Category: Current Event

So many of the wisest people I know are also some of the most well-read. I’ve been thankful for their influence — and their consistent sharing that books are a great teacher. One of those books that contained some eye-opening concepts to me years ago is John Ortberg’s “The Life You’ve Always Wanted.” In it he coins a term oft repeated here: “impression management.” It’s the whole idea of: “what will people think?”

The pondering of that thought then influences what we do, what we wear, what we drive, who we engage with, what we say, and what we say on social media.

Imagine being freed from all that external influence…

Last week it was the end-of-year concert for my high school sons — my senior, in his final performance with his faithful friends, who have sang and danced and done life together these past several years — and my freshman, for whom every performance is a lesson in gratitude for us both, being always aware of how his so-called special needs never deter him from the stage; it just makes me thankful (… usually makes me cry a little, too…).

Let me be profoundly transparent…

School concerts are a wonderful, wonderful thing. I love seeing my children — and your children — up on that center stage. But school concerts, for years, have been a quiet, incredibly major source of stress for me. You see, concerts require a very specific attire: dress pants, dress shirts, dress shoes, etc. I get it; those boys and girls should look the part. But let me share that finding dress pants for a shorter, heavier adolescent is not easy. In fact, many of our past concert evenings found this simply-attempting-to-survive parent quietly crying in the afternoon. It was hard to find the clothes… it was hard to look right… it’s sometimes very difficult to fit in.

When he got to high school, they provided the individually-measured attire (yes, sheeewwwww…). And while maybe his tux was a tad out of proportion, the uniform relieved much of my previous stress. Josh put the pants and the shirt on at home; he put on the coat, bow tie, and cummerbund at school.

Let’s just say, cummerbunds aren’t typical wear for our family. Such was, shall we say, rather noticeable at the March concert, when Josh’s cummerbund showed up in the middle of his chest, a good 6-8” above his belt line. Understand that the tuxedo is a very handsome black; the cummerbund and bow tie are a very visible orange.

So for last week’s last concert, we had a bit of an intentional discussion beforehand. “Remember that the cummerbund goes here (motion to the belt line). It does not go here (horizontal motion to the center of his chest).”

Sure enough. Up comes the curtain, final concert of the year, Josh is his typical joyful self, proudly standing there, second row, right in the center, visible to all, and here is his bright orange cummerbund, smack dab in the middle of his chest once again. [Insert audible sigh here.]

What can I do? Nothing. But after song #1 of a three song set, the director promptly left his podium, walked up to the students, right toward Josh, and corrected the misplaced cummerbund. All eyes were on him. Even with a sweet, strong, beautiful relationship between director and student, it had every potential for embarrassment.

But not for Josh.

Josh gently raised his arms, allowed the director to adjust the necessary apparel, and then noticing that he was the center of attention for an unplanned moment, as Mr. Miller started walking away, Josh gave a quick shrug, an immediate smile, and then a fast, contagious dab. Yes, Josh dabbed. The crowd clapped and chuckled, embracing the joy young master Josh genuinely felt.

I have long thought that Josh does many things better than me. In fact, I would argue that sometimes, intelligence gets in the way for the rest of us. It causes us to miss some of the finer moments, be willing to sacrifice relationship, be embarrassed, and makes us far too conscious of impression management.

Josh simply doesn’t care. So often, he is wiser than me. He is a great teacher.

Respectfully…
AR

As promised, the Intramuralist will soon have some words for the graduate. Until then, let’s remember a few who’ve come before us, with wise and sometimes profound words, today from English teacher David McCullough Jr., delivered to the graduates of Wellesley (Mass.) High School in June of 2012…

… So here we are… commencement… life’s great forward-looking ceremony. (And don’t say, “What about weddings?” Weddings are one-sided and insufficiently effective. Weddings are bride-centric pageantry. Other than conceding to a list of unreasonable demands, the groom just stands there. No stately, hey-everybody-look-at-me procession. No being given away. No identity-changing pronouncement. And can you imagine a television show dedicated to watching guys try on tuxedos? Their fathers sitting there misty-eyed with joy and disbelief, their brothers lurking in the corner muttering with envy. Left to men, weddings would be… after limits-testing procrastination… spontaneous, almost inadvertent… during halftime… on the way to the refrigerator. And then there’s the frequency of failure: statistics tell us half of you will get divorced. A winning percentage like that’ll get you last place in the American League East. The Baltimore Orioles do better than weddings.)
But this ceremony… commencement… a commencement works every time. From this day forward… truly… in sickness and in health, through financial fiascos, through midlife crises and passably attractive sales reps at trade shows in Cincinnati, through diminishing tolerance for annoyingness, through every difference, irreconcilable and otherwise, you will stay forever graduated from high school… you and your diploma as one, ’til death do you part.
No, commencement is life’s great ceremonial beginning, with its own attendant and highly appropriate symbolism. Fitting, for example, for this auspicious rite of passage, is where we find ourselves this afternoon, the venue. Normally, I avoid clichés like the plague, wouldn’t touch them with a ten-foot pole, but here we are on a literal level playing field. That matters. That says something. And your ceremonial costume… shapeless, uniform, one-size-fits-all. Whether male or female, tall or short, scholar or slacker, spray-tanned prom queen or intergalactic X-Box assassin, each of you is dressed, you’ll notice, exactly the same. And your diploma… but for your name, exactly the same.
All of this is as it should be… because none of you is special.
You are not special. You are not exceptional.

Contrary to what your u9 soccer trophy suggests, your glowing seventh grade report card, despite every assurance of a certain corpulent purple dinosaur, that nice Mister Rogers and your batty Aunt Sylvia, no matter how often your maternal caped crusader has swooped in to save you… you’re nothing special.
Yes, you’ve been pampered, cosseted, doted upon, helmeted, bubble-wrapped. Yes, capable adults with other things to do have held you, kissed you, fed you, wiped your mouth, wiped your bottom, trained you, taught you, tutored you, coached you, listened to you, counseled you, encouraged you, consoled you and encouraged you again. You’ve been nudged, cajoled, wheedled and implored. You’ve been feted and fawned over and called sweetie pie. Yes, you have. And, certainly, we’ve been to your games, your plays, your recitals, your science fairs. Absolutely, smiles ignite when you walk into a room, and hundreds gasp with delight at your every tweet. Why, maybe you’ve even had your picture in the Townsman! And now you’ve conquered high school… and, indisputably, here we all have gathered for you, the pride and joy of this fine community, the first to emerge from that magnificent new building…

But do not get the idea you’re anything special. Because you’re not.
The empirical evidence is everywhere, numbers even an English teacher can’t ignore. Newton, Natick, Nee… I am allowed to say Needham, yes? …that has to be two thousand high school graduates right there, give or take, and that’s just the neighborhood Ns. Across the country no fewer than 3.2 million seniors are graduating about now from more than 37,000 high schools. That’s 37,000 valedictorians… 37,000 class presidents… 92,000 harmonizing altos… 340,000 swaggering jocks… 2,185,967 pairs of Uggs. But why limit ourselves to high school? After all, you’re leaving it. So think about this: even if you’re one in a million… on a planet of 6.8 billion that means there are nearly 7,000 people just like you. Imagine standing somewhere over there on Washington Street on Marathon Monday and watching sixty-eight hundred yous go running by. And consider for a moment the bigger picture… Your planet, I’ll remind you, is not the center of its solar system, your solar system is not the center of its galaxy, your galaxy is not the center of the universe. In fact, astrophysicists assure us the universe has no center; therefore, you cannot be it. Neither can Donald Trump… which someone should tell him… although the hair is quite a phenomenon.
“But, Dave,” you cry, “Walt Whitman tells me there is perfection in me also. Epictetus tells me I have the spark of Zeus!” And I don’t disagree. So that makes 6.8 billion examples of perfection, 6.8 billion sparks of Zeus. You see, if everyone is special, then no one is. If everyone gets a trophy, trophies become meaningless. In our unspoken but not so subtle Darwinian competition with one another–which springs, I think, from our fear of our own insignificance, a subset of our dread of mortality–we have of late, we Americans, to our detriment, come to love accolades more than genuine achievement. We have come to see them as the point–and we’re happy to compromise standards, or ignore reality, if we suspect that’s the quickest way, or only way, to have something to put on the mantelpiece, something to pose with, crow about, something with which to leverage ourselves into a better spot on the social totem pole. No longer is it how you play the game, no longer is it even whether you win or lose, or learn or grow, or enjoy yourself doing it… Now it’s “So what does this get me?” As a consequence, we cheapen worthy endeavors… and building a Guatemalan medical clinic becomes more about the application to Bowdoin than the well-being of Guatemalans. It’s an epidemic–and in its way, not even dear old Wellesley High is immune… one of the best of the 37,000 nationwide, Wellesley High School… where good is no longer good enough, where a B is the new C, and the midlevel curriculum is called Advanced College Placement. And I hope you caught me when I said “one of the best.” I said “one of the best” so we can feel better about ourselves, so we can bask in a little easy distinction, however vague and unverifiable, and count ourselves among the elite, whoever they might be, and enjoy a perceived leg up on the perceived competition. But the phrase defies logic. By definition there can be only one best. You’re it or you’re not.
If you’ve learned anything in your years here I hope it’s that education should be for… rather than material advantage… the exhilaration of learning. You’ve learned, too, I hope, as Sophocles assured us, that wisdom is the chief element of happiness. (Second is ice cream… just an fyi) I also hope you’ve learned enough to recognize how little you know… how little you know now… at the moment… for today is just the beginning. It’s where you go from here that matters.
As you commence, then, and before you scatter to the winds, I urge you to do whatever you do for no reason other than you love it and believe in its importance. Don’t bother with work you don’t believe in any more than you would a spouse you’re not crazy about, lest you too find yourself on the wrong side of a Baltimore Orioles comparison. Resist the easy comforts of complacency, the specious glitter of materialism, the narcotic paralysis of self-satisfaction. Be worthy of your advantages. And read… read all the time… read as a matter of principle, as a matter of self-respect. Read as a nourishing staple of life. Develop and protect a moral sensibility and demonstrate the character to apply it. Dream big. Work hard. Think for yourself. Love everything you love, everyone you love, with all your might. And do so, please, with a sense of urgency, for every tick of the clock subtracts from fewer and fewer; and as surely as there are commencements there are cessations… and you’ll be in no condition to enjoy the ceremony attendant to that eventuality no matter how delightful the afternoon.
The fulfilling life, the distinctive life, the relevant life, is an achievement, not something that will fall into your lap because you’re a nice person or mommy ordered it from the caterer. You’ll note the founding fathers took pains to secure your inalienable right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness–quite an active verb, pursuit–which leaves, I should think, little time for lying around watching parrots rollerskate on Youtube. The first President Roosevelt, the old rough rider, advocated the strenuous life. Mr. Thoreau wanted to drive life into a corner, to live deep and suck out all the marrow. The poet Mary Oliver tells us to row, row into the swirl and roil. Locally, someone… I forget who… from time to time encourages young scholars to carpe the heck out of the diem. The point is the same: get busy, have at it. Don’t wait for inspiration or passion to find you. Get up, get out, explore, find it yourself, and grab hold with both hands. (Now, before you dash off and get your YOLO tattoo, let me point out the illogic of that trendy little expression–because you can and should live not merely once, but every day of your life. Rather than You Only Live Once, it should be You Live Only Once… but because YLOO doesn’t have the same ring, we shrug and decide it doesn’t matter.)
None of this day-seizing, though, this YLOOing, should be interpreted as license for self-indulgence. Like accolades ought to be, the fulfilled life is a consequence, a gratifying byproduct. It’s what happens when you’re thinking about more important things. Climb the mountain not to plant your flag, but to embrace the challenge, enjoy the air and behold the view. Climb it so you can see the world, not so the world can see you. Go to Paris to be in Paris, not to cross it off your list and congratulate yourself for being worldly. Exercise free will and creative, independent thought not for the satisfactions they will bring you, but for the good they will do others, the rest of the 6.8 billion–and those who will follow them. And then you too will discover the great and curious truth of the human experience is that selflessness is the best thing you can do for yourself. The sweetest joys of life, then, come only with the recognition that you’re not special.
Because everyone is.
Congratulations. Good luck. Make for yourselves, please, for your sake and for ours, extraordinary lives.

Respectfully…
AR

At 9:00 p.m., London time, as part of her “Dangerous Woman” world tour, singer Ariana Grande began her concert at the 21,000-seat Manchester Arena.

At 10:28 p.m., with the concert complete, a man detonated an explosive device near one of the exits.

Seconds later, fans raced out of the arena, hearing the blast, with most unaware of exactly what had happened.

At least 22 have died, and 59 were injured Monday night. Of the victims named thus far, some are teens. One is only eight.

ISIS was quick to take credit, stating that this iniquitous act was carried out “with Allah’s grace and support.” For the record, I couldn’t disagree more. Lest we digress, however, with the ongoing investigation and the identification of the killer, the incident is believed to be a result of Islamic terrorism.

At this point, it’s challenging to know what to say. With a heavy heart and a sober mind, I find myself mostly pausing at the keyboard, wondering how in the world we make sense of a group that finds it sickeningly valiant to intentionally take the life of an eight year old girl. The reality is that terrorists don’t care about who they kill; they don’t care about other people. The radicals have taken a religious creed and utilized it as a license for murder. Let’s be poignantly clear: they are not motivated by God; they are motivated by evil.

What magnifies the inherent challenge, unfortunately, is that our country currently stinks at talking about things well.

I have no desire to be disrespectful to a single soul. But I do desire to find a way through this, talking honestly, bluntly, and respectfully about terrorism. Consistent with most topics, I’d like to find a way to discuss the truth and the solemn ramifications without any of the “downs” — that is, either (A) watering down the truth — or (B) shoving the truth down the throat of one who approaches the topic from a different angle.

Too many play politics. Too many dismiss a potentially relevant aspect. Too many dismiss who leads and directs the conversation. Again, we have a hard time simply talking about it. It thus doesn’t seem like too much of a stretch to wonder why solution remains distant. If we fumble the mere conversation, we are also likely to forgo any solution.

Perhaps the most poignant response I witnessed this week was from Ariana Grande herself. She made me think. In the immediate hours after the attack, she simply tweeted the following:

“broken.
from the bottom of my heart, i am so so sorry. i don’t have words.”

I thought about her words for a long time… broken.

What does it mean to be “broken”?

With many stated definitions, this one seemed consistent with Grande’s emotion: “made weak or infirm; subdued completely.”

There is an inherent humility in that definition — a recognition of weakness that we need help in this; we need far more than self. We need a grace and truth that is bigger and better and more effective and lasting than any human brilliance or bravado.

It dawned on me, therefore, how beautiful brokenness is… the calling out for help, the submission, the acknowledgement of weakness and transparency of emotion, and the resistance to any choosing of sides or exalting of self.

Maybe then, the way through discussing and eliminating the evil of terrorism is for everyone to humble themselves long enough to pray, recognizing our need for divine help and quit any exaltation of party, policy, or self. Maybe. I’m just thinking out loud.

Primarily, my heart and mind just feel we need to be a little more broken.

Respectfully…
AR

Let’s do this a little differently today. Let me share what I want to talk about before we begin. I don’t want to get off track in the rabbit trails and red herrings. I don’t want to minimize any detail, but I also don’t want the specifics to keep us from wrestling with the underlying question. Let me be clear: the specifics are hard. The audacity is unthinkable… sobering… and nothing short of infuriating. We will not minimize the severity. I simply want to talk about an underlying angle. I want to wrestle with the excellent question of: what’s too much to pay?

I want to talk about forgiveness. And consequence. I want to address pardon… propitiation… a restart, so-to-speak. I want to talk about second chances. When do they and when do they not apply? When does a person not deserve a second chance?

And… who gets to decide that? Could different people, have different, okay ways to proceed?

Let me offer the awful example…

Joe Mixon is a 20 year old, aspiring NFL athlete. Soon after arriving on the college campus, one day after his 18th birthday, Mixon punched fellow student, Amelia Molitor, in the face, breaking multiple bones, requiring hospitalization, surgery, and a jaw wired shut. Not only did Molitor have to endure the physical recovery, she was also subject to the extended stares, shame, social media avenues attempting to blame her, and to the fans, attorneys, etc. who prioritized Mixon’s football future over Molitor’s mental and physical health.

While the horrifying incident happened three years ago, the video wasn’t released until last December, which spurred on even more stares at Molitor, more outrage directed at Mixon, and more fans and attorneys attempting to minimize Mixon’s criminal actions.

Molitor has seemingly worked hard to heal and survive. Some would say she has found a way to thrive. Part of her chosen way through was to meet not long ago with Mixon.

From Molitor on their meeting: “Joe and I were able to meet privately, without any attorneys, and talk about our experiences since that night. I am encouraged that we will both be able to move forward from here with our lives. From our private discussions I am satisfied that we are going to put this behind us and work towards helping others who may have found themselves in similar circumstances.
I greatly appreciate his apology and I think the feelings he expressed were sincere. We both could have handled things differently. I believe if we had a chance to go back to that moment in time, the situation would not have ended the way it did.”

From Mixon: “I’m thankful Mia and I were able to talk privately. I was able to apologize to her one-on-one. The way I reacted that night, that’s not me. That’s not the way I was raised. I think she understands that.
Talking together helps move us past what happened. I know I have to keep working to be a better person, and this is another step in that direction. I love working with kids, and I’m looking forward to more chances to do that kind of work. I want to lead a life that inspires them, and I hope I can lead by example from today forward.”

The initial incident was awful. The apology was also accepted. I’m also not close enough to either Mixon or Molitor to gauge the depth of sincerity nor entirety of motive.

Note that Joe Mixon is considered one of the most skilled NFL prospects — possibly, even, talent-worthy of being drafted in the top five or ten. When he was finally selected by the Bengals in the mid-second round Friday night, many were outraged — as character-worthy, prompts the controversy.

If a person chooses to never cheer for Joe Mixon, they will find no active argument from the Intramuralist. If a person chooses to jeer, they will also find no argument. But if a person feels led to give a second chance to another — investing in him, walking alongside him, providing structure and discipline and helping him grow — you will also find no argument. A second chance is not a right, but it can be beautiful, contagious, and inspiring.

Hence, this isn’t about Joe Mixon, Amelia Molitor, the Bengals, or the NFL. The question is: when does a person deserve a second chance? Who gets to decide that? And is it ok that we will have different answers to that question?

When an athlete, celebrity, public servant, felon, or friend, does actually redeem themselves… when they do grow, change, repent, and become a positive influence… when a person or relationship is redeemed or restored… is that not most beautiful?

Tough, I know, as it only starts with a second chance and the specifics are hard. I just don’t want to miss wrestling with the underlying questions… those that affect us all.

Respectfully… always…
AR

This has been a bit of a rough week on this semi-humble current events observer. With the house on the market, the need for extended single parenting, a sick kid, and all that accompanies a graduating senior this time of year, my week has been challenging. Hence, when an unexpected allergic reaction prompts hives on over 90% of one’s body, it can be arduous indeed. Yes, it itches all over; and yes, I won’t be taking any antibiotic containing sulfamethoxazole again any time soon.

Let me be frank in saying that while the Intramuralist has never shied from sharing a personal reaction to a current scenario — albeit respectfully, of course — sharing my personal reaction to bactrim seems a bit of a stretch…

… well, sort of…

Let’s go back to the itch.

I itch all over.

Let me say it another way. While there’s a ton going on all around me, a ton going on in this world today, a ton happening not just to me but to all those around me — people I know and people I don’t — I can’t think about them. All I can think about is how much I itch.

Remember that iconic “Friends” episode guest-starring Charlie Sheen? Sheen plays a military man on leave, eager to spend a passionate two weeks with his girl, Phoebe. As foreshadowed by the episode’s title, “The One with the Chicken Pox,” Phoebe has contacted the infectious disease, and it quickly spreads to Sheen as well. Ever insistent Monica mandates the two strap oven mitts to each hand, thereby making physical touching — and itching — impossible. When the afflicted are enthusiastically able to free themselves from Monica’s need to control the behavior of other people, all the passionate pair want to do is touch each other… that is, all they want to do is scratch. Their itch is pretty much all they can think about.

That, my friends, is how I feel today.

… again, well… sort of…

That is how I’m tempted to feel today.

I want to be totally transparent…

The itch is bad. It’s strong. I was forewarned by my wise medical professionals that it would take a while to resolve and in the meantime, I may be more irritable and hungry. It truly is hard for me to think more of anything or anyone else.

In other words, my itch is affecting my reaction to all that ton of activity going on around me. It’s affecting how I feel, think, and respond to other events, scenarios, people, etc. It’s affecting everything. I am totally tempted to see life through my itch. My sensitivities are exponentially heightened; my reactions are nothing short of instantaneous. I’m less gentle… less kind… less openminded… and less empathetic. I’m also more blunt… more passionate… more stubborn… and yes, more irritable.

One of the things I oft advocate is to step outside my circumstances long enough to gain an accurate perspective. In fact, perhaps one of the most sincere questions I humbly ask of another is whether we are allowing God to be defined by our circumstances — or are we stepping outside of our circumstances long enough, in order to see him first. In other words, how much are our circumstances affecting our perspective?

Right now, my circumstances justify a less kinder, more stubborn response. Let’s go farther… remove my circumstances from me… project them onto one of my children or onto another I love or hold dear. You can bet I will be just as “lesser”… that is, less gentle… less kind… less humble… etc. I can’t be as rational nor wise when I’m focused on the itch.

Man, I need to find those oven mitts. Maybe, too, I’ll go grab something to eat.

Respectfully…
AR

One of my fair-minded, progressive friends has suggested for several years that we are witnessing the manifestation of a tribal mentality — groups banded together by belief or emotion that will squelch anything it perceives as a threat. They move as a group — as a “tribe,” so-to-speak — and survival of the tribe becomes what’s most important.

That means that objectivity, rational thinking, and relationship are each secondary to the survival of the tribe. “If you aren’t with us, you’re against us,” is the often vocalized clamor and adhered-to thinking. There thus exists a push to resist anything or anyone who thinks/feels/believes differently, suggesting that they are a threat to what is wisest or best.

That means, too, that empathy, compassion, and tolerance are also secondary. At best, each of those virtues is limited… “we can only relate to the likeminded… we will only have compassion for those who think like us.” Hence, some who proclaim to be the most tolerant blindly become intolerant in that they only accept those with similar beliefs. They are no longer willing to be challenged by thinking that is different.

Let me be clear with my concern… any ideology which diminishes objectivity, rational thinking, and relationship, cannot be wisest nor best.

I get concerned, no less, with the number of highly intelligent persons who so willingly accept said mentality. So many of my friends don’t think like me; in fact, last I looked on this planet, there is no one who thinks exactly like me (… although there is one fairly handsome, special needs teen who comes pretty close…). So why are we demanding like-thinking from others?

Have we equated different opinion as wrong?

Why do we see different opinion as a threat?

Why can we sometimes simply not allow different opinion to exist?

When collaborating with my fair-minded friend, together we recently wrestled with a few more, poignant conclusions…

• When we are offended by other points of view, we can’t hold any meaningful dialogue…
• When we refuse to see any other perspective as valid, we close our minds to reconciliation…
• When we close our minds to reconciliation, we are blind to how beautiful and powerful reconciliation is…
• When we hunker down in our so-called tribes, we have become the intolerant…
• Silencing the opposition is a key part of the tribal mentality…
• Silencing the opposition leads to tyranny…
• Wisdom includes a respectful give and take…

I remember realizing several years ago that if I fly East or if I fly West, I will still eventually get to the same place. I can fly over the Atlantic or the Pacific Ocean, from Ohio to Bangladesh, and still arrive at the same place, at the same time.

But the challenge with the tribal mentality is that it has no tolerance for flying in any other direction than their own… “West is the only right way.”

That’s simply inaccurate…

East… West… we end up the same place… but only if we listen to and respect one another, especially those who think differently.

Respectfully…
AR

For a few select years, this semi-humble parent took time out to homeschool two of her three children. It was no intended disrespect of any of the excellent educators in our community, nor was our family any less involved; we love our local schools and will always support them. This was simply a choice that for two of our three kids, for those few, specifically selected years, a more targeted one-on-one educational approach would be fruitful. Socialization was never an issue (… and no, with all due respect to my homeschool family friends, I never wore a denim skirt nor some sort of bun in my hair).

One of the educational units we most enjoyed during those years was the study of world religion; it was fascinating! While some have opted for religion being on the short list of things people don’t talk about, I felt it was wise and appropriate for my children to understand the interworking of each major faith…

… what is the origin?
… who was the founder?
… are people encouraged to worship God or worship man?
… what is the primary doctrine?
… what are the primary behavioral components?
… where has the information come from?
… how do we know if it’s true?
… what parts are hard? … and if so, why? … because they don’t make sense or because of any stubbornness or unwillingness on my part to understand and attempt to comply?
… how through the centuries, has its prophecy proven true?
… what seems based merely on human thinking?

Such is a fascinating study. And while I believe that true religion must fully affect a person’s head, heart, and feet (meaning it needs to make sense, spur us on to love other people well, and then put our feet into motion/service), that study gave us excellent head knowledge.

For example, did you know that the Jehovah Witnesses teach that only 144,000 people will go to heaven? (… someone might want to review those odds with their 3.5 million members…)

… or that Scientology, founded by L. Ron Hubbard, teaches that 75 million years ago, an evil leader called Xenu decided to eliminate the excess population from a galactic confederacy, tricking billions of people and then exporting them to Earth? (… note that Hubbard was a career science fiction writer… shocking…).

All that to say that it is an entirely false statement to say that all religions are equally good, true, and right. That is simply untrue.

One of the aspects, no less, that fascinated my boys and I, as we took advantage of the opportunity to learn together some dozen years ago, was that as we studied the world’s religions, only one teaches about a central figure who died and came back to life. The bodies of all other founders and leaders of the world’s religions remain dead and decaying in a tomb somewhere.

Let me not be callous nor disrespectful. Such is not my intent.

My intent is simply to share that the resurrection of Jesus Christ is the one aspect of Christianity my boys and I could never shake. We could never quit thinking about how it’s the one aspect that differentiates Christ from the leaders of all other faiths and ideologies.

I am not saying that all parts of Christianity are easy for me; they’re not. But on Easter Sunday, the day the world remembers that radical, unparalleled-by-any resurrection, I must pause. I pause asking myself what I believe and why… where am I right? … where am I wrong? … and for me, where has my own stubbornness and unwillingness gotten in the way?

I think of the resurrection this day.

Respectfully… always…
AR