professional hazards

“In the multitude of words there wanteth not transgression;” Proverbs 10:19 ASV

Lawyers live in fear of that lapsed word, that oversight of precise language that could cost someone his fortune, his home, or his reputation. No matter how much good they may have done on behalf of a multitude of clients, tomorrow could reveal a calamitous error. Doctors, too, go home each day and pray they have made the right call as they prescribe small portions of healing drugs from closets full to overflowing with deadly toxins of every kind. Preachers step down from pulpits and immediately are plagued with doubts about the “rightness” of their pronouncements that hang somewhere between heaven and earth. And each must mount that cockpit again and again daring to speak for God to the world all the while secretly wondering how preposterous a task that must be for any of Adam’s race.

Preachers, teachers, and writers, all who live by the words of their mouths, whose stock and trade is an endless stream of pungent vocabulary formulated into wishful sense and meaning, are condemned to co-exist with the constant dread of error and offense. Facts come out incomplete, judgments are ill-conceived, and words trip up even the most astute and knowledgeable. We who speak daily, write weekly, or lead constantly are conscious of the two-edged sword that hangs over their heads. At any moment our words can fall upon us and cut in deadly fashion. If any are not duly humbled by that daily possibility, there is truly something very deeply wrong and dangerous about them, and they should be barred from all of the above.

Just last week I stumbled badly in my use of language that gave offense where none was intended. A friend also was reeling as his efforts at leadership were constantly being sidetracked by a whole series of misunderstandings, words run off the rails by unseen and undetected sensitivities. I watched two other highly trained and capable individuals labor and strain to understand one another. This all was happening around me in the span of one short week. It is enough to make one despair at the prospect of ever constructing accurate and effective communication. Oh, to be an artist painting in a solitary studio whose only dialogue is with pigment and palette. Oh, to have the simple life of an assembly line worker who can look with satisfaction at a thousand widgets well made at the end of a day.

But where would we be without lawyers fearlessly exercising their craft to create a world of law and order? How well would we live without doctors who dare to cut through flesh and bone or deal in life saving medicines? And where would we be without preachers and teachers who go where angels fear to tread, laying down the unseen measuring lines whereupon we build our lives?

Lest you pity too much these professions and the daily perils they face, remember that we as parents have equal hazards to our trade. We, too, pour out a torrent of words upon our children every day, their meaning loaded with the freight of tone and grimace. We correct, admonish, train, reinforce, encourage, and address them powerfully in our many different roles. So, too, the potential for catastrophe is there with words said in ignorance or haste resulting in wounded spirits, or at a minimum, have the potential to stir up strident responses. No wonder some parents would rather retreat to a world of passive permissiveness than dare to conduct those daily interdictions that call for incisive language in an effort to bend young lives to receive and shoulder the yoke of responsibility.

To speak words of truth is to claim a moral high ground, one fraught with risk. May we be courageous enough to try when the time comes to defend our corner of the wall; and humble enough to admit the possibility of error so endemic to us all.

(to be continued)

Beginnings

“Therefore having been justified by faith,…” Romans 5:1-5

It is hard to believe that another school year is upon us already. I, like you, wonder where the summer went. Looking at several students who are suddenly elevated inches in stature assures me that we had one. Some of you are suddenly looking eye to eye with your children. Most all are returning with bright eyes and excitement over a new beginning. I, too, rejoice that we serve a God of new beginnings.

For each student, there is a clean slate, new classmates, new teachers, new textbooks, new opportunities, and new challenges. Some, however, are laboring under the memories of past difficulties, old offenses, broken friendships, or even past failure. It is a common human condition. In spite of the memories of high points in the past year, many are nevertheless also haunted by the difficulties encountered, the mistakes, the doubts, the misunderstandings, and errors of judgment committed by ourselves or others along the way. Adults and students alike long for fresh starts but often find themselves nagged by bad memories. How we deal with the past is an important factor in determining success in the future.

It is a familiar story echoed in the lives of any church you have known this past year, any extended family relationships you have encountered, any marriage that continues to grow and thrive, and, yes, any life lived in the full scrutiny of God’s all-seeing eye. Failure and shortcoming are endemic to all humanity and every institution known to man, CFC among them. Being the chief manager of the complaint department is one of my many duties that I have learned to embrace with healthy respect.

Listening to difficulties teaches me about me. How do I live with failure and shortcoming? It is a question each of us has to answer to maintain our own sanity and well-being. In spite of mistakes, we must move forward. In spite of the flaws of our mate, we must remain loyal. In spite of the deficiencies of our children, we still must love and care deeply about them. In spite of our own moral failures, we must continue to run the race for the high calling of Christ Jesus. We have to learn to live with failure and error or we die, either of despair or bitterness.

How shall we then live? I get a picture of the resolution of this dilemma from Romans where Paul exults in “this grace in which we stand” enabling us to have “peace with God.” I love grace. It is blessed stuff. Preach it, brother. But then he goes on to “exult in our tribulations” knowing that it brings about “perseverance” and “proven character.” Ouch! That part I could just as soon do without.

I have stood with many of you last year that suffered through struggles and heartaches. I have interviewed many new families who bring with them stories of difficulties and distress. Every student at CFC brings with them memories of the past school year that contain elements of the good, the bad, and the ugly. Suggestion. At the beginning of every year, I believe it is good practice to (1) exult in the grace of God. Accordingly as I have received, so should I give; forgive as I have been forgiven. It is God’s preventive medicine against bitterness. (2) I need to exult in my tribulations. I must look upon all those difficult problems, discipline sessions, conflicts, protracted meetings, misunderstandings as things sown into my life from which good can result. I must not look back upon them with embarrassed resentment but as opportunities for growth.

Can you join me in rejoicing in the grace God has shown to us by bringing us thus far and giving us another new beginning? Romans 5 – good stuff.

No Regrets

“But charge Joshua, and encourage him, and strengthen him: for he shall go over before this people” -Deut. 3:28

I do intend to finish my series on “callings” but life keeps interrupting. This time it is the death of an old friend. I wrote an article last year telling about my friend, Glenn, who I had known since second grade. We were an odd couple; me, the child from Sunday school and he, the wild child. Our odyssey of friendship continued over the years to the point where he called about 15 months ago and told me of his bout with cancer and new found faith in Jesus. It must have been difficult for this life-long atheist to acknowledge his error, but he stumbled his way to faith as best he could. I supported him in that as best I could. It was a topic of frequent conversation in my house as to when I should visit him up in Illinois once more before something happened. But busy schedules and hopeful remission reports always managed to put it on the back burner.

Last month, another friend sent me a newspaper clipping telling about the sale of the bulk of Glenn’s 70 acre, non-descript farm to a parks conservancy for $1.2 million dollars. He had bought the property years before when no one wanted it. I was now the friend of a millionaire. I knew it would not change his lifestyle any. He did not even own a TV. I just had to call him and kid him about being the first millionaire on our old block. His voice was weak from another dose of radiation. The cancer was back. Nevertheless, I congratulated him, and he told me it was already spent. He had set it all up in trust funds for his children. The irony was rich. Average working man struggles whole life to make do and get ahead. Gains million dollar windfall and faces death in same month. It was the kind of picture that jars the conscience of anyone nursing even the whiff of material values. So what is the really important legacy we leave? What are we striving for? What goals have we fixed our hearts upon? Glenn always appreciated the humor of situations like that. I know he must have had a good laugh signing over the checks. His gallows sense of humor had never left him … until last week.

In finishing up our phone conversation a couple of weeks ago, he confessed he didn’t know how much longer he could hang on. His goals were largely accomplished, and the struggle was intensifying. I told him to persist a little longer; that I wanted to see him one more time before he died. He agreed. I hung up the phone and started to make plans to travel north over spring break. I wrote him to tell him so on one of those sarcastic get well cards, the kind he would have liked. I enclosed a CD with a song I wanted him to hear. It was a call to praise God every morning, in the bad times and the good. Getting a small package in the mail is always clumsy for me for it meant a trip to the post office. And then there was the holiday. So finally, last Wednesday, it started on its way north. It must have arrived on Saturday. His caretaker picked up his mail for him and found his body Sunday morning. He had ended his struggle by his own hand. My package had gone unopened.

My mind went back to a Bible study just last Friday evening. “So how do you follow the leading of the Holy Spirit?” Not very well, I guess. The promptings, the delays, the slackness of hand, all haunt me now. Hours lost when hope hung by a thread. Another reminder in my life to listen to those quiet leadings now instead of later. Flowers for the living, “I love you’s” while we can, simple touches when we are led, and encouragement rendered out of instant obedience all contribute to a life of no regrets. I’m sorry, Glenn.