarily because the stars in the sky and the cloud cover keep us from knowing all that is happening on the ground.

It occurs to me that it is so much easier to sail over suffering than to enter into it.

And it makes me deeply appreciate a God who decided to do just the opposite.