And the winner is . . .

The father was seated in the back, nervously hoping the most valuable player being described at the podium was his daughter. Hearing of the recipient’s generosity of spirit and determined effort, he couldn't help but think of his daughter, but, when the name was announced, it wasn't hers. After the ceremony, however, it was discovered a mistake had been made at the podium, that his daughter had won, but the experience left a rich opportunity for reflecting on the power, for good or ill, of recognition.

This is the time of year when people are lifted up and celebrated for their accomplishments, while others are not. Whether at a graduation or team's closing banquet, such gatherings are filled with both jubilation and disappointment, but they also offer invite us to reflect on the nature of achievement, and the power of recognition.

Finding a healthy balance is difficult. We live in a society obsessed with recognition. It’s common practice now to give a trophy to every player on every team. So, too, we often lift up obvious choices when a more discerning eye might spot a student or player whose efforts are more profound. Through it all, we must ask why do we do what we do in the first place?

We are told to run with perseverance the race that is set before us, and, for each of us, that race may be unique to our circumstances and gifts. The idea of a race, however, quickly conjures up notions of winning and prizes, and that’s when things become cloudy and distorted. Is it about the race, or the prize? Do we do something to be seen or because t's something we feel called to do? Do we give a lot to be seen as a significant member of society, or do we give generously because we believe in the work being done? Do we recognize distinguished service based on the service or some other factor (e.g. generosity, notoriety)? Do we help another in order to be seen as kind and sensitive, or is being kind and sensitive the award?

As schools and seasons come to an end, people gather to reflect on the past year and, yes, recognize people for their achievements. Perhaps such ceremonies can serve as reminders that it isn’t about being recognized as the most valuable player. It’s about being a most valuable player.

Pentecost

It was early in the morning, and those near enough to witness it thought the assembled disciples were drunk. Such was Pentecost, the birthday of this thing we call “the Church,” when ordinary followers were filled with the Holy Spirit, and today we remember the moment and consider all that’s happened since, as well as what’s happening today. After two thousand years, only God’s presence could explain the church’s survival. Yes, there have been wonderful and awful moments in this organizational stew of humanity and divinity, but, through it all, the Holy Spirit still swirls and burns within us. Unfortunately, no one thinks we’re drunk anymore.

When I still drank, I remember the great lengths I took not to appear intoxicated. I remember my many unsuccessful attempts to appear lucid, with it, and under control. Unfortunately, I can now see how I have tried equally hard to do so with my faith.

After attending this year’s Pentecost celebration, I re-read a wonderful chapter in Philip Simmons’ book entitled Learning to Fall in which he describes sledding in the dark as a child in New Hampshire. Gathered at the top of the hill, he and his friends stopped and listened as the wind swirled in the tall pines, causing them to dance. It taught Simmons “how God breathes.” In such a cathedral,in such a Pentecostal night, he lay on his belly, pointed the sled down the moonlit slope, and let it fly. Because he couldn’t see clearly, because he couldn’t control his speed, and because he had little say on direction, he felt completely alive, as if he, too, were dancing with the wind and the trees. As he let out a shout, I have no doubt those hearing it thought him drunk.

This Pentecost, I wonder what it would take to dance with the wind again? To point my sled down hill and let it fly? To shout and not care if people thought I was drunk. What would such a Pentecostal life look like?

So, too, what would our churches look like if we remembered how God breathes? What would happen if churches pointed their sleds downhill, regardless of limited control? What if the excitement made us feel fully alive and caused us to shout, as if in different languages?

People might think us drunk, but, quite frankly, there are worse things.

Knowing the Father

I didn’t know his father. Although we've been friends for years, somehow I never met his father. Still, when I received news of his father’s death, I knew I had to attend the funeral. In doing so, I learned something important.

When they spoke of his father’s wit, I couldn’t help but think of my friend’s humor. He’s the one who says something in just the right way, with exactly the right words, and sets the room ablaze with laughter. He isn’t the entertainer, just the observer of everything and everyone who offers a phrase that’s then quoted by us for years.

When they spoke of his father’s ingenuity as an investor, the way he liked to visit companies and watch them build their products rather than read a prospectus, I couldn’t help but think of my friend's entrepreneurial spirit. Not one for conventional work, he was made to imagine and create what has never been.

When they spoke of his father’s kindness and inability to judge others, I couldn’t help be think of the way my friend always refrains from talking about others when they are not in the room, how he always assumes there’s more to every story than what’s being said about another.

Leaving the funeral, I realized I did know his father. I knew him through his son.

The lesson soon shed light on my faith. Like never before, I saw what the Church meant when it says we will know the Father through the Son, but I also saw how the lesson spoke to my own life. Like my friend, is mine a life that teaches of another? Can someone know my father, mother, church, or the world of twelve step recovery because they knew me?

Such questions shine new light on the importance of our lives. Who do people know through us? If we are created in someone’s image, are our lives accurate reflections? If we come from a wonderful family, is there evidence beyond our DNA? If we were incapable of telling someone what we believe, or what matters to us most, would they be able to tell by watching?

In other words, when people leave our funeral, who will they say they knew because the knew us?