values > rules

An insight from my wife set me thinking: Values are more important than rules.

Both values and rules are things that shape your behavior. They determine what you'll do or refrain from doing in any given situation. We need guiding structure in life to give us direction in life, and both serve this purpose. We mentally reference these standards countless times throughout our day. We choose to embrace or eschew them in every circumstance we encounter. Rules and values differ, however.

Rules have a negative connotation. They define boundaries that we should not cross. Often these behavior boarders are drawn by authorities that impose these on others. The authority tends to either be a leader tasked with control or a community majority that decides what actions are off limits. Rules tend to rouse the rebel in us, as everyone can finish the phrase, "Rules are made to be...". (And the answer isn't "followed".)

Values have a positive connotation. Rather than define what we are not or will not do, they define what we are and what we do. Simply put, values encapsulate what is valuable to us. They create a vision of what we desire and hope to achieve, not what we strain to avoid. In contrast to the outward imposition of rules, values flow from within an individual or community. Rules imply punishment; values bring the reward of becoming what is valued.

To be fair, often rules and values are related. Rules are established to enforce values. They prevent dilution caused by deviation of the divergent. More simply put, they try to keep bad apples from tempting others to reject the values of the community. Rules provide a degree of control of those that do not embrace values, preventing them from creating the negative leadership of bad examples.

The problem with relying on rules to maintain culture is that it creates a shell of obedience without embedding values within individuals. They create compliance, not community.

If your goal is a task, write rules. If your goal is community, nurture values.

Taking bread from a poor man

If you were feeling a bit snacky as you walked down the street and you passed a homeless man, would you steal his bread? Probably not. We good citizens taught not to steal. What if you were authorized to take it? He's not offering it to you, but you have been entitled to remove the loaf from his mitts if you want. Would you? Probably not. Taking bread from a poor man is bad form.

I recently had a business conversation with a man who stepped on my toes. He used the measure of authority that had been given him to be disrespectful and controlling. A terse, "Let me explain to your role in this contract" followed by a suggested call to his supervisor would have melted him. I easily could have stepped past Kafka's gatekeeper, and part of me really wanted to put this guy back in his seat. Fortunately, God-fueled patience won the day, and we resolved the matter without me bringing clarity to my biggness and his smallness. Later reflection on this made me realize that I was tempted to take bread from a poor man.

The fellow on the other end didn't have much proverbial bread. He only had the authority to say 'yes' or 'no' as he interpreted the will of his superiors. Throwing this switch was the only 'bread' that he had in his life. Honestly, I was angry because he took a choice that belonged to me. I have plenty of bread, but in that moment he took a slice of my loaf. I came close to taking all of his. Not classy.

I can still get what is needed without crushing other people. Even if it takes a conversation with a supervisor, it can be done without gutting the subordinate. Frankly, his position is humble enough without me pointing it out. I can check my ego to save his. Stepping on him wouldn't make me any taller--it merely reveals my own insecurity. Power isn't for overcoming the little guy, it's for helping him. I pray that God helps me not to destroy the dignity of others. Taking bread from a poor man is bad form.

Parallel parking perspective

I was waiting to meet some friends for lunch one afternoon at a calzone shop downtown. My chair by the window was a front-row seat at one of the worst parallel parking jobs I've ever seen. The spot on the corner of the block was available, and it's long enough that a compact car can simply pull in nose first. Evidently this guy thought his little sedan couldn't pull off that maneuver. His backing angle was wrong, and his bumper hit the curb in the middle of the space. He promptly pulled forward and cut the wheel, backed up, and slammed into the Jeep behind him. The Jeep lurched but was protected by its huge aftermarket bumper. The stunned gentleman in the sedan pulled forward into the street, cut his wheel, and hit the curb at the end of the block. After this, he backed into the Jeep again. He pulled forward, jumped out of the car, and ran diagonally across the intersection. I don't remember if he even put change in the meter. If he'd have asked, I would have stood on the sidewalk and helped him park.

One of the interesting things about parallel parking is that it's always easier to know what to do when you are watching someone else than it is when you are doing it. When your vista is from the outside, you can see exactly where the curb is. Knowing when to cut the wheel is easy. When you've got the outside perspective, knowing where to stop before ramming the car behind you is simple. When you're in the car, your view is impeded by the very vehicle you're trying to park. When you're detached from it, you've got better feedback on the situation.

Life is much like parallel parking. Often we have little perspective from within our own situation. We have endless data about how the circumstance feels and what it's like to turn the proverbial steering wheel and work the pedals, but the view we get from a four inch mirror pales compared to the angle we get from the eyes of someone on the sidewalk. As confident as we can be in our own ability to navigate life, sometimes getting someone else's perspective on our plans can save us a lot of headaches. Although that Jeep wasn't scratched, but I'm sure that sedan has some battle scars.

Tattoo moments

Several years ago, I had a friend that I met with regularly. We'd talk about whatever was on our minds and try to help him sort out a direction for his life. He was single, a bit younger than me, and tended to be impetuous. One day he spontaneously announced his intentions to ride his motorcycle to a beach across the country for college spring break. That was the day we coined the term "tattoo moment".

I have nothing against tattoos, but I don't have one myself. My primary hurdle to getting ink done is determining what I would like to have painted on my body for the rest of my life. My inner graphic designer screams, "It might look great today, but in a decade it will look so played!" I understand that a tattoo (much like a scar) tells where you were at a certain part of the life journey, but my fear is that I might regret the vintage drawing I chose for my arm. What seemed like a good idea at the time might not seem so great after a dozen trips around the sun.

The real tattoo horror story is the drunken tattoo. Fueled by alcohol and the reckless abandon of the moment, needle hits skin and you wake up with a bad headache and the name of a girl you don't remember carved on your forearm. Bad news. Suddenly your options are limited to long sleeve shirts or only dating girls named "Brooke". What happened in Vegas didn't stay there--the secretary took the minutes on your arm.

My friend and I defined a "tattoo moment" as any time you might do something that you'll regret later, be it ten minutes or ten years later. We decided that recognizing and considering these choices before they are made is probably a good idea. A brief "pause and reflect" could save you from a bad metaphorical ink job. Its a commitment to awareness. Our emotions and hormones might be amped up in the moment, and giving a decision some time to breathe is frequently the right option. Nobody wants to wear long sleeves all the time.

Content is king

I've got an iPod so small it can double as a bookmark. I can watch movies on it. I can stream endless movies, music, lectures, and other media on my laptop and even on my phone. If I wanted to pay for it, I could have more cable channels than I could surf in an hour, let alone during commercials. I've got a big screen on my wall and a small screen in my pocket, and both of them are useless unless there's something to watch on them. Content is king.

Creating media used to be the realm of commercial ventures with budgets that could purchase small islands in the Pacific. Now anyone can film and publish a movie worldwide with a phone. Even the large studios and the interest of people with large money can barely make a dent in the content glut. Now everyone can jump in the fray to create content to keep our screens flickering and our subwoofers bumping. But is it worth consuming?

Eventually, you have to ask yourself how many hours of your life are you willing to give to watching bicycle wrecks, college pranks, and the lancing of severe acne. At some point you'll want to take something worth hearing on your iPodded run. What good is a Kindle-style reader if there's nothing worth reading? All those gadgets are useless without input, and they have little value if their output isn't worth hearing. Content is king.

We need good content. That's where you come in.

The need has never been greater for gifted individuals to create content that is valuable, beautiful, provocative, interesting, and reflective. If you are a creative person of faith in Christ, consider how essential it is that you create. You have allowed God to invest in you, constructing in you a paradoxically unique yet universal perspective on life. Inside you beats a heart that has seen redemption in brokenness, purpose in bleakness, and questions even in hope. God wants the world to see through your eyes. But there's just one thing: Do a good job.

Don't dip your pen in the tired cliches of church talk. Don't merely rubber stamp the "Christian" adjective before everything you do. That's a marketing ploy that makes you look as authentic as a plastic dashboard Jesus. Create from your perspective of faith, and let God flow through who you are. Let people see through your eyes, and go at it with both guns blazing.

Content is king in this world of ubiquitous media. You are so necessary. There are endless screens to fill and ear buds to ring, and you've got an angle that needs reflected. Do what you do well, and you'll be in demand. We've seen enough mento bombs on YouTube. Bring us your craft.

Veneer

I ran into a casual friend at a local wi-fi hotspot. The free internet there collects laptops like a porch light collects dead bugs, and that day was no exception. I sat across from my acquaintance and never even considered what he was feverishly pursuing on his computer. He looked embarrassed and confessed to me that he was playing a video game. As if I demanded an explanation, he told me how busy he was and how this was the only chance he had to unwind a bit. I didn't mind that he was squeezing in some downtime, but he certainly minded what I thought of it.

I find it interesting how consumed we can be with how others perceive us, particularly how careful we are in our appearance to total strangers. We suck in our gut, hide the laptop screen, and disguise an ugly mood with a smile for someone that simply walks by us--someone that we may never see again and wouldn't remember us if we did. Why do we care so much about people who may not give us more consideration than the color of the last doorknob they turned?

I think we all have an "ideal self" in mind. We might not have all the details worked out, but we've got a general image that we hope comes to mind when others think of us. Our primping and flaw hiding for the anonymous masses has less to do with them and more to do with us. We desperately want to be this "ideal self", so we try to strut it when we can. For ninety-three minutes on the plane, we can convince that guy from Milwaukee that we've got our lives sorted, assembled, and in effect. Be jealous, Mr. Cheesehead, very jealous. Until the wheels hit the tarmac, we can be that desirable person.

It's easy to varnish our veneer in public. We can walk poised until someone else passes us on the sidewalk, but few of us care about our posture on our living room couch. Why don't we try? Because everyone at home can call our bluff. They know who we really are, because that's who we are around them. Our inner children come out to whine, and they've blown our nose too many times to be fooled by any bravado we might muster. Our 'perfect face' would be a waste of time.

Showing passing strangers our peacock feathers can be intoxicating, especially if the interaction strokes with the grain of our image. But strengthening this outer shell does little to help our inner core--the part that connects with our ongoing relationships. It's easy to be perfect alone, but being a better person in relationships takes work. This kind of work could rarely be called "intoxicating". It involves honesty, messes, and apologies. It doesn't stroke our egos--it whips them into shape.

I enjoy the occasional nod from a stranger. It scratches an itch. But the reward of long-term relationships seems more important to me. That Packer fan on the plane might have thought I was fantastic for an hour conversation, but life is much longer than an hour. I hope I can be valued by the people that really matter to me--my family and friends. That's an image I hope to project through my veneer.

Stinking world

It's a silly story that might remind you of yourself, regardless of your facial hair configuration:

An old man napped every afternoon on a riverside park bench. One day some mischievous kids decided to prank the old guy by placing limburger cheese (the stinkiest of all cheeses) on his moustache. When the 'stache sporting geezer woke up, he noticed his world wasn't as fragrant as before his siesta. Overlooking what was literally right under his nose, he issued verbal citations to everything in proximity:

This bench stinks. That tree stinks. The park stinks. Those people stink. This whole world stinks.

If your whole world stinks, check your moustache.

Not inconsequential

I hope people talk about me behind my back. I don’t mind if I make the dinner conversation agenda. If people are talking about me, at least I know I'm not inconsequential.

I was at a restaurant the other day eating a sandwich. The three ladies at the table beside me were having salads and their friends for lunch. Apparently their dining is a low-carb, high-gossip affair. I tried to ignore the stories of who is getting a beer gut, who is sleeping around, and who is more fashion challenged than them, but they were chewing with their mouths open. Honestly, I’m glad I don’t know them. I’m sure I’d end up on the menu eventually. I don’t want that kind of talk about me.

In years gone by, kids wore bell bottoms or parachute pants and aspired to be astronauts, firemen, and teachers. Ask kids born under the YouTube moon what they want to be when they grow up, and they will simply say “popular.” Paris Hilton-esuqe. Any publicity is good publicity, as long as you are in the news. I don’t want to be popular. I don’t want that kind of talk about me.

I'm not aspiring to be vicarious verbage for saladivores that are too fearful to live interesting lives of their own. I don’t need people to bring me up in conversation because my career involves oxygen tanks or water hoses. I don’t want to generate discussion by my sordid antics. I want people to talk about me because I’m not inconsequential.

I want to be relationally consequential in the lives of my friends. When my friends sit down to eat, I hope my name comes up. I hope they say, “Steve called today.” Or, “We all had a great time. Steve and his family were there, too.” Or even, “Man, Steve told the dumbest joke today.” I hope you find value in the interaction of our lives, and that in some way I communicate how valuable you are to me as a friend. I hope that over time God leverages my life to make an impression on you that doesn’t fade as the next moment overruns the moment we shared. If you’re talking about me, at least I know I’m not inconsequential.

At the table

I find myself enjoying the little conversation circles that form around Facebook status updates. It’s as it we’re all sitting down together for lunch conversation in a huge virtual cafeteria. I’m surprised not only at the number of responses that are elicited from the most inane statements, but also the diversity of the individuals responding. I may not know all the players when I’m sharing my wit, concern, or commentary on someone else’s status, but I know the diversity of my own friend list. And frankly, some of the people that enjoy banter under my thumbnail picture would never speak to each other in public. It’s unfortunate, but true.

At my virtual table sit people from around the world. Their worldviews are even more diverse than their geography. Political, social, and spiritual perspectives run the gamut. Some are drive safe cars, listen to whatever music is on the radio, and do what they are told. Others live aggressively, tattoo frequently, and defy categorization. People from all these corners pull up a chair and chat from time to time online, but they’d never do it in real life.

I think if one of my conservative Christian friends knew they were chatting with a homosexual person, they’d politely excuse themselves from the table. If a broadly thinking Ivy-leaguer knew he was exchanging thoughts with a fundamentalist homemaker, I fear his interest in the conversation would wane.

I wish these sorts of conversations could happen in the daylight of face to face. If we could resist the temptation to sit with our own kind long enough to have a conversation with others, something valuable might develop. Dialog might wade from the shallows to the deep end, and maybe we would begin seeing each other as people crafted in God’s image. We might not change one another’s views on being human, but we might break off some of the barbs we use for sparring.

When an agenda has a face, belligerence fades. When an orientation becomes a person we know, “those people” become neighbors. No one agrees with everything neighbors say, but believers in Christ know what we’re supposed to do to neighbors. (Love them.) If we did what Jesus taught, I think people would be a bit more interested in what He had to say. And that would make for good table talk.

Touch sensitive

Have you ever noticed how universally we human beings are wired for touch? It’s something we can’t live without.

I was recently involved in a church service that concluded with a meaningful and emotional prayer time. A couple of guys I know had left their seats and knelt at a designated place to pray near the front of the room. Friends and family joined them, and they enthusiastically hugged, patted them on the back, and stood arm in arm. Among other things, it was a powerful experience of community.

Not too long ago I was at a club listening to some friends rock the house. By the time the third band hit the stage, I noticed something. Friends in the club enthusiastically hugged, patted each other on the back, and stood arm in arm. Among other things, it was a powerful experience of community.

I started grad school as a lone duck. My move to the Midwest took me far from my network of friends and family and added my face to the anonymous crowd of a large city. I lived alone. On occasion my voice would crack when I would speak. That’s when I would realize that I hadn’t spoken for a day or two. It was in those lonely times that I noticed how touch sensitive we really are: A handshake from a colleague. A touch from a cashier returning change. A squeeze on the arm from a friend.

I’m amused by people that panic about technology-enabled, virtual interaction threatening physical community. They sell fears of a society too consumed by cyberspace (old term, coined by William Gibson) to meet IRL (“in real life”) in “meatspace” (new term, source unknown). A century before, their ancestors said the same thing about the "devil’s telephone". We’re touch sensitive. People will always seek proximity.

Any foundational firmware that has been hard coded into our race can be leveraged for good and ill. Touch is no exception. Contrast the handshake with the punch. Contrast the healing touch of a nurse with the grope of a deviant. Contrast the beauty of a new life growing from the intimacy of lovers to the ragged destruction of rape.

In a day when touching sparks investigation and litigation, we tend to keep our hands to ourselves. In general, "hands off" is a good thing. And in the age of swine flu, it’s a sanitary thing. But I wonder if the return swing of this pendulum might also be a good thing. Or maybe I just need a hug.

Twenty-two years

Twenty-two years ago tonight I made a decision that has altered the trajectory of my life more than any other choice I have ever faced. I chose to move from a head knowledge of religious information to a relationship with God Himself. Rather than merely knowing about Jesus, I accepted an invitation to know him personally. I'm not sure if it's possible to quantify how different my life would have been had I chosen differently, but I'm glad I chose to take a step of faith.

Since that humid August night during the reign of mullets, I've kicked the tires of my faith quite a bit. I have wrestled with doing the right thing when the wrong thing was the greater short-term gain. I have dismantled and inspected my belief system in ways that seemed to defy good sense, considering my vocation. I've daydreamed of what life might be like if I walked away from faith. I've earned degrees in religion. I've publicly defended issues I've privately questioned. I have been given the ironic title of "elder" while in my twenties. I've seen role models crash and burn, not following the very directions they taught me. I've watched my faith morph as I changed from a boy, to a man, to a husband, to a dad. I've seen the love of God turn upended lives right side up. I've done things I'm not proud of. I've loved and despised being called "pastor", sometimes in the same moment. I've had my faith stretched beyond any possibility of returning to its previous size. I've watched a man die senseless death and felt his new widow sob "why, God?" on my shoulder. I've spent countless hours saying things about God and wondered if anyone would remember a sentence of it the next day. I've strummed wood and steel to sing about this Jesus that knows me so well, yet loves me so much.

All in all, it has been quite a ride. I'm not looking, but I know there are no better offers. Christ is the savior of my entire life, author of my best agenda, and healer of my deepest brokenness. Thumbing through twenty-two years of memories reminds me that a life of faith isn't necessarily easy, but "easy" rarely describes things that really matter.

Change is the only option

A true stroke of South American genius are the multi-speed highways of Argentina. I don't know how widespread this legal enforcement of common sense is, but I wish the U.S. of A. would take note. In a multi-lane highway, each lane has a different maximum speed assigned. The further lanes left you go, the faster the speed limit. The right lane might be going 85 km/h (52 mph), while the middle lane was throttled to 100 km/h, and the blessed left lane would be going 120 km/h (75 mph). Different lane, different speed.

Change is much like these multi-lane, multi-speed highways. You are going to change. Not changing is not an option. The only question is "at what speed will you change"?

A conservative or fundamentalist person says, "I won't change. I'll cling to the old tried and true." Unless they are still wearing animal skins for daily dress, they have been part of change. They get shoved along as the world changes around them, but they will change. Eventually everyone will own a flat panel TV. Good luck trying to find a tube CRT. You have to change eventually.

The middle lane is occupied by people that don't dig their proverbial heels in quite as much as culture changes. They aren't charging ahead like the lane to their left, but they recognize the futility of fundamentalist friction more quickly than the "that's the way it was and we liked it" crowd to their right. Most people you meet will live most comfortably in the center lane.

The left lane lurches with lead-footed pursuit of progress. They are driven by the optimism of evolution, not the comfort of the familiar. While a right-lane person champions the caution of low velocity, the left-laner finds acceleration to be the mode of choice.

I mostly find myself in the left lane. I am convinced that God is active and working in His creation, and that He intends to take it somewhere. That somewhere is a better place than now, so I accept the RSVP to partner with God to move culture forward. My stance toward life is shaped by this. I would rather be a lead foot than a lead weight.

Ant flicking

A few days ago, the beautiful weather had this magnetic attraction that pulled me outdoors. I took some work with me to the riverfront park, and I found a quiet spot on the ampitheather stage to do said work. At one point in my reading, a large ant came strolling towards me. Not wanting to be explored by the six-legger, I gave him a convincing flick with my index finger that sent him tumbling a couple yards from me. The trauma I inflicted changed his stroll to a panicked, zig-zagged run. Somehow this amused me. Unfortunately for the ant, his escape route went near me, so I flicked him again. He rolled, righted himself, and tried to evade me. Intoxicated with power, I flicked him a third time. Fortunately for the ant, he ran the opposite direction this time and vanished across the concrete. At that moment, I had a sobering thought: I'm glad I'm not God.

Check your culture at the door

Unfortunately, much of my experience of church has been “check your culture at the door.” It’s as if they had bouncers posted in the entryway with plastic boxes for us to put our real life in for safe keeping while we were in the house of God. These metaphorical guard/clerks would hand us a tag with our number on it so that, upon leaving, we could collect all our music, movies, TV shows, comfortable clothes, and opinions and reassemble our lives in the parking lot. Inside the church, we’d talk about those “evil” people out there, how bad TV and movies are getting, and how Jesus is going to come back to kick their butts (although we’d never use that word inside). We’d strut around and crow about being on the “winning team” and being holy people. Then we’d leave the building and plunk down our eight bucks to see the same movie everyone else was seeing.

Back when I pastored a traditional church (stop laughing, it happened), I did a nontraditional thing and took a survey. Part of that survey inquired about favorite TV shows, radio stations, and so forth. We learned something interesting: Our favorite shows were the current number one shows. We listened to the same radio stations as those people “out there”. Yet for some reason we acted like it smelled like roses when we…well, you know.

I understand that group identity is maintained by its unique cultural elements, and this alone isn’t necessarily a negative feature of the church. But I believe there is something fundamentally wrong with our hypocritical (yes, I used the H-word) attitude towards our own culture. I could look at this issue from countless angles, but for now I’ll leave it at this: Why should we check our culture at the door of the church?

If a blog falls in the forest...

I've held off on re-entering the blog world for some time now. It's not that I haven't had anything to say, it's just I haven't been persuaded that there's a good reason to say it in a blog.

Here are some of the pushbacks in my mind:

1| Don't I already output enough? I spend a good deal of my time in thought, and from that cerebral jogging I output the material for teaching at my church. Do I really need another venue to say things that I'm already saying? You can already hear it online.

2| The world doesn't need another blog. Not to focus the insult specifically, but there are enough banal blogs of mindless material clogging the pipes of the interweb. Do we really need one more guy draining a laptop battery and a caffeinated drink into the 'perfect' blog post?

3| Who would want to read it? Honestly, my life is as exciting as a middle school chess tournament. I generally enjoy it, but I doubt the masses are clamoring to be in vicarious relationship with me. If this blog falls in the forest, would anyone even notice?

These basic barriers kept me from striding back into the blogosphere with a shiny new blog. (There are more issues than this, but to discuss them would prove point #3.) So why am I blogging again?

I'm hardwired. I'm of the persuasion that God shapes each of us with a purpose in mind. My purpose is to communicate Christ. A barrage of free to medium-priced personality tests conclude that I absorb information, process it, and fit it into larger conversations of meaning and connectedness. I need to hone this gift, and I'll be sharpening the blade here. I reserve the right to re-use, delete, disagree with, and embellish anything I say here. Expect a magnum opus postus to be sandwiched between incoherent nonsense. You might find this blog interesting, or you might rather play sudoku with hexadecimal numbers. Either way, no one has a gun to your head.