The pick-up truck was barreling straight towards me, oblivious to the fact that I was prayer-walking, blind to my existence, ignorant of my conversation with God. Glancing at his menacing headlights, I scooted across the road, tucking my tail like one of my Schnauzers when scared, and gasping for breath as I reached the entrance of Gethsemane Abby, I was grateful that I was secure on the other side of the road, a side where I longed for and found, time and time again: calm, peace, tranquility. And once having crossed the road, I realized how easily the world crashes into our spiritual safety zones.
Gethsemane Abby in Gethsemane, Kentucky, has been that for me: a quiet room for my soul to rest and refresh, an area where my cell phone has no service, a spiritual compass redirecting my life, a frequency retuning my spiritual ears to God’s voice, a time zone resetting my spiritual clock to God’s timeless and eternal one. It’s holy ground for me, a place where I remove my shoes, as Moses did before the burning bush, and listen to the still, quiet, but all powerful voice of God.
Having been raised an umpteenth generation Protestant of the Southern Baptist flavor--- and a preacher at that, I remember having no clue what to expect on my first visit to Gethsemane. Would I have to wear one of those long robes and don a pair of sandals? Upon the suggestion of one of my colleagues at Campbellsville University, I had scheduled a four day retreat.
That was three years ago. I have learned that these Cistercian monks are very integrated people who simply, quite simply, operate in another realm where life revolves around prayer---seven times a day, beginning at 3:15 a.m. and not concluding until 7:30 p.m. ---a slow reading of the Scriptures, called lectio divina, work, and leisure. And I, a man in love with his wife and four children, embraced that monastic vision. It’s affected more than my prayer life, too. St. Benedict encouraged work with hands. So, I took his advice and planted a garden. Thanks to St. Benedict, and the coaching of some good ol’ Southern Baptist farmers, I enjoy vegetables from my own backyard. St. Benedict considered work in God’s presence part of our prayer life, too.
For the last three weeks I had scheduled a long overdue personal day at my spiritual resting place, Gethsemane Abby. And every week that pick-up truck of the world kept careening into my plans, piling first one thing and then another into my life. That’s life, as we know it. It is like that. That’s why it’s essential for us to get to a place where life is not like we know it.
It felt right to get back into the monastic liturgy that day. And having prayed with the monks at 5:45 a.m. and through the day, I walked, and prayed, and prayed and walked, until I found myself on the other side of the road, where the truck had a bead on my soul, jerking me back into a reality I knew too well, that world of a Day-Timer filled with meetings to attend, deadlines to make, bills to pay, people to meet. And so, I ran, finding safety, at least momentarily, across the road, in the arms of God, there at Gethsemane.
Just a few hours later I was in my car, heading home. The radio was already on as I started the engine, tuned to a pre-programmed station, playing the The Black Eyed Peas, “Let’s Get it Started in Here.” Smiling to myself, I turned it off, having the distinct impression that the monks already had it going on.
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. His website is DavidBWhitlock.com.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Friday, October 8, 2010
It's More Than Just a Game
The program stands upright, encased in plastic, holding a prominent place on a bookshelf in my office. “Kansas City Chiefs vs. Boston Patriots, Municipal Stadium, November 20, 1966, 50 cents (including tax),” is written in bold letters, displayed on the front of the program. Beneath that announcement, a black and white picture shows Chiefs’ quarterback Len Dawson rolling out, behind the block of fullback Curtis McClinton.
It’s the program for a game I never got to attend.
My Uncle Don, Don Krouse, lived next door to Jack Steadman at the time. I was eleven years old. Jack Steadman was for four decades chairman, president, and general manager of the Chiefs football organization. Knowing how I, as a young boy, practically idolized college and pro football players, Don, with the help of Stedman, made some things happen for me. For beginners, Don took me to watch the Chiefs practice. Then, I was allowed into the Chiefs locker room where Head Coach Hank Stram smiled at me, shook my hand, told me to grow a little, and come play for the Chiefs. And, to this day I have a football signed by members of the Chiefs team that played the Green Bay Packers in Super Bowl I. I cried when the Pack beat the Chiefs.
But I didn’t give up on the Chiefs; I stayed with the sport because of something I learned from Uncle Don. It was a small thing, and he probably forgot about it, but I never did. It happened on one of our visits to Kansas City. Don had done it again; this time we were to sit with Lamar Hunt in the owner’s suite. And after the game, Don told me, I might actually have the opportunity to meet some of the players.
Unfortunately for me, as soon as we arrived I got sick and missed the game.
But the lesson was learned after that game I didn’t see. Uncle Don tapped on the door of my sick room. “How ya doin’ kid?” he inquired in his raspy smoker’s voice, now even more hoarse from yelling at the game. “Thought you might like this.” It was a program from the game, with autographs of Len Dawson, Jerry Mays, Bobby Bell, Chris Buford, and Jim Tyrer. Forgotten now to most sports fans, they were my heroes then. And along with that autographed program, Don handed me a play by play synopsis of the game. I watched the replay of the game the next day and had fun “predicting” what would happen with each play. Uncle Don had helped a disappointed youngster feel better, and more significantly, in the process he taught me a valuable lesson.
Football is football most of the time. But on occasion it becomes something more than just a game. Whether or not you know what a first down is, you can understand human compassion, expressed most often in small ways, in little actions, like giving a dejected kid an autographed program, a play by play summary, and a tender smile. As important as it is to make every effort to win, the relationships formed as one person cares genuinely for another trump the won-loss record.
I thought about that just the other day as I hung up the phone, having received the news of my Uncle Don’s death. Staring at that program in my office, I recalled that moment with him when I missed the game but learned a lesson. And for the life of me, I couldn’t remember who won the game.
It’s the program for a game I never got to attend.
My Uncle Don, Don Krouse, lived next door to Jack Steadman at the time. I was eleven years old. Jack Steadman was for four decades chairman, president, and general manager of the Chiefs football organization. Knowing how I, as a young boy, practically idolized college and pro football players, Don, with the help of Stedman, made some things happen for me. For beginners, Don took me to watch the Chiefs practice. Then, I was allowed into the Chiefs locker room where Head Coach Hank Stram smiled at me, shook my hand, told me to grow a little, and come play for the Chiefs. And, to this day I have a football signed by members of the Chiefs team that played the Green Bay Packers in Super Bowl I. I cried when the Pack beat the Chiefs.
But I didn’t give up on the Chiefs; I stayed with the sport because of something I learned from Uncle Don. It was a small thing, and he probably forgot about it, but I never did. It happened on one of our visits to Kansas City. Don had done it again; this time we were to sit with Lamar Hunt in the owner’s suite. And after the game, Don told me, I might actually have the opportunity to meet some of the players.
Unfortunately for me, as soon as we arrived I got sick and missed the game.
But the lesson was learned after that game I didn’t see. Uncle Don tapped on the door of my sick room. “How ya doin’ kid?” he inquired in his raspy smoker’s voice, now even more hoarse from yelling at the game. “Thought you might like this.” It was a program from the game, with autographs of Len Dawson, Jerry Mays, Bobby Bell, Chris Buford, and Jim Tyrer. Forgotten now to most sports fans, they were my heroes then. And along with that autographed program, Don handed me a play by play synopsis of the game. I watched the replay of the game the next day and had fun “predicting” what would happen with each play. Uncle Don had helped a disappointed youngster feel better, and more significantly, in the process he taught me a valuable lesson.
Football is football most of the time. But on occasion it becomes something more than just a game. Whether or not you know what a first down is, you can understand human compassion, expressed most often in small ways, in little actions, like giving a dejected kid an autographed program, a play by play summary, and a tender smile. As important as it is to make every effort to win, the relationships formed as one person cares genuinely for another trump the won-loss record.
I thought about that just the other day as I hung up the phone, having received the news of my Uncle Don’s death. Staring at that program in my office, I recalled that moment with him when I missed the game but learned a lesson. And for the life of me, I couldn’t remember who won the game.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Just a Little More
Perhaps the most quoted line from the blockbuster movie, “Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps,” (It was the top money maker last weekend, grossing over $19 million, underscoring the truth in its title, “Money Never Sleeps.”) will be the line where Gordon Gekko (Michael Douglas) ---having served eight years in prison for insider trading--- speaks before a standing room only crowd of mesmerized listeners. Gekko says, “Someone reminded me I once said, 'Greed is good.' Now it seems it's legal."
But the line that stayed with me was not Gekko’s; it came from his antagonist: the equally greedy and ruthless Bretton James (Josh Brolin). It’s a classic one liner that comes in answer to the question of the younger, up and coming Wall Street trader, Jake Moore, played by Shia LaBoef. It’s a question about what amount of money it would take for James to be satisfied. Moore asks what that financial figure is. James looks puzzled until Moore explains. Everyone has a figure; everyone has an amount of what it will take to leave with the satisfaction having made enough. James answers with a wry grin, “More.”
More indeed. The character Bretton James is not the first and won’t be the last to want just a little more.
That, it seems, is the essence of greed; it’s the insatiable desire for more. Legend has it that John D. Rockefeller was once asked, “How much money is enough?” Rockefeller is supposed to have replied, “Just a little more than what you have.”
Gekko, who describes America’s lust for more as a cancer, is himself a victim of the disease he warns against. Has he come out of it? Has he experienced a spiritual transformation, or is he simply a snake who has shed another skin? One thing is sure: eluding greed is not easy. For the alcoholic, liquor is a necessity and not a delight; for the sex addict, sex is mechanical and not meaningful; but for the greedy, the addiction of which seems to encompass the former two vices as well, enough is always elusive and never satisfactorily attained. More is never enough, no matter what the particular desire.
Is there a financial figure at which most people can find satisfaction?
According to a recent Princeton University survey the answer is, yes. The magic number, the study concludes, is $75,000 a year. Why that figure? It allows us to pay our basic expenses and have some left over for some enjoyment; but more than that seems to clutter our life with so many extra responsibilities and stress factors that we forfeit our emotional stability and quality of family life.
And to think I’ve asked the Lord that if I’m going to be tempted--- at least one time--- let me be tempted with having too much. Now I know, at least according to this study what “too much” is.
Or do I? “Too much” will be defined by the values each person has adopted for one’s own life. Some of the most satisfied people I know on this earth are those who own nothing: the Cistercians at the Abby of Gethsemane, monks who have taken vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. The walk away figure for them was a life of prayer.
Leo Tolstoy wrote a story about a peasant farmer who had acquired more land and yet complained that he still didn’t have enough land to satisfy him. He says, “If I had plenty of land, I shouldn't fear the Devil himself!" Then the peasant received an unusual offer. For 1,000 rubles he could buy all the land he could walk around in one day. The only catch: he had to be back at his starting place by the end of the day. He began at day break and walked as fast as he could, all the time thinking of how he would build more wealth on the land he paced. As the sun was beginning to set, people could see him at a distance. He began to run with everything he had, desperately trying to make it back before the sun set on him. Gasping for breath, clutching his chest, he staggered across the mark where he had started earlier that day. And then he collapsed. As the people gathered around him, they bent over to find him unconscious, with blood oozing from his mouth. In a few moments he was dead. His servants dug a grave the dimensions of which were roughly, 6 feet by 3 feet.
The title of Tolstoy’s story? How Much Land Does a Man Need?
Finally, when life is done, about all we need is 6 feet by 3 feet. Unless of course our walk away figure included an investment in eternity. Then, a little more includes forever.
Life Matters, is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can visit his website at davidbwhitlock.com.
But the line that stayed with me was not Gekko’s; it came from his antagonist: the equally greedy and ruthless Bretton James (Josh Brolin). It’s a classic one liner that comes in answer to the question of the younger, up and coming Wall Street trader, Jake Moore, played by Shia LaBoef. It’s a question about what amount of money it would take for James to be satisfied. Moore asks what that financial figure is. James looks puzzled until Moore explains. Everyone has a figure; everyone has an amount of what it will take to leave with the satisfaction having made enough. James answers with a wry grin, “More.”
More indeed. The character Bretton James is not the first and won’t be the last to want just a little more.
That, it seems, is the essence of greed; it’s the insatiable desire for more. Legend has it that John D. Rockefeller was once asked, “How much money is enough?” Rockefeller is supposed to have replied, “Just a little more than what you have.”
Gekko, who describes America’s lust for more as a cancer, is himself a victim of the disease he warns against. Has he come out of it? Has he experienced a spiritual transformation, or is he simply a snake who has shed another skin? One thing is sure: eluding greed is not easy. For the alcoholic, liquor is a necessity and not a delight; for the sex addict, sex is mechanical and not meaningful; but for the greedy, the addiction of which seems to encompass the former two vices as well, enough is always elusive and never satisfactorily attained. More is never enough, no matter what the particular desire.
Is there a financial figure at which most people can find satisfaction?
According to a recent Princeton University survey the answer is, yes. The magic number, the study concludes, is $75,000 a year. Why that figure? It allows us to pay our basic expenses and have some left over for some enjoyment; but more than that seems to clutter our life with so many extra responsibilities and stress factors that we forfeit our emotional stability and quality of family life.
And to think I’ve asked the Lord that if I’m going to be tempted--- at least one time--- let me be tempted with having too much. Now I know, at least according to this study what “too much” is.
Or do I? “Too much” will be defined by the values each person has adopted for one’s own life. Some of the most satisfied people I know on this earth are those who own nothing: the Cistercians at the Abby of Gethsemane, monks who have taken vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. The walk away figure for them was a life of prayer.
Leo Tolstoy wrote a story about a peasant farmer who had acquired more land and yet complained that he still didn’t have enough land to satisfy him. He says, “If I had plenty of land, I shouldn't fear the Devil himself!" Then the peasant received an unusual offer. For 1,000 rubles he could buy all the land he could walk around in one day. The only catch: he had to be back at his starting place by the end of the day. He began at day break and walked as fast as he could, all the time thinking of how he would build more wealth on the land he paced. As the sun was beginning to set, people could see him at a distance. He began to run with everything he had, desperately trying to make it back before the sun set on him. Gasping for breath, clutching his chest, he staggered across the mark where he had started earlier that day. And then he collapsed. As the people gathered around him, they bent over to find him unconscious, with blood oozing from his mouth. In a few moments he was dead. His servants dug a grave the dimensions of which were roughly, 6 feet by 3 feet.
The title of Tolstoy’s story? How Much Land Does a Man Need?
Finally, when life is done, about all we need is 6 feet by 3 feet. Unless of course our walk away figure included an investment in eternity. Then, a little more includes forever.
Life Matters, is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can visit his website at davidbwhitlock.com.
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