Mentors

It is to be expected at my age, but over the last couple of years I have lost three men who have been instrumental in shaping and influencing me. Looking back on our relationships, I would consider them mentors. The relationship didn’t feel like that at the time, but looking back I can see that is precisely what it was. They were shaping me, but none of us had that intention when we entered and continued the friendships. They were just that, friends. The mentoring happened because of who they were, and perhaps also because of what I needed at the time.

Although these three men were very different, they shared a couple of characteristics. First, they all taught me, mentored me, shaped me, and even by example corrected me, while being cleverly disguised as my parishioners. I thought all along that I was pastoring them, when just the opposite was true.

The other characteristic they shared was that they were good men, and I think that at their core that was what each one of them aspired to be.

The first one to go was Dale Hair. Dale was an old cowboy from Oklahoma. He was tough, and scarred. His hands were gnarled from years of working with rope, leather and wire. He came from the old school where you showed up for work even when you were hurt, sick or there was 6 feet of snow on the ground. When he needed sleep a bed was fine if one was available, but a sleeping bag on the ground, or a saddle blanket on the floor of a horse trailer worked just as well.

Dale had worked with his hands, and lived on a laborers wages for a good portion of his life. He was a master of making due with what he had. He had a genius for fixing things with duct tape and bailing wire. But that’s not what I learned from Dale—or maybe it was.

The gift Dale gave to me was showing me how a man can learn to live with his faults—another form of making due with what you have. Dale had a few faults. That’s not my critique, that is Dale’s honest assessment of himself. He struggled with alcoholism, he occasionally spoke without thinking about what he was saying, and he was known to commit himself to things without fully considering the ramifications to himself and his family. Every once in a while Dale would grab onto an idea and stubbornly cling to it long after common sense had shown it to be fruitless or misdirected.

Dale wasn’t proud of his faults, nor did he use them as an excuse. He just owned them. He never let them stop him from being a good man. In fact, he used some of those very characteristics as tools to be a good man.

Dale loved his friends openly. The same impulsiveness that often led him to speak without thinking also allowed him to care without judging. He was kind, and his rough exterior merely added to the texture of his kindness.  Many people are generous, but Dale would even give you something he needed himself if he thought you needed it more.

The same stubbornness that tempted him to hold onto ideas beyond their useful life also made him tenaciously loyal to his friends even when they disappointed him or hurt him. I know that is true because I was on the receiving end of that tenacious loyalty more than once.

Dale taught me several things about wisdom. First, he taught me that our individual characteristics—the makeup of our personality and nature of our tendencies and thought processes—do not automatically lend themselves to faults or strengths. The same characteristics that make us susceptible to our worst faults can also be the foundations for our greatest strengths. It all depends on where we point them.

The second thing Dale taught me about wisdom is its tidal nature. It ebbs and flows. I used to think of a wise person as one who has gained enough from their own experience to speak into another person’s life. What I saw in Dale was the other side of wisdom. He had learned enough from his own experience to allow others to speak into his life. Dale knew his own pitfalls, and he listened to his friends when one would warn him that he was wandering too close to a ledge. He understood that those who love us can often see us more clearly than we can see ourselves.

Dale was a good man.

The second to go was Witt Hawkins. Witt lived in Chicago and worked for the Ford Motor Company for his entire life up to retirement. When he retired, he and his wife Pam moved to a town in the mountains of California that was too small to have a stoplight.

I never met anyone more comfortable in his skin than Witt. Witt learned something that most people never quite figure out; He learned to know himself, and he payed attention to what he learned. Witt knew how to say no.

Don’t get me wrong. Witt was not obnoxious about saying no; he was always a gracious gentleman. But he knew himself and knew what he was willing and able to commit to. He said yes to those things and had no regrets about saying no to everything else. Unlike Dale, who might commit to something without thinking, I knew that Witt thoughtfully and prayerfully considered every request made of him. I was never offended or hurt when he said no—and he said no to me often—because I knew there was a good reason he said no. He never seemed to feel compelled to explain his reasons, but something about him reassured me that there was one.

When Witt said yes, I knew he was all-in and committed. His yes was as final as his no. As I said, he worked for Ford Motor Company all his life and he never drove anything but Fords. He was the same with his friends. When Witt said yes to a friendship he was making a lifelong commitment. Even a dozen years after we moved away from Mariposa, he still religiously sent me birthday and Father’s Day greetings every year. The relationship didn’t end just because we were hundreds of miles apart, it just had to be lived out differently.

I think Witt was trying his best to live out his picture of God. I never heard anyone pray like Witt prayed. His prayers were melodic, rhythmic, poetic and powerful. But he didn’t pray just to sound good, he believed what he prayed, and in the One to whom he prayed. He was confident that when he asked something of God, that request was not taken lightly. He believed God’s yeses and noes were honest and carefully weighed. He never asked God for a reason for saying yes or no, but he believed there always was a good one and he trusted that.

Witt was a good man.

The latest friend to go was Ken Austin. Ken was/is an institution around here, but I didn’t know that when we first met. He was just a fascinating, brilliant old guy that started coming to our church with whom I felt an instant connection. It wasn’t until I saw his book, American Dreamers sitting by the register at Jac’s drive-in, and then had a couple of members of the church explain to me who he was, that I finally put 2 and 2 together.

In spite of all his success, Ken was keenly aware of the missteps and mistakes he made along life’s journey. He was not afraid to mention them or point to them. He didn’t do so with aching regret as if they were permanent blemishes on his life, rather he spoke of them as if they were moments of grace where God and the people around him, or perhaps God through the people around him, lifted him up and carried him through.

Ken was obviously conscious of the success he had in his life, but he never claimed much credit for it.  His wasn’t a false modesty. He acknowledged that he had been gifted with a genius for engineering and invention (he always spoke of it as just that—a gift), but he was quick to point out that without Joan’s encouragement and business sense, and contributions by others who encouraged him or challenged him along the way, his genius might well have produced nothing.

Ken and I tried to have coffee every couple of weeks. We would just sit and talk about stuff. I would show him photos of projects I was working on, and he would show me things he had done, was doing, or wanted to do. We were just two guys talking about things that brought them joy.

It was only a couple years ago that I met Ken, so I only knew him for the last years of his life. I’m sure with all the success he experienced in his life, and the stature he had in this community because of his generosity, there was great pressure on him to be a certain person, or to project a particular image. But the man I knew was not affected by that. He was content with just being Ken, and his desire to honestly be himself invited me to honestly be myself. Ken became a safe and comfortable place for me.

Ken taught me that it is important to pay attention to your life because God is always using people to distribute grace into it. If you don’t pay attention, you might miss it and that would be the greatest tragedy. No matter where one is in life there is much to be grateful for. Misery is not an outcome of bad times so much as a lack of gratitude. The entire time I knew Ken he was aware that because of a respiratory illness his life was coming to a close. That knowledge never dampened his gratitude.

Ken also taught me that no matter where a person is in life, whether successful, famous or homeless there is an authentic, human person wanting to be known and seen. Deep down inside we are just guys wanting to talk about things that bring us joy. One of the last times I saw him he was supposed to be unresponsive, yet when he heard my voice he acknowledged me and greeted me by name. I will always remember that and look back on it with great joy.

The last text I sent him was some pictures of an old hand plane he had given me. I had restored it and sharpened it. The photos showed that great old tool making beautiful wood shavings like it was designed to. Perhaps that is a fitting picture of Ken. He might well have seen himself as that great old tool that had been redeemed time and time again so he could do the very thing he was created to do.

Ken was a good man.

I miss them all so much.

Twinkle

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky

Twinkle, twinkle little star,

How I wonder what you are.

At any given moment, our sun is releasing 386,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 watts of energy created through the process of nuclear fusion. That fusioning process converts about 600 billion tons of hydrogen to helium every second, resulting in about 400 million tons of matter being converted to energy every second. The core temperature of the sun, where fusion occurs, can reach 27 million degrees Fahrenheit.

As we know, the sun is a star. In fact, though it looks much larger to us, it is just an average sized star. There are many stars in our own galaxy that are significantly larger than our sun. For example, Mu Cephi is 1500 times larger than our sun, Betelguise is 900 time larger than our sun, and Antares is over 500 times larger. That means you can multiply the numbers above that represent the activity of our sun by perhaps hundreds of times to approximate what is happening on other stars.

Doesn’t it seem ludicrous that we describe what stars do as “twinkling”?

I get that the song above is a children’s song. I get that when humanity first noticed the stars, they had no way of knowing that massive nuclear fusion was behind the pearls of light they saw in the sky. But we know that now, and we still refer to what stars do as twinkling.

We’re used to stars that twinkle; we’re comfortable with stars that twinkle. We think stars that twinkle are attractive and make for a nice decoration in our firmament.

I suspect that the language that we use to describe God is similar to using the word twinkle to describe a star. Karl Barth, the Swiss pastor and thinker once said, “The word became flesh, and through theologians it became words again.” I think when we try to describe who God is, and what God does, we risk just that. When we talk about God’s nature, God’s presence, or even God’s love, we’re really describing God’s twinkling and don’t begin to capture the unimaginable heat and light that is behind it.

For the most part, we are okay with that. We’re used to a God who twinkles; we’re comfortable with a God who twinkles. We think a God who twinkles is attractive and makes for a nice decoration in our firmament.

Many people have asked me why I’m going to Kenya in May. There are a lot of practical, ministry related reasons, and they all are part of that decision. But if I dig way down inside, I feel like I have become comfortable with God twinkling in my firmament. I’ve been aware of that for some time, and I feel like it is eroding a void in my Spirit.

There have been times in my life when I have managed to get a glimpse beyond the twinkling. It has always changed me. I’ve also noticed that it has happened when I was in unfamiliar territory in situations beyond my control, tools and resources.

Perhaps that is why people go on pilgrimages. When we purposely put ourselves in situations beyond the realm of our own comfort and power, our spiritual senses sharpen, and we can feel the heat and see the brilliance of a God that before had merely appeared to twinkle.

One famous Christian pilgrimage is called the El Camino de Santiago de Compostela. Compostela is a derivative of the Latin term that means “field of stars.” I used to think that referred to the beauty of the stars one experiences when out in the countryside away from city lights. Now I can’t help but wonder if the name came about because sometimes pilgrims on the trail are consumed by a fusioning God who previously only twinkled in their firmament. I hope so.

So, I’m going to Kenya and I hope to learn a lot, and experience a lot, and serve a lot. But most of all, I hope to come back with squinting eyes and smelling a little bit scorched.

Composting Wisdom

I constructed my first hugelkulture this past weekend.

That probably doesn’t mean much to most people, but it felt like an accomplishment to me.

Hugelkulture is a German term that means “hill culture.” It is a gardening technique that mimics what happens on a forest floor. In the forest, a tree will fall and over the years begin to decay. Storms come along and knock branches off of other trees and they pile up on the logs. Also over the years branches, twigs, leaves and needles will add to the pile. Rain comes and washes soil up onto the pile and after a while there is new plant life growing on a decaying pile of debris—and that pile of decaying debris will nourish that new growth for decades.

We had a few logs around the place that were beginning to decay. I dug a shallow pit and rolled the logs into it. Then I gathered up some good sized limbs and piled them on top. After that I added a layer of branches and twigs, a layer of leaves, a layer of compost, and then I shoved the top soil from the pit back on top of the mound. The final layer was another coating of compost. It looks like this:

Sunday during the discussion time in our service, Curt asked, “How do we develop wisdom.”  Believe it or not, the hugelkulture helps me think through that question.

Proverbs 3:13 says, “Blessed are those who find wisdom, those who gain understanding.” And Job 12:12 observes, “Is not wisdom found among the aged? Does not long life bring understanding?” Verses like these imply wisdom comes with age and experience, but I don’t think that it is automatic. Many of us probably know people who have a whole sack full of experience but never seem to learn a thing from them. I suspect if we’re honest most of us have experiences we seem to repeat because we don’t extract the wisdom they offer to teach us; I know I do.

When you build a hugelkulture there are certain woods that should be avoided. Cedar and redwood don’t work well in a hugelkulture. They take forever to decay—that’s why we make fences, decks and outdoor furniture out of them. If you’re building a hugelkulture so you can use the decaying wood to fertilize the garden you plant on it, choosing a wood that resists that very process is counterproductive.

In thinking through the process of gaining wisdom, cedar and redwood represent to me those experiences that we hold on to--that just won’t seem to go away. For whatever reason, maybe they are too painful, or too embarrassing, or too …, so we don’t let them go. We don’t break them down so we can extract the nutrients of wisdom out of them. This keeps us from using them to nourish and sustain our next generation of experiences, relationships and decisions.

Another species of wood to avoid is Black Walnut. It decays and breaks down just fine, but there are oils and resins released in that process that can actually be toxic to many young flower and vegetable plants.

This represents those experiences that we have “gotten over.”  We may be able to think about them, and talk about them, and maybe even laugh about them without flinching. We can break them down just fine, but there is some residue from them that might make us averse to risk, or unable to trust members of the opposite sex, authority figures or family members. They may adversely affect how we see ourselves or other people.

When I was 7 years old I was a fairly chubby kid. I remember my Dad once making a joke about my weight to a group of men. It got quite a laugh. I’ve broken it down and let it decay.  I can talk about it. I can even say that I’ve forgiven my Dad and it didn’t affect our relationship. I even learned a lot about how to respect my own kids and grandkids. But I can tell you this, feel free to invite me to a pool party, I’ll come, but don’t expect me to swim. After 45 years the residue of that experience still shapes the way I perceive my physical appearance—it’s still a log in my hugelkulture.

Is that wisdom? No. I suspect I have missed out on a lot of fun and friendship over the last 4 ½ decades. I guess I could blame my father, but that wouldn’t be honest. That one incident is not at all representative of the entire scope of his fatherhood. The tragedy of that story is that I never was able to get past the residue of that experience and it stunted the growth of some of the seedlings that came after it.

I think the final lesson about wisdom from my hugelkulture is that ultimately a hugelkulture is a big pile of humus. It just so happens that humus is exactly what plants need to grow. It is significant to me that our word humility comes from the same root as the word humus. I think humility is to wisdom what humus is to plants. It takes humility for wisdom to grow.

It takes humility to learn from our experiences because to learn we have to face ourselves and admit we have something to learn. It takes humility to break down our experiences and extract the nourishment from them. It takes humility to admit that sometimes we can’t figure out how to extract that nourishment by ourselves, and then it takes humility to pick up the tools of counseling, spiritual direction or deep conversations with trusted friends to help us dig out the wisdom.

Our faith is focused on a God who identifies with the common—we worship a God who was born in a stable, died on a tree, rose from a cave and still wears a body marked with scars. It is only fitting that such a God would use the compost of everyday experience and basic humility to teach us wisdom.

So I guess obtaining wisdom comes down to a choice. Do we allow our experiences to merely be an unsightly brush pile or do we build a hugelkulture? It seems to me the only difference between the two is a little intentionality, a little humus and a little sweat.

Bruce