Seats of Honor

Several years ago, I took my mother to see the film Dead Poet's Society, which had just come out. Little did I know that she was suffering from terminal cancer. We saw the movie together. She had been a career teacher. She was thrilled when John Keating (the role played by Robin Williams) challenged his students to "be extraordinary."

This week I watched another vintage film, Annie Hall, in which a man named Alvy Singer argues against leading the shallow life.

Alvy's girlfriend, Annie, the love of his life, the perfect soulmate, his best friend, had begun to wonder about her future; and, thanks to Alvy, who had encouraged her to take risks and fulfill her potential, she decided take time off from Alvy. Consequently, Alvy was devastated, sad, anxious, and, most of all, confused. One day as he was walking along a sidewalk in New York, he stopped to talk to a couple who were walking arm in arm.

Alvy asked, “Here, you look like a very happy couple, um, are you?

“Yeah,” said one of the strangers.

“Yeah?” said Alvy, “So, so, how do you account for it?”

“Uh, I’m very shallow and empty and I have no ideas and nothing interesting to say.”

“And I’m exactly the same way,” said the other stranger.

Alvy came away thinking, “Wow. I guess that’s one way to lead a happy life. Have low expectations and nothing worthwhile to offer the world. If I venture nothing, then I never have to worry about failing.”

It has been my experience that real life rarely turns out like those we read about in story books or see in movies. Real life is difficult. It involves suffering. Real life involves the choices we make and the risks we take. In our pursuit of things that really matter, we know that we will suffer from our mistakes, get hurt when we take risks and fail more often than we succeed.

John W. Gardner, overseer of the Elementary and Secondary Education Act, and a pioneer of the Public Broadcasting System, once said that "We pay a heavy price for our fear of failure. It is a powerful obstacle to growth. It assures the progressive narrowing of the personality and prevents exploration and experimentation. There is no learning without some difficulty and fumbling. If you want to keep on learning, you must keep on risking failure—all your life."

I am reasonably certain that those reading this blog have failed at something. I know that I have, often miserably and publicly, which is the most humiliating way to do it.

Almost from the moment we are born, we fall short. We can’t even feed ourselves, and our dependence upon others is painfully evident until one day we decide, “I am going to try this on my own. I can do this thing, by myself. I can do this thing, and I will do it! I am going to wrestle, play volleyball or the French Horn, sing in a choir, act, draw pictures, write poetry, speak Chinese.”

From that day forward, we start down the pathway of independence. We become self-sustaining, self-motivating, and self-reliant. Out of trial and error, we emerge stronger.

The leaders and prophets of Israel, who were clearly set apart, all lived lives that included failure. Abraham got lost. Moses was impatient. David had an affair with Bathsheba, which he tried to cover up and couldn’t.

There once was a man named Jesus, who chose followers, not because they were successful, but maybe because they were so good at failing. Many times during his ministry, he used their failures—failure to catch fish, failure to navigate boats, failure at healing and casting out demons, and, in the end, failure to defend him when he went on trial for his life—he used these failures to teach.

Jesus used each person's failed effort to strengthen that person's character. And those stories teach and strengthen us in our life’s journey and mission. Our failings and shortcomings are not simply minor disruptions in our ongoing journey through life; rather, they are clues about our special selves, those habits that make us different from each other.

How do you fail? Are there patterns? Do you fail at the same thing over and over? When you reveal what makes you uneasy, uncertain or afraid, with whom can you share this? Who do you trust?

I am growing older. I was once a popular young teacher where I work, but not before I was the new teacher and had to earn my reputation. With a new bride by my side, I started my career in a boarding school in Tennessee. It was a brand new school, and we were among the small group of founding members of that school. It was a magical time for me, but my good fortune as I began my career remains a mystery. It seemed that every time the headmaster of that fledgling institution came around the corner I was doing something good, something for students, something inspirational that made the head take note. I was encouraged to continue as a teacher, and I did.

After several years of curious success, I came to my present school. I couldn’t have been more uncomfortable. I was the new teacher. My colleagues were extraordinary. I tried lots of things: being funny, being macho, playing at being scholarly and witty. I failed at every turn. It seemed that every time the head of school came around the corner, I was doing something wrong: I was out of dress code; my dog was chewing up expensive school furniture; I once misread my schedule and was absent the day he just happened to drop by my class to see me teach.

But the biggest of all my failures was in not being myself. I paraded false images before others that I might earn acceptance and feel a part of the community. It didn’t work because all the community really expected from me was me. Imperfect, vulnerable, rough around the edges.

It is a very personal thing to reveal that we are not perfect, not always sure of ourselves, that we are sometimes broken, that we suffer personal insecurities others know nothing about. In a community that matters, one that is built on trust, intelligence, and hard work, the most painful of all our failures is the one that causes us to ignore, despise and reject those who don’t measure up to our high standards. It is a failing so subtle that it happens without our even knowing it. And a world where people feel suppressed, or have a sense that they do not belong, that world is a dark world.

It was into a darkening world, that Jesus taught his disciples to welcome the stranger and comfort the lonely. Jesus was not out for fame. He did not seek glory. Glory, for him, was in emptying himself by the spilling of his blood. Once, when his disciples asked Jesus to grant them a seat, one on his left and one on his right in his glory, his response was, “You do not know what your are asking.”

This was not a challenge to their aspiration for glory, but a redefinition of glory. The disciples had failed to understand that the pathway to everlasting life is not a pathway to privilege, celebrity, wealth, or high standing. That path will detach you from the people you care about and the people who need you.

While it would be absurd to choose the shallow path, we must be careful not to think ourselves so self-righteous, so deserving that a speacial seat awaits us in heaven. Instead, try to find the middle way. Stay connected with who you are. Be extra-ordinary by being intentional in your ordinary lives. Be serious. Stay connected. That is the pathway Jesus wanted his disciples to choose. Rather than having a seat of honor. He wanted them to have a spirit of honor. If any of us make it to a place called heaven, I have a strong feeling that we will not find a seat there with our name engraved on it. That is because we cannot serve others by sitting. We must stand for something, and that something has got to be something good.

This world is broken, my gentle reader. If we want to fix it, we cannot do it by sitting in chairs congratulating ourselves for the good men and women we have already become. We must act, and we must serve. Seek not so much to have a place of honor, but make the place where you are and honorable place.

In Hebrews, it says that “one does not presume to take this honor, but takes it only when called by God.”

If you are reading this, then know that you have been called by God. Offer God your will. You cannot offer more. You have answered the call.