Life is not a Game of Perfect

I played golf today. As usually happens, my play was erratic. I played from the tips, the tees farthest back from the hole, which significantly increased the difficulty of the holes. The front nine was rough; faced with challenging shots and lengthier approaches to the green, I played decently but not well.

The second nine was a different story. I shot 2 over par, a great score for me.

C. S. Lewis, in his book The Screwtape Letters, refers to the Law of Undulation. Everything has peaks and troughs, high points and low points. It is a fact of life that sometimes you’re up, and sometimes you’re down. Boethius called it the wheel of fortune, where the downtrodden can rise and the privileged can tumble.

Golf is a game of undulation. In the span of a single hole, you can hit a terrific shot, followed by a terrible shot, followed by a great shot. Or any permutation thereof. What’s great about golf, and here is where the game parallels life in general and Christianity in particular, is that there’s always another shot. If you botch a hole good and proper, the next hole offers a chance at redemption. Conversely, if you do well, you can build on that and string together a good round, as I did on the back nine.

I sinned pretty badly today. I won’t bore you with details, but it’s nothing new and it depressed me. Not so much that I sinned; that’s old hat by now. But rather that I failed to live the life of Christ in me. I believe that I am cleansed from all sin, that I have the capacity to live a sinless life in me (if, that is, I allow the Spirit to live His life in me), so when I sin it means that I failed to do that, the most fundamental principle of Christianity. It’s sad. I feel like God would be disappointed in me, that one of these times He’ll turn in disgust and write me off as a wasted investment. This is definitely a valley.

Golf requires an even keel. You can’t let the good shots take you too high, or else the bad shots will shatter you completely. You can’t let the bad shots take you too low, or else even good shots won’t counteract that loss of confidence. Enjoy the good shots and forget the bad shots, realizing that we all make bad shots, even pros. The pros just do it less frequently and their bad shots aren’t as detrimental as ours; plus, they have the ability to recover from bad shots easier and better than us. That’s what makes them pros. Simultaneously, and this may seem contradictory, it helps to feel confident and positive every time you stand over a shot. When putting, the only thought that should be in your head is, I’m going to make this. If you’re thinking about how you’re probably going to miss the putt, how you are terrible at these putts, then the likelihood of you making that putt isn’t great to begin with. But if you believe that you will make the putt, if you don’t allow doubt to creep in, you’ll perform better, strike the ball with a more confident stroke, and make more putts. I’ve tried this, and it works. Expect success and success is more likely, if not sure, to follow. 

I think I set myself up for failure whenever I take my spiritual eyes off Jesus. Because He is my confidence. When it comes to living the Christian life, there’s no doubt whatsoever as to not only the best (and only) method of doing so, but also that it will happen if I put the method into practice. So when I approach a situation or a temptation that I struggle with, I can either rely on my own sinful patterns, which is akin to thinking about how horribly I handle these situations, how I always miss these three foot putts; or I can believe that I will handle the situation because I don’t have to handle the situation. I know the putt’s going in; I know that Jesus can handle the situation. Moreover, He promised that He would.  

And yet I still sin. Some worse than others, at least in how they make me feel. All are equally abhorrent in God’s eyes. I am keenly aware of the disgusting nature of sin, and so sin has a devastating effect. Like an errant tee shot, it can set up a chain reaction that ruins the whole day, or week. Heck, it can even have lifelong ramifications! Even saints redeemed by the blood of Jesus, declared to be the righteousness of God, united with the Living Spirit, can suffer under a spirit of condemnation and depression. The troughs look so dire and deep that we despair of ever coming out. So the first principle is to recognize the isolated nature of sin. It happened. Turn to God, renounce your fleshly desires, and cover yourself with His righteousness which is ever available. Don’t let the bad wrap chains around you and prolong your spiral. Remember, every shot is a brand new opportunity, and we get numerous shots per day. 

At this point you might be thinking, that’s all well and good but it’s hardly the things Jesus referenced during his stint on earth, the “life and that life more abundant” he promised, that “it is for freedom that you have been set free.” Sin, repent, repeat. What is this, the old covenant? Are we doomed to continually struggle with sin? To always fail and shuffle to the throne of Grace in need of a fresh cleansing? Doesn’t sound very appealing to me. Well, here’s where the second principle comes into play. If you believe that you’re doomed to sin, like being doomed to miss those six foot putts or mishit the 7-iron because you always do, then what are you more likely to do? Miss the putts! Sin! 

And similarly, just as you are more likely to make the putts or put a good stroke on the ball with that pesky driver if you feel confidence and tell yourself positive things, you will find that when a temptation or trial crops up you can overcome it if you trust in the indwelling Spirit of God to handle that situation, to reject and resist that temptation, to speak words of life and encouragement instead of worldly words. Galatians 2:20: “I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I now live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.” Or Romans 6: 1-14. Tell yourself that Christ lives in you, that He provides the holiness, the strength, the self-control, the patience, or whatever attribute and virtue you require for the situation in which you find yourself. And the putts will start to sink.

Holmes Sweet Holmes

I’ve just watched the first episode of the BBC series Sherlock, a modern reimagination of the classic detective stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I’m hooked.

First, the dialogue is fantastic. Say what you will about the British, but they can write dialogue that far surpasses 80% of stuff you find across the pond. At one point, in reference to being a sounding board for Holmes, Watson remarks, “So I’m replacing a skull.” “Oh, don’t worry, you’re doing fine,” Holmes replies. I was in stitches. Why are the British so good at writing witty remarks that just roll off the tongue? If I had to hazard a guess (and by gum I do; it’s my blog), I’d reference the stereotype of the stoic repressed nature of Brits, who find it necessary to express themselves with words rather than facial expressions and wild gesticulations, the way Americans tend to. When Anthony Hopkins loses his temper and barks, it’s much more impactful given the quiet and controlled nature of the characters he invariably depicts. Contrast that with the likes of Tom Cruise or Al Pacino, who seem incapable of conveying great depths of emotion and intensity without raising their voices a few hundred decibels or so. When everything’s exaggerated and loud, the occasional outburst packs much less of a dramatic punch. So in lieu of relying on very expressive body language and vocal modulations, the British convey their inner thoughts through words. How droll.

Quite apart from the actual storyline, which was brilliant and literally had me on the edge of my seat, I find myself irresistibly drawn to Sherlock Holmes and his faithful cohort Dr. John Watson. I’ve read the stories many times; in fact, I once wrote a paper for an Agriculture class using a Sherlock Holmes story as the illustration, so deep were the tales permeating my psyche. I’ve seen several film adaptations; my favorite, of course, being the spoof Without  A Clue with Michael Caine and Sir Ben Kingsley, which cleverly inverts the classic tale by portraying Holmes as a stumblebum drunk womanizer incapable of the slightest deduction, and Watson as the longsuffering criminologist who endures Holmes due to public demand. I thoroughly enjoyed the recent film Sherlock Holmes with Robert Downy Jr. as the detective, and Jude Law as Watson; the film portrayed Holmes as a borderline autistic savant full of bohemian frivolity and Watson as the straight-backed foil who cannot resist the thrill of the hunt.

Perhaps the best recent adaptation of the original stories’ dynamic is found in the medical show House, in which the title character is a brilliant yet caustic doctor who diagnoses mysterious diseases that have baffled every other medical mind. Wilson is his only friend and acts as the counter to House’s misanthropy, providing that all-important banter. After seven seasons, the show has evolved away from the original concept of a new medical mystery each week to focus more on the interpersonal relationships that revolve around the center character and his team of doctors who work with him. A medical drama, it has nonetheless provided me with more hilarity than any comedy this side of Seinfeld or Arrested Development, as House levels his sarcasm and bile at ordinary people and their quirks.

This show promises (dare I say) to surpass even the transcendence of House, if the pilot is any indication. It helps that it’s being written by Brits (he is, after all, an Englishman originally), and transpires in the original context of solving crimes in the bustling metropolis of London. Holmes is once again a manic-depressive social recluse who mocks the police and pierces through the ordinary to notice the seemingly mundane yet essential details that lead to the mystery’s unraveling. And Watson is a war veteran who craves something out of the ordinary, seeking adventure and the unusual. The actors acquit themselves excellently, delivering dialogue and action with distinction and realism. I could rave on, but you really should see for yourself.

What prompted this entry, however, is something that I’ve recognized in my tastes for a while now: some really good banter. My favorite scenes in House are when House and someone (usually Wilson) are going at it hammer and tongs. Another of my favorite movies is Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang, a somewhat recent movie with the aforementioned Downy and Val Kilmer, two men trying to solve a mystery that falls into the pulp noire genre. They bicker and discuss the ins and outs of the case, among other things, with great relish; Downy thrives with biting exchanges, as seen in his own take on Holmes. Other examples include Lethal Weapon, written by the same screenwriter as KK,BB. Even The Princess Bride features some smashing good banter, as well as other of Bill Goldman’s movies like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid or Maverick. It’s the wordsmith in me that delights in a great comeback or a clever turn of the phrase. Heck, to complete my anglophile profile, I admit that my most beloved passages of the Harry Potter series are when Ron and Hermione are going back and forth; Ron in particular has some riotous one-liners that are sadly lacking from the film adaptations.

One theme that resonates with me deeply is the notion of a loner, misunderstood and despised by most, who finds a companion who can understand him or at least appreciate him (or her, I suppose, though I can’t think off-hand of female characters that fit this bill). Holmes has perennially been such a one, the genius at deduction and observation impatient with those who fail to see and grasp the revelations hidden within minutiae. Most of us have come across such a one sometime in our lives; a person who offers a different perspective on life than virtually everyone else, and who consequently suffers because of it. One of my favorite moments on House occurs when a prolific musician confronts House, noting that most people don’t have that “one thing” that elevates their hearts and minds to great heights, at the cost of being “normal” and enjoying the everyday elements of life. The very thing that distinguishes them from the masses isolates them from the masses; they cannot participate in life as we do. So when they can find someone who will put up with or appreciate their genius, it makes it that much sweeter than if they had lots of friends and raised a pint at the local pub regularly. When you don’t have very much of something, you appreciate what little you do have more than if you enjoyed bounty in that area.

I am no genius, but I am abnormal. (And don’t start on that vein of “what is normal?”; I know it’s mostly a social construct, but the reality is that the vast majority of people in a society behave in similar ways). I have always fancied, during bouts of self-pity, that I am actually in a worse state than those tortured geniuses who produce greatness at a high price, since I don’t even have the consolation of being a great artist or athlete or arithmetician to go along with my loneliness. I just find it difficult to make friends, to find people who appreciate me. Which means that when I do, I tend to be overeager to spend time with them, like a thirsty man in the desert gulping water at the first oasis he happens upon. The Lord has been working on that with me, and I am leagues beyond where I was 8 years ago in this area, but it’s still a struggle not to call up my few friends on a daily basis to hang out with them. Man is a social beast; one of the first conclusions God drew from His observation of Adam was that it wasn’t good from him to be on his own. We need companionship; not just in the physical sense, but even more so the friendships, the relationships that are built not upon common need and desire, but upon common interest and enthusiasm. (I merely repeat what C. S. Lewis posited in The Four Loves, but we all mostly repeat Jack when we discuss a practical truth about humans).

It is, in essence, the greatest testament of genuine affection found on earth, the true friend. For a lover, spouse, parent, or child all love and are loved with ulterior motives. The lover craves physical satisfaction, the experience of ecstasy and affection for themselves as well as the beloved. The spouse wants the same, as well as companionship and stability, a fellow traveler on the road of life and a helper in domestic matters. The parent and child are two sides of the same coin; the parent loves the child, but also takes solace in the continuation of the human race and the satisfaction of creation from their offspring. The child appreciates parents for providing affection and protection during early childhood, as well as guidance and counsel throughout their lives. There is no disinterested affection in life, save the Friend.

The Friend does not appreciate you for anything you can provide to them. I am referring to the ideal of a Friend, as Plato would have it. If two people are friends because one has money or access to luxuries and the other appreciates that access, then they are not true Friends; their friendship is contingent. An ideal Friend does not care what the other person has to offer, but rather that the other person is willing to offer it to them. I enjoy golf, and when I was friends with Johnny Vines, it didn’t matter what golf course we played at or whether he paid for my round or I for his; we enjoyed each other’s company and the common interest that united our hearts and minds. Gloriously, we shared many common interests, and as our friendship deepened, it expanded to encompass these other things. But I wasn’t friends with him because he had cable TV, which I would take advantage of; were that the case, we would not have been true friends.

If you have never had a true Friend who asks nothing from you and from whom you hope to gain nothing, then you are truly missing out. For a friend like that will truly stick closer than a brother; brothers and sisters, after all, are accidents of birth. We don’t choose our family; we do choose our friends, and our friends choose us.

And by the way, what a Friend we have in Jesus.

Friday Night at Ruby Tuesdays

It’s amazing how God drops something or someone in your life when you’re least expecting it. My good friend Nathan Boen and I decided to hang out last Friday. We played some pool, got some food, meandered around looking for someplace to sit and talk. Eventually we wandered into a Ruby Tuesday’s after 9, ordering a dessert and chatting. The waitress was an older woman, mid to late forties I’d guess, and cheerful in the manner and facade that waitresses are supposed to maintain whether or not they actually were; we would learn that her manner was not a façade.

After we’d received the check, the place almost empty, the waitress, Michelle, came up and we engaged her in polite chitchat. Instantly she revealed that she’d recently returned from living two years in Mexico. Intrigued, we pressed for details. Here is what she told us:

(I have organized the narrative in a somewhat clearer fashion. And let me just bewail up front the fact that no matter how impressed or awed or impacted you are by this story, the fact that you didn’t hear it from her leaves so much to be desired. I’ll explain later.)

Her husband was in a car accident several years ago. A drunk driver, uninsured, hit him on New Year’s Eve. As a result he was paralyzed and his face was completely destroyed. After a quarter million dollars in surgery bills, he was stable and apparently returned to Mexico, his homeland, where the cost of health care is sufficiently cheaper that it was possible to afford continuing his rehabilitation and reconstruction. After working here for six month and sending money down there, Michelle packed up her things and moved down to be with him and help nurse him back to health.

(Aside: as she recounted his injuries, she batted not an eyelash, maintaining her poise and upbeat demeanor the entire time. This was every bit as impressive as the account itself, in my book.)

She regaled us with stories of life in Mexico. For example, she loathes the smell and taste of beans anymore, since at least 2 of 3 meals featured this staple. Simply put, they were affordable and not much else was. She told of the increasingly remote and tiny villages she passed through until she came to her husband’s family’s residence, far from the metropolitan centers of Mexico. The houses had no running water, and people generally survived on 100 pesos a week; about 8 American dollars. She hauled water from wells and rode burros to town and her other jobs. She trained and raced horses, a lucrative job comparatively, but still worked in the fields. The days were long and hard. 

She recounted the extreme stratification between the rich drug lords and the poor serfs subsisting on pennies a day while the rich luxuriated in mansions. If a drug lord told you that you were on their payroll, you accepted or you didn’t survive. Which made her story of standing up to a drug lord that much more impressive. She bluffed him, challenging his willingness to kill an American citizen and thus incur the wrath of an international incident. Apparently the obvious retort, that her body could be buried in the desert and never found, never occurred to the gangster, and though her heart was pounding, her face was calm and hard and she politely declined to work for him. This in addition to the story about the job she quit after three of her bosses were murdered. I think she said that they were killed in front of her, but I might have that wrong. The police were no help; corruption runs rampant in Mexico. She told an amusing story about a race day when she came upon a pile of cocaine in a common area. She was aghast, but the others there assured her there was nothing amiss. However, when someone pulled out some marijuana to smoke, everyone urgently and immediately ordered him to conceal it. It seems that the only people allowed to grow and distribute marijuana are the police, and if you don’t buy it from them, they’ll lock you up for a good long while!

Her husband, meanwhile, had surgery to repair some 48 fractures on his spine, and had his face entirely reconstructed using cartilage and bone from his hips and buttocks. Once paralyzed, he can now walk and talk, lift 25 lbs and ride a horse. He lost some language ability, especially English, and Michelle, who didn’t speak a lick of Spanish when she moved to Mexico, had to learn in order to communicate.

Eventually she came to the realization that if she stayed in Mexico, she would end up dead; in a chauvinistic society where men are killed willy-nilly, a blond foreign woman was in real danger. She was too radical and refused to play along with the powerful, so she decided that she would return to Kansas City. She journeyed to the border, bullied the border guards to let her across instead of spending the night in Tijuana alone and penniless (almost certainly a fatal move), and entered the US with a couple bucks in her pocket. Somehow she made it to Kansas City with basically no money, and within twenty-four hours had contacted her old boss and scored some work with horses, called in a favor with a friend to stay with, and landed a job at Ruby Tuesday’s, even though they weren’t hiring and she didn’t have any waitressing experience, a prerequisite to work there. This is not a woman to be denied or discouraged.

(Aside: she said several times how much she changed from her sojourn in Mexico. She was harder and stronger and more capable than she ever imagined, because she had to be in Mexico or else she would have been dead and her husband soon to follow. She was profoundly thankful for the experience in that way, as well as many others.)

Now, the friend with whom she’d been staying had told her that her favorite horse had died, and that her car had been stolen while she was in Mexico. She had no cause to doubt her friend, and accepted this as true. A few days ago, another friend called her about a horse he’d found that he wanted her to have. She could keep it or sell it for a down payment on her truck, he said, and urged her to come look at it. The horse was in a wretched state, starved and diseased, gelded but wild. She decided to sell it and took it to a dealer. As she was unloading it, she and the horse made eye contact. Instantly she thought, I’ve owned this horse before. This was unlikely, as the man had found it in Oklahoma, bedraggled and apparently even more emaciated than when she saw him. A friend who was accompanying her advised her to sell it, and the dealer offered her $300, but she insisted that she knew this horse and took it home, whereupon she discovered, after examining it, that it was the horse she had been told had died. This made her suspicious and she checked the story about the stolen car, to see whether a police report had been filed. None. She called another friend and asked about it; he replied that her friend had enlisted his help in selling the car.  

(Aside: at this point I am mesmerized and astounded. Again, she’s not brooding or angry, or filled with self-pity and despair. The recitation of events is lively and chipper. Though there was a bit of an edge at this point in the story. Little wonder.)

Upon hearing this, she returned to the house, packed her things and demanded her rent back, which she had recently paid. The pernicious two-face took one look at her and reimbursed her. She calmly told her friend that if she ever saw the other walking down the street, it would be better to cross to the other side of the road. Two years in Mexico had put a glint in her eye apparently, and the friend meekly promised so to do. This was the day before we walked into the restaurant. 

Boen and I looked at each other in amazement. Mostly we’d been silent, listening to this remarkable tale. You might wonder at its veracity, but I myself have absolutely no doubt as to the truth of what she said. She did give credit to God, though I rather felt like her conception of God was a bit karmic: if she keeps her end of a bargain, He’ll keep His (which He did in healing her husband). 

There were other elements to the story, like the notion of working three jobs, which she does here in KC, and how the work ethic of most Americans, and nearly all teenagers, is pathetically abysmal compared to that of the people she saw in Mexico. Indeed, it made her understand why immigrants here work as hard as they do; they can actually make money here to send home to their families. She showed us the calluses on her hands and the cords in her arms that came from backbreaking work in the fields and constant toil with the horses, frequently doing the work of a whole team of ferriers herself. She remarked on the incredible bounty that we have here in the United States, and how we take it so much for granted. She commented on the reverence the people have for Holy Week, Good Friday, and Easter, which are celebrated as religious observances and not as egg hunts.

But I’m less interested in that than the amazing saga she recounted, the hardships and trials she and her family endured (her husband’s father is a paraplegic, and his mother has lung cancer). The determination and will she demonstrated was remarkable; early on in the story, when we’d only heard about a third of it, I commented that it was more inspiring than 80% of the stories that come out of Hollywood. In fact, I’d recommended to Boen the novel Peace Like a River by Leif Enger earlier that evening, and afterwards I mentioned that the book also tells of a family’s trials and triumphs; it is one of the best and most moving books I’ve ever read. I also said that Michelle’s tale was more incredible! And true!

We thanked her profoundly and invited her to attend church on Sunday. Typically, she replied that she works twelve hours on Sundays. Go figure. We were effusive in our praise and thankfulness, and left the place marveling to each other about what we had just experienced. Hitherto it had been a relatively uneventful evening of wandering around, enjoying each other’s company, but nothing special, nothing spectacular. This, now, this was spectacular.

What does it mean? you ask. God knows. Ask Him; I know I will. If nothing else it reminded me of my trip to Nigeria, where I experienced some of the same events and emotions and witnessed similar things from impoverished people with joy in their hearts and fellowship with their neighbors. Will the Lord use it to teach me anything, or direct my life? I know not. As I sit and muse on this, I’m convinced that it might have just been a rainbow. By this I mean it was a gift from the Father to be enjoyed and appreciated and marveled at, nothing more. I tend to over-analyze things, look for meanings or applications too often; somehow, I think this was mainly God sharing His life and stories of His work with us.

Does this mean I can’t take anything away from it? By no means! First, I am awed by the provision of God. I’ve seen this in my own life, but hearing about Michelle’s saga made me realize how insignificant my own struggles have actually been in comparison. I’ve been slogging away at my new job, studying dry financial concepts and feeling woebegone, when probably 2 billion people around the world will never have the opportunity to work and live such a life that the income from that job will afford. How much I take for granted! And Michelle said that about herself! Working 3 jobs, caring for a disabled husband (by the way, I haven’t even thought about the depths of love and dedication she must have to go through what she did for her husband!), and she still thinks she’s taking things for granted! Amazing!

Second, I am struck by the fact that God works in so many more varied ways than we think He does. We think He has to work through us, through Christians, through Christians who believe and live the way we do. If I sat down and talked with Michelle, I’d probably find that her theological concepts of God and salvation and sanctification and the Christian life would be different from mine, and I could probably correct her by referencing the Bible and C. S. Lewis and so on. And you know what? God is not impressed. He wants us to have right notions about Him, true, but He also doesn’t want us to limit what He can do by what we disregard as impossible. “Not that God couldn’t do it, but that He wouldn’t do it that way.” Because we know God! We’ve read the Bible and commentaries and go to church and listen to sermons! And if it’s not covered by one of those mediums, then by Golly it’s not possible that God would do something that way! It all comes back to Humility. Will we allow God to work out things His way? Accept what He does how He does it when He does it where He does it and why He does it? I don’t think that’s too deep a thought to ponder. It’s actually essential. Everything else hinges upon it, doesn’t it? 

Mainly, however, what I marvel at is the utter coincidence, the complete inability to dictate events. We’d gone to a bookstore and an ice cream shoppe looking for someplace to sit and talk. If we’d stayed at either place, we would have missed out on this woman’s amazing and inspiring story. But God wanted to share it with us, and He guided us there, to be at that place, at that time when the joint was empty enough that she could stand and talk for 20 minutes without ignoring customers, and to have that particular waitress serving us and willing to share these deeply personal stories with us. I could never have orchestrated it, nor even imagined it. Indeed, Boen and I wished we could have her speak at New Day or at our small group. We suggested that we might take the group here one evening and have her recount the narrative for everyone in it. But the spontenaity would not be there, and the divine appointment element would be missing. It would still probably be fruitful, but it’s so much more meaningful when you know that only the Lord could have orchestrated circumstances. May you have such appointments.

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow!

Praise Him, all creatures here below!

Praise Him, above you Heavenly Host!

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!

Amen.