Fathers' Day: Who do you say you are?

Fathers’ Day. A day of celebration. A day of phone calls, notes, presents, time together, and all manner of kindness to a special person in one’s life.

Fathers’ Day, like New Year’s Eve, can also be a holiday of mixed feelings. Joy when all is well, can become sadness when all is not. When seats around the table are filled, it’s easy for hearts to be filled as well, but when seats are empty, for whatever reason, we can feel empty, too. The wind that fills us with gratitude can also blow away carefully placed make-up, revealing cuts and bruises of all shapes and sizes. In the end, Fathers’ Day can be a blessing and/or a challenge, and it raises the question of identity. As if calling us to the mirror, it asks us a simple, but ruthless, question: “Who do you say you are?”

Many quickly answer such a question with what they do. I’m an attorney, a doctor, a mechanic, a minister. Such answers offer the security of identity, but what happens when such employment is lost? When our positions no longer carry the meanings they once did? Then what? Who are we then?

We might turn to other identifiers. I’m a graduate of this school. I belong to that church. I’m from this family. I’m a member of this club, or political party. Again, such answers identify, but not in a lasting way.

That’s when we might turn to roles to help us with who we are. I’m a husband or wife, mother or father, son or daughter, colleague or friend. Such roles are powerful, and yet what happens if or when children or spouses leave, or when our relationships are strained? Do our identities go with our relationships?

I’ve been told our true identity lies beyond what we do, to what we belong, and the roles or relationships we have. I say “I’ve been told,” because I’ve long wandered in the maze of identity hoping to find the truth others proclaim. The answer lies with, and in, God, they say. God is the one constant, and, like our hearts, our sense of self will not rest until it rests in God. When we find our true selves in God, I believe holidays like this will become a lot easier, particularly when they are not neat and tidy. 

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.