The Moral Hazard of Fat Pants

     I am skinny now. I have been skinny before. In between I get fat. When I am fat I need my Fat Pants. 

     When I go from skinny to fat it is never a conscious decision. I mean, I do not say to myself, "darn, I'm sick of being skinny. I think I'll go ahead and grow my big fat gut again." And, I definitely do not go dig my Fat Pants out of the back of my closet before I get fat again. No, I wait until I get fat, and then I get them out.

     Herein lies the moral hazard of the Fat Pants. I do not have to get them out before I get fat. It is enough that I know that they are there, waiting patiently for me to lose my grip on skinniness. My Fat Pants never judge me. They are more than happy to accept the insertion of my sausage legs. It is the knowledge of that acceptance that slowly erodes my determination not to get fat. That is the moral hazard. Without my Fat Pants there would be consequences to my fat.

     I also tend to get spiritually fat. Like my gut, my soul fills slowly with emotional fat and lops over my spiritual belt. It is not a conscious decision. I do not say to myself, "gee, I guess I'll just turn my back on God and live like a pagan, no matter who gets hurt." Herein lies the moral hazard of not being held accountable.  Without Brothers willing to point out my spiritual beer gut, it is too easy for me to learn to live with it.  It is like having a pair of Spiritual Fat Pants waiting in the back of my emotional closet. 

     So Brethren.  Run with me to keep me skinny.  And, if you are willing, when you see me slowly slyly slipping into my Spiritual Fat Pants, love me enough to suggest a few Spiritual Push-ups before it is too late.  And we do not know when it is too late.  Do we.

The Minivan Centurion

     When Hannibal marched his elephants over the Pyrenees he told his men to make sure and kill the Centurions first.  Take them out, and the Romans could be beaten.  But why?  A Centurion only commanded 100 men.  This was a small number, but it was not random.   By trial and failure, the Romans found that a Centurion could not intimately know more than 100 men, and that this personal relationship was vital to his ability to command and control them effectively.  It was not the quantity of men that the Centurions commanded that made them dangerous to the Enemy, it was the quality and personal nature of their leadership.  Unlike higher ranking officers of the Roman army, the Centurions had to earn and keep their position through merit.  Because their men’s lives rested upon their leadership ability, a Centurion’s skill (or lack of it) also profoundly affected the lives of his men’s families.   It was to a Centurion and his family that the Lord sent Peter to begin his ministry to the gentiles (Acts 10).  I do not believe this to be an accident, for it was Centurions who occupied the critical intersection between a  community’s secular virtue and its spiritual vitality—where better to plant the seed of Truth?  Hannibal was only half right—it was not only the army that was vulnerable if the Centurions were slain, it was the entire society. 

                                  

     The town I grew up in during the Seventies was very small, but not so small that you knew everybody.  I lack distinct memories of most of the men of that town—but a few stand out.  They were the ones who knew your name, knew who your father was and what sports you played.  They would talk to you when they saw you outside the hardware store, “hey Davy, that was a heckuva a double you hit off of Matty Sherlock” they might say.  Or, because they knew the bad stuff you were into as well as the good, sometimes they would give you a hard look:  “you boys need to stay out of the old Williams’ barn, the floor’s rotting out.”  They were not like the other dads.  When they came home from work, we didn’t run if we were playing football in their yard.  You could ask their advice and it wouldn’t get back to your dad, unless it needed to.  When you needed a reference letter for your college application, they would write it from what they knew about you, not from what you told them about yourself.  I had the same Little League coach four years in a row.  I saw him again at my sister’s wedding twenty years later.  He called me “Davy” even though I was 32 years old.  He looked  different, but I knew his voice.  These men were the Centurions of my little town.

     Early in His ministry, Jesus went about the towns and villages teaching, preaching and healing.  When he saw the crowds, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.  He told his disciples that “the harvest is  plentiful but the workers are few.”  (Luke 9: 35-37).  Charlotte is a big city to a small town boy like me.  I feel lost here sometimes among the other sheep.  Who is going to lead us?  Hey Centurion.  Hey Minivan Centurion--who is going to lead us?  

That Kind of Leader

     Because it is impossible to anticipate every eventuality when orders are given, Army commanders are taught to clearly express their general intent to their subordinate leaders.  This way, subordinates can make timely and effective decisions when confronted with circumstances about which no specific order has been issued by the commander. 

     Once, when I was a young Captain, I made a decision in my battalion commander’s absence that violated the intent that he had expressed to me upon his departure.  My decision was not earth shattering or even objectively bad—it was just inconsistent with his intent.  My reasons for doing so were not evil, they were weak.  In my commander’s absence I had succumbed to the pressure of other officers who exceeded me in rank, but  not in the authority that had been delegated to me by my commander.  When I made the decision, I knew it was wrong.  When my commander returned and discovered my decision, he angrily demanded my explanation.  I expect that he thought I had been distracted or even that he had not communicated his intent to me clearly.  When he discovered the true reason, his anger was replaced by disappointment.  I suppose he was surprised that I lacked sufficient character to resist the temptation to compromise his instructions while he was gone for only a few days.  I was 27 years old at the time.  I am fairly certain I would not make the same mistake today—in part because that commander continued to invest in the development of my character, despite the fact that I had let him down.  He was that kind of leader. 

     Christ, commander of commanders, has left his Kingdom in the charge of his followers.  In his absence, we have His clearly expressed intent available to us through Scripture.  Despite the clarity of this intent and my sincere desire to obey Him, I have violated (and continue to violate) His intent in ways both large and small.  When He returns, I expect he will demand of me an accounting for having compromised His will and left his Kingdom so poorly led.  What then a lovely thing grace is Brethren.  For as my Army commander forgave my errors, so then does Christ—again and again, reforming each failure into a brick upon which my character can be founded.  He is that kind of leader. 

Whitewashed Tombs

     Kellar, Kowal and I were young second lieutenants together.  Twenty-five years ago, stuffed full of Hemingway, we ran the streets of Pamplona one hot night, all night long.  Wine-sacks banging against our backs we ran and ran and laughed like wolves, so full of youth and freedom we were.  We were lucky and we knew it.

     A few months later, back in Germany, we went to the PX so I could buy a new mountain bike.  As we loaded the bike into the trunk of Kellar’s beater BMW, I took exception to the effect that Kellar’s lack of delicacy was having on the shiny new paint job on my bike--that I was literally intending to ride off of a cliff or two. 

     “Dude, watch it.”  I said.  Kellar took his hands off my bike, stood up and said “Dredd, if you’re worried about a paint job, you picked the wrong guy.”  

The Skill Most Valued

     Every job or profession has its minimum required skills.  A pilot has to be able to land the plane and a surgeon must wield a scalpel.  But it is rarely those type of skills that are noticed by passenger and patient (Captain Sullenberger’s landing in the Hudson being the exception proving the premise).  That is because the ability to perform the basic skills required of one’s job is expected and their performance is considered routine.  Contractors build houses.  It is not particularly notable when they get the roof on straight. 

     The skill that is notable in all jobs, the one that is actually extolled in actuaries, zoologists and every job in between, is the ability to establish and maintain human relationships, particularly with difficult humans—the “Human Touch”.  The jobs that do not require the Human Touch are pretty rare.  Sculptors?  Wait, they have models and patrons who are human, it is only the result that is made of stone.  Actually, I cannot think of a single job that does not require some human interaction, and the person who most excels at the Human Touch is generally the most valued (and the most highly compensated—for what that is worth).  When we refer a doctor to a friend, is it not his bedside manner that we are advocating?   It’s the Human Touch isn’t it? 

     So what exactly is the Human Touch and how does one get it?  It is axiomatic that something so valuable cannot be distilled into one pithy statement—or even a hundred-pound treatise.  We spend our working lives either learning by trial and error how to apply the Human Touch in our jobs, or ignoring the necessity to do so.  But, here is a place to start; obey the command the Lord gave HIS chosen humans:  “(a) new command I give you: Love one another.  As I have loved you, so must you love one another.”  (John 13:34).   I contend that this command is where the Human Touch starts.  If you are a lawyer, that means loving  your clients, and (groan) your adversaries, and (grunt) the judge—as Christ loves you.  If you are a bus driver, love your passengers and the lawyer who cuts you off in his Lexus on Providence Road—as Christ loves you. 

     It is unnatural to do this.  It is extremely hard to do this.  Many days you will feel like you are the only one who is trying to do this.  And that is why it is the Skill Most Valued.  

Where The White Goes When The Snow Melts

     The northern winters of my youth covered the ground with snow for months—so long that I would almost forget what the yards and  fields looked like.  When the snow receded under the spring sun I would greet the ground like a lost friend bearing treasures I had thought stolen.  “Oh, there’s my baseball bat.  It was out near the mailbox all winter.  I just couldn’t see it for the snow.”  Spring was more than a rebirth of the dormant land.  For me, it was a rediscovery of the true nature of the ground that had been obscured by the snow.  I did not spend much time wondering where the white went when the snow melted, I just rejoiced in the sun. 

     I do not believe that the Lord made the things over which man obsesses to lead us to evil.  It is man’s choice to exceed the Lord’s proper dram of Scotch or female beauty that leads to an obsession that blocks out the Light.  It was my self-delusion to gaze upon the obsessions of my neighbor with horror, while ignoring my own.  In truth, we were both dormant, like the land in winter—our true natures obscured by a blanket of snow, waiting for the light of the Lord to burn it away and reveal those treasures we had thought long stolen. 

     And now, it being spring in the autumn of my life, I try (as best I can) not to dwell too much on where my white went.  I feel the Lord urging me to rejoice in the Light.  

The Faith of Our Fathers

     Last January I tried a case for a month in York County, South Carolina.  While less than 60 statute miles from Charlotte’s courthouse, York’s courthouse might as well be on another planet.  The courtroom walls are festooned by paintings of heroes of the confederacy, as well as local heroes—men whose names I had never before heard and cannot remember now.  Below the image of each local hero was a brief epitaph, each one ending with “. . .  and he died in the faith of his fathers.”  During the month I was in that courtroom I had plenty of time to study those words.  I wondered, what was the faith of their fathers and why was that so significant? 

     Today, our culture does not embrace the idea of following in the footsteps of one’s ancestors, perhaps because to do so would not be not sufficiently self-aware.  Today, our culture counsels following in one’s own footsteps, thinking for oneself and being true to oneself.  Today, our culture virtually instructs the rejection of the faith of our fathers simply because it is the faith of our fathers, and not a faith born of each individual’s lonely journey to the truth. 

     I am 47 years old.  I suppose for some men my age there was a conflict between their father’s faith and the faith journey on which they personally embarked.  Not for me.  If my father had a faith, he never demanded that I follow it or even suggested to me what it might be.  Like a compass without a spike, my pencil was free to draw circles around any point of truth I chose.  And, for a while, I chose a lot  of different points, drew a lot of arcs and semi-circles and used up a lot of lead. 

     I contend that there is a difference between teaching our sons about our faith (and demonstrating that faith by how we live) on the one hand and, on the other hand, dogmatically insisting that our sons follow our faith on pain of fatherly love withdrawn. Today, our culture does not seem to account for that distinction in its insistence that we allow our sons to discover everything for themselves.  As fathers, are we not called to lovingly show our sons the spike of our own compass, and gently guide them through their first halting attempts to draw their own circles?  This is hard to do well.  But I do not believe that the Lord would have us not do at all that which is difficult to do right. 

Epic Fall

     It is not said of the Mighty that they fail, it is said that they fall.  The difference?  The Mighty can honorably fail, but when they fall, it is a fall from grace, and that has consequences for both the Mighty and the un-Mighty alike.   

     Upon hearing of the death of Saul and Jonathan, David, who despite being in hiding for his life from Saul, tore his clothes and lamented for the nation, “How the mighty have fallen!  The weapons of war have perished.”  (2  Samuel 1:27).  David was not referring to Saul’s defeat by the Philistines—that failure actually benefited David, because it was with the Philistines that he was hiding.  No, David was referring to the consequence of Saul’s fall from grace that preceded his  failure in battle.  Saul had fallen by his disobedience in sparing the king of the Amalekites and allowing the Israelite army to plunder the Amalekites’ sheep and cattle; both in direct contradiction to the Lord’s commands.  Saul’s excuse:  fear of the people.  (1 Samuel 15:24).  Or, put another way, insufficient fear of the Lord—insufficient faith.  A fatal flaw in a leader that had repercussions for the entire nation of Israel. 

     Today we generally intertwine the fail with the fall and take little heed of the effect the latter has on our nation. For example, in focusing on Tiger Woods’s failure to win a golf tournament this year, we un-focus on his fall from grace.  I am not suggesting that God is punishing Tiger for his sins by not letting him win this year.  I do not believe that is the way God works.  No, what I am saying is that  in lamenting Tiger’s lack of victories this season we give insufficient attention to how his disobedience has blunted the effect the Lord intended when He gave Tiger his wonderful gift.  God made Tiger Woods for a purpose.  Tiger’s fall  has silenced the weapon the Lord gave him for the fight we together face in this fallen world. 

     I believe in redemption.  But for now, I tear my clothes and lament Tiger’s fall.  His failure to win is his alone.  His fall is ours.