On Lubbock Christian University, Vocation, and Life: A Speech for Commencement
(Delivered on December 15, 2012)

President Perrin, Chairman Harris, distinguished colleagues, graduates and their families, and friends:

We celebrate today the completion of formal baccalaureate studies at Lubbock Christian University, whose mission is to “challenge students to think critically, to excel in their disciplines, and to model Christ.”   Graduates, we trust that our faculty and staff have met the challenge, and that you each leave here today confident that we have accomplished our mission.  Permit me, then, to reflect more closely on the content of that mission.

I begin in a familiar place, the New Testament Gospels.  In several passages, the writers relate two similar occasions when Jesus sent out disciples across Galilee and Judea.  We today are quite removed from first-century Palestine, and few of us are leaving this room planning to work in religious ministry.  But the instructions Jesus gives to those disciples, and the insights they imply, speak pointedly to the heart of the matter.

First, Jesus tells them to proclaim the advent of the Kingdom of God, and to act in such ways that demonstrate that kingdom – healing the sick, doing good works, for example.  He encourages them not simply to speak about the kingdom but more so to live the kingdom.  To be a follower of Jesus is not merely to voice religious words, such as “God loves you” or “Jesus died for you,” or even “The Kingdom of God is here.”  Rather, it is – for all of us – to carry about in our lives the reality of transformative grace and empowerment that comes only from realizing God’s reign in our lives and in our world.  It means to say in word and deed that God loves us – each of us – and God calls us to live fully, whatever our specific daily role is.

It is indeed a calling, a vocatio, a vocation as stewards of God’s grace.  It is – as one biblical writer says – to use the gifts and talents we have to administer the very grace of God.  It is to live with an occupational identity while understanding a larger calling.  So whatever career path we each have chosen, as Christians we all are first priests of grace, and second physicians and teachers, scientists and lawyers, therapists and managers.  I hope, graduates, that we have helped you to see this central Christian truth.  I hope that we have not aimed to simply train you for a job but rather to help you discern a vocation, that place, in the words of writer Frederick Beuchner, “where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”   In worldly terms, I hope that you leave here desiring more to serve than to succeed, to always balance your career goals with the Kingdom goals of peace and justice and freedom.  And I hope that we’ve not simply provided you with facts and access to knowledge but instead pointed you in the lifelong quest for wisdom, a wisdom that opens eyes to see all that is good and lasting, and evidence of the unfolding reign of God among us.

Second, Jesus instructs the disciples to keep focus on what really matters.  He tells them to limit their area of work and to take very few possessions.  Not even those people closest to Jesus could do it all or have it all.  The call of vocation is at once challenging and comforting:  We take on our life callings with courage and enthusiasm, but we best include humility and appropriate reticence, lest we begin to think we can – or should – conquer the world, be it corporate, educational, medical, or something other.  The allure of success so often is tied to working ten to twelve hour days, taking on more and more projects, travelling more miles, or garnering more accolades than our peers.  But those who work too much spread themselves thin, are less effective, and find themselves really quite miserable.  There is no failure in realizing our limitations; there is no defeat in focusing our energies.  But there is wisdom in the words often attributed to Francis of Assisi, “Do few things and do them well; take your time; go slowly.” Otherwise, the busyness of the days brings on ever more pressing tasks, always another area of work to address, again another person to see, yet an additional meeting, and another, and what really matters – that which is at the heart of our vocations, that to which I am uniquely me and you are uniquely you – begins to suffocate, and neither your joy nor the world’s needs are met.  As former Barrington College president Charles Hummel was once told by an experienced cotton mill manager, “your greatest danger is letting the urgent things crowd out the important.”   When our busyness overwhelms, he added, “we’ve become slaves to the tyranny of the urgent.”

In 1939, just after the start of World War II, an anxious entering class of Oxford students sat in opening chapel for words of instruction.  With the threat of bombs and the reality of deaths looming, would the semester be cancelled so all could return to family or national defense?  Wouldn’t this urgency be reason to delay the rather aloof life of university study?  No, said C. S. Lewis, in clear and firm terms.  That the students were there, sent by parents and allowed by country, was “prima facie evidence that the life which (they could), at any rate, best lead to the glory of God at present (was) the learned life.”   More so, that learned life was for them a duty, one constantly threatened, he said, by “the enemies of frustration, fear, and excitement.”   Now, on this day in 2012, for most of you the vocation of learning is waning, and your next moves take you beyond the university hall.  But Lewis’ words are appropriate reminders:  "There are always plenty of rivals to our work.  We are always falling in love or quarrelling, looking for jobs or fearing to lose them, getting ill or recovering, following public affairs.  If we let ourselves, we shall always be waiting for some distraction or other to end before we can really get down to our work."

Graduates, I hope that we faculty have taught you to grasp your futures with vigor but also to cultivate those callings with focus.  I hope that we have modeled the virtues of prudence to distinguish the important from the urgent and of courage to withstand the temptations and enemies that so easily distract.  You have studied with diligence, you have received an excellent education, and you have moved toward the fulfillment of your vocations.  Don’t let them slip away in the busyness and glitter of the days.

Third, Jesus tells the disciples to expect trouble and to face it with as much dignity and acceptance as possible.  If we take seriously our vocations, we will want to move with determination and confidence.  But the adventure will bring storms, accidents, detours, and even tragedy.  No life well lived avoids such.   Sometimes there will be external forces:  A business partner fails to carry through, a husband or wife breaks a vow, economic or physical failures complicate.

Or there may be factors caused more directly by our own choices, even when we’ve chosen well.  We are called to teach, but we worry about our own children in daycare.  We are driven to serve in foreign missions, yet we don’t see family often.  We know that we will become physicians, but the debt and long hours burden us.  We find ourselves – because we have chosen to own our vocations–confronted with inevitable conflicts between goods. It’s a familiar story.  Take Agamemnon, the Greek commander during the Trojan War.  After learning that his army has been struck with weakness and that the gods have demanded his daughter as a sacrifice, he faces the choice between sacrificing his own child, or failing in his calling and seeing his nation collapse.  Philosopher Martha Nussbaum summarizes the essential problem:  "Whatever you do, you’re going to be neglecting something that’s really important . . . . Tragedy happens only when you are trying to live well . . . . When you are trying to live well, and you care deeply about the things you’re trying to do, the world enters in, in a particularly painful way."
 
Graduates, I hope that we’ve not given you any illusions about the ease of your futures.  I hope that you face tomorrow with confidence but without naiveté.   Staying true to vocation brings deep satisfaction but also significant hurdles and difficult choices.  Living well demands wisdom and determined courage to face those difficulties and to accept the losses.   And so, in the words of Tennyson, “tho’ much is taken, much abides,” and we go forth “strong in will, to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

Finally, Jesus encourages the disciples about the effect of their work.  People were healed, demons were destroyed, and good news was shared.  Because of their lived vocations, Kingdom came. They made a difference, they changed their world.  When people of faith embark on their callings with resolve, good things happen.  Grace is given, lives are enriched, societies move toward justice and peace.

Graduates, you now move on to make your differences and to do great things, and you will.  Some of you no doubt will become quite successful even in terms that the world recognizes.  You will join LCU alumni who are physicians, attorneys, and accountants, corporate CEOs and Fortune 500 managing partners, university presidents and Division I coaches, senior level government officials and global entrepreneurs.  We have every confidence in you; we have seen you grow in intellect and character, and we look forward to the ways you’ll become movers and shakers in your worlds, while bringing positive press and attention to your alma mater.

Most of you, however, will make a difference in less visible or publicly acclaimed ways.  The great things you will do, and the impacts you will have, may never make the headlines and likely won’t bring you financial wealth or worldly fame.  But as you go in quiet ways along the road with your callings, you will make the world a better place, and you will join a host of alumni who are changing our world.  People like Rachel, a Dallas school librarian with a passion of “being the change” for inner-city children.  Or Leslie, an army chaplain whose pastoral skills have helped to heal hearts in Iraq, Afghanistan, and at Ft. Hood.   Or Roslyn, transitioning from professional ministry to the important vocation of motherhood.  Or Willie, a former LCU football player, whose service as a police commander in our nation’s capital saves broken, abused, and addicted youth from the streets.  Or Debbie, whose rural hospital night shifts often focus on gentle and caring sponge baths for elderly people.  Or Kathryn, smiling and loving the Chinese as a missionary in Beijing.  Or Paul, doing laboratory research in water quality and working to ensure human health and safety.  Or John, who brings hope and pride to East Lubbock youth through his music teaching.   Or Andy, a bank branch manager taking a lead in central Lubbock community development projects.   Not one of these alumni will likely ever receive wide public acclaim; not any will go into the history books as important.  Yet they go about their lives as called and determined Kingdom servants, as priests of the grace of God.

As will you, graduates.   Don’t ever allow anyone to challenge the value of your vocations.  “What matters” or “what is useful” are often not the actions that can be quantified by measurable costs and benefits.   What matters – what really matters – is whether you live with integrity your callings.  If you are faithful to your vocations, trusting in the God who has called you, you will be successful.  You will make a difference.  You will do great things.

In 1922 the young theologian Karl Barth published a modest commentary on the biblical book of Romans.  Barth’s focus was on the failure of modern, liberal theology, which had ripped away the mystery and miracle of the Christian story in the name of intellectual progress.  His  new orthodoxy became the center of all twentieth century theology, and Barth soon was being heralded as “one of the Fathers of the Church.”    But he knew better.  In that early book he had penned his own tribute to himself, quoting from Martin Luther.  Barth cautioned:

"If you think and are of the opinion that you really stand secure and please yourself with your own books, your teaching and your writings, that you have done very splendidly and have preached magnificently, and if it then pleases you to be praised before others . . . if you are man enough, put your hands to your ears, and if you do so rightly, you will find a lovely pair of big, long, rough donkey’s ears.  Do not spare the cost of decorating them with golden bells so that you can be heard wherever you go and the people can point to you and say:  ‘Behold, behold!  There goes that splendid creature that writes such wonderful books and preaches such wonderful sermons.’"

Forty years later, he offered a final reflection on his long and distinguished career:

"Let me again remind you of the donkey. . . .A real donkey is mentioned in the Bible.  It was permitted to carry Jesus into Jerusalem.  If I have done anything in this life of mine, I have done it as a relative of the donkey that went its way carrying an important burden.  The disciples had said to its owner:  ‘The Lord has need of it.’  And so it seems to have pleased God to have used me at this time, just as I was. . . . I just happened to be on the spot.  A theology somewhat different from the current theology was apparently needed in our time, and I was permitted to be the donkey that carried this better theology for part of the way, or tried to carry it as best I could."

Graduates, lifestyles and careers somewhat different from the current norm in our world are needed in our time, lifestyles and careers that embody vocation, accepting with humility and courage the ways that God will work through us to bring a better world.  As Jesus himself modeled, be those priests of grace that the world needs now.  Embody the peace of Christ.  Call forth the best in people.   Leave behind the only success that really matters.

Parents, well done.  Graduates, congratulations.

And, as radio show host Garrison Keillor would say, “Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.”

Stacy L. Patty

To the Gentleman at DFW B10, Nov. 3, 2012

It had been a very long day.  No matter how often I try, getting to DFW from anywhere is easy, but getting from DFW to LBB is impossible.  Flights are always overbooked, and American Eagle seems to be doing quite well.  So after leaving DCA (Washington Reagan) early on Sunday, I ran to make one, then two, then a third short flight from Dallas to Lubbock.  This last one, I was actually booked on and had a seat, so it was delayed, for two hours.

I had heard it before, but kept putting it out of my mind.  It was a repetitive yell, almost a bark, sometimes almost a word, like "WHAATTT!" or something similar.  I just ignored it.  Some crazy, I guess.  They come in all places.  Who knows?  Leave me be.  Now, where was I with that FB update?

Then I saw you, across the gate lounge area.  You?  No, it couldn't be!  You are too normal, too regular.  What could be wrong with you???  But it was clear.  No denying it.  There you were. The typical youngish business traveler, with bags in tow, well groomed, in good shape, normal, quiet.  Boring.  But then, the bark, and again.  Nothing for a second.  Then again.  And again.  People glance, then look away.  People talk.  You stand, courageous.  The void around you grows.

I don't know what it is, but I know you are too normal.  I somehow gain courage to go up and just stand next to you.  Eventually I ask where you are going.  "Lubbock.  Never been there."  Lubbock!  Wow!  Me too?  "What would bring you there?"  "Speaking at the Medical School."  And I know, but ask anyway. "Why?"  "Well, it obvious, isn't it,"  you retort.  "I have Tourette's."  I feel very small, and embarrassed.  You carry on, about how you aren't bothered, how you have lived with it almost all your life.

I don't push it.  I want to know so much.  Does it hurt?  Can you control it?  Does it wear you out?  How do you handle the public scenes?  How do you live with this???

But you are gracious, and kind, and normal.  You are an Assistant Principal at an elementary school.  You are married, with two young children.  You travel about once a month, presumably to tell your story, but you long to be home with family.  You live in the South, and you are a loyal Cardinals fan.  You went to a small Midwest college.  You hope to teach college someday.  You know children, and pressures they face, and you gave me encouragement about my own children, all now grown.  You were gracious.

I watched you, I am sad to say, and people around you, all the way to Lubbock.  In truth, the goodness of the crowds -- mostly silent, mostly non-confrontive -- was reassuring.  No one really knows how to react, or what to say, but no one wants to be rude either.  And perhaps I was the problem; perhaps I should have just ignored you, a normal traveller, as we all so often do to one another in these airport worlds.  But I wanted to be near you, and to say you are not alone, nor an object of derision or focus.  And you were kind, welcoming yet another strange, curious odd one, me. Thank you.

So often we who claim normality assume everyone else is odd or alone or sad.  Sometimes we in our own sincerity may legitimately offer comfort.  But probably more so, we rush in, perhaps certain that our Messiah role to save and comfort and fix everything will be successful, and all will see our good works and we will be rewarded and honored and praised.

But sometimes, if we are lucky, we meet the gentle and courageous authenticity of others perhaps more often identified or labelled as odd or loud or wierd, or uncontrollable.  And, if we are fortunate, we experience a moment of genuine normality, of real life, of tremendous courage, and

Of sheer grace.

Thank you, Mr. Assistant Principal,  God Bless You.

Musings on the Orange Line at 5:30

Musings on the Orange Line at 5:30 p.m.

So I got on the Orange Line at Foggy Bottom, after a very long day visiting LCU Washington internship sites, for the very short, one stop ride to Rosslyn, my standing “home” away from home when I visit the city about five times a year.  I step in a crowded car, and stand by the door, dark blue suit and haggard face in tow, and the door shuts.  A tap on my thigh from the 30ish woman in the seat nearby, and I look down to see her ask if I want her seat.  I quickly nod “no,” but I contemplate a really, really amazing day. 

I’ve been coming to Washington for several years now, and I’ve gotten accustomed to the routine – commuting into the city each morning, depending on the Metro to get me near appointments, and walking – walking, really walking – did I say “walking?” -- walking a lot, all day, to get things done.  I saw five persons today, all over the region, and I experienced everything.  But most of all, I experienced age, and familiarity.  One touring couple asked me for directions.  Asked ME.  A cab driver asked me if I was a veteran, on the way to the V.A. hospital.  Two veterans – one black, one white – asked me what was my service branch.  A third young veteran thought he knew me; he claims to have been born in Lubbock; he is suffering from traumatic brain injury in Iraq. 

I felt, at 5:30 p.m., that I just wanted to go “home.”  No touring the nation’s capital, just getting to rest at the end of the day.

And some younger commuter offered me – the old, D.C. commuter me – her seat.

I never caught her eye again before I got off the train.  But I did see her reading material.  Just before I got off the train, I saw her pull out a plastic-covered folder full of information.  It clearly said “7-Eleven” on the first page.  It was a new employee training manual.

I am older, and I am blessed to have been empowered to direct an LCU Washington initiative.  I am very blessed.  And I am here enough to be viewed as an old man who commutes to work.  And I am very, very thankful for a wife, Sharolyn, who has supported this good work for students to excel. 

And, I am humbled again this week.  Courageous, perhaps naïve veterans “think” they know me.  Others, waiting hours to get medicine or see a doctor, assume that I am a veteran, and then when I deny, continue to talk to me with generosity and grace.  Touring couples see a suit and assume I am a Washingtonian.  And, certainly most noble, a sweet, hard-working Washingtonian just trying to get a job offers the old senior her seat.

It is indeed a wonderful world.

When Truth No Longer Matters

After Paul Ryan's speech last night at the RNC, CNN's Wolf Blitzer remarked, "He delivered a powerful speech, Erin, a powerful speech. Although I marked seven or eight points I'm sure the fact checkers will have some opportunities to dispute if they want to go forward, I'm sure they will. As far as Mitt Romney's campaign is concerned, Paul Ryan on this night delivered."

He delivered a powerful speech that was full of questionable facts that merit review, but none of it matters.  He delivered.   

Whether Democrat or Republican, the depth of deceit and distortion in order to gain the emotions and support of the people, is truly sad.  Until this year, fact-checking has been an honored and important element in campaign progress.  Now, it seems, fact-checking itself is demonized.  What matters is the production, the rhetoric, and the trivializing of detail.

I long for honesty, lack of arrogance, and respect of sustained investigation into polished production.

slp

We Did (n’t) Build It

“Amazing Grace.”  That’s what the Republican National Convention featured at 7:00 p.m., CST, on Tuesday evening, just before and after speeches about people who built their own businesses “on their own.”  I am awestruck.  Did I miss something?  How is it that these generous pretty people can see so clearly that they have “built it on their own” while welling up tears when singing the tender Christian hymn? 

I know, I know.  The “we didn’t build it” mantra is focused on “less government” and more local, small business control.  I understand.  Small businesses need not to be overly burdened with government restrictions.  There are issues that need to be addressed: support for small business tax breaks, limitations on large corporate tax loopholes / welfare; revisions of outdated health care and retirement programs; renewal of blighted neighborhoods; restrictions on horribly inadequate gun control laws; support for public education for all.

But fundamentally, at the root, we need a reality check.  We did not build it.  None of us.  Whatever It is.  We built it – we worked long and hard, no doubt – with the strengths and talents and family structures and support bases and tax system breaks and educational systems and inheritances and cultures and grossly inordinate blessings and local electricity and water infrastructures – to build it “ourselves.”

I am a successful, quite well off, relatively healthy, large home-owning, health insured family man.  I have large debt, but large resources.  I can get to the doctor tomorrow, if need be.  I can claim some superb tomatoes, zucchini, and eggplant.  I have an enviable family, and a superb wife.  I can boast as (occasionally) being an outstanding teacher.  I can quote others who say I write well.

But I did not build it myself.  I am who I am because of my grandfathers John Franklin Ivy and John Patty, frontier farmers and preachers and judges.  I am who I am because of a father, O.C., who worked his b… off day and night drilling for Midland white collar oil.  I am who I am because of a mother who modeled working hard and never accepting second best.  I am who I am because of Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Acreman and a host of other public school teachers who a worked long and longer for us.  And I am who I am because of Les Perrin and Dan Hardin and Leon Crouch and John Fortner and  Doug Brown and Chris Morse and Dan McGee, and any number of other professors whose lives and hearts changed me.

Without my family’s influence, I would not have worked so hard.  Without my schools’ teaching (largely supported by every citizen’s taxes and every teacher’s learning), I would not have learned.  Without my church’s support and admonition and encouragement, I would not have learned faith.  Without my student loans – only possible because of U.S. support – I would not have gotten an education.  Without my network of powerful and successful people, I would not have a job.  Without my city’s taxed based services, I would not have a home, or water, or air conditioning, or the power to write this missive.  Without my friends, and mostly my wife, I would not be aware of how much I – I – did not make it happen on my own.  Without faith, I would not face the fact that I did not build it.  Any “it.”

“It” all depends on grace.  Pure and simple.