It's easy sometimes for small churches and their leaders to feel down about themselves. They often feel an abundance of the family vibe, but a scarcity of resources. They may have lots of down-to-earth authenticity but lack the programs and "flash" of larger churches.
After the presentation a man came up to me, thanked me for my comments, and handed me a small piece of paper. "This quote has really helped me keep things in perspective," he said.
Here it is:
Avoid adjectives of scale. You will love the world more and desire it less.
This is former poet laureate Robert Hass, paraphrasing the poet Basho. And I can see why this colleague has been carrying it around. It's been working on me for the past couple of months. I love the distinction between loving the world and desiring it. To love the world is to love what is, to experience contentment and joy. But desire... desire is insatiable. We are never satisfied.
Love is a hand, relaxed and open. Desire is a clutching fist.
Through the lens of this quote, I've been seeing anew how much of consumer culture centers around comparing ourselves to others---usually in a way that draws us up short.
Too fat. Too old. Not wealthy enough. Not white enough. Less popular. Not as talented.
Or we compare ourselves to our past selves:
I wish I had that body back. Look how many more wrinkles I have! My marriage was more romantic back then.
Of course it's fine to want to better ourselves. Last year I had only one running goal: to get faster. I didn't have specific time goals, I just wanted to improve. And I did: I achieved PRs (personal records) in three recent races of various distances recently. There's lots more room to grow, and I hope to finish the Marine Corps Marathon faster than I did Disney, even though it's a tougher course.
But why? If I'm pursuing these goals out of desire, I will never be satisfied. I will always be slow compared to someone. But if I set goals out of love for the sport and for discovering what this 43 year old body can do, I can't lose.
The running group I belong to uses Facebook to set up group runs and share running successes and challenges with one another. Without betraying the confidentiality of that space, we constantly check each other when using words like "slow." Slow, compared to what? To whom? Everyone's slow compared to Shalane Flanagan. Everyone's fast compared to someone sitting on the couch.
Part of what adjectives of scale do is put us in our place. Many of you know Brene Brown, professor of social work, writer, researcher on shame and wholeheartedness, and big sister I wish I'd had. She told Krista Tippett not long ago that shame hinges in two basic thoughts:
1. Not good enough. 2. Who do you think you are?
I wonder whether these messages are at work when the mama runners (including me) share a happy milestone, but feel compelled to add a qualifier: "I hit a great pace on this run--for me." "I ran X miles this month---but I know others are running even more." It's the tendency to downplay our own belovedness and to be much kinder to others than we are to ourselves. Other people's achievements are celebrated. Our own come with an asterisk.
Much better to say, "I felt strong on the hills." "I've improved a lot." "That was a crappy run, but I'll try again tomorrow." "I'm running X miles at Y pace this weekend; who wants to join me?" Much better to see ourselves as we are, and to describe that as faithfully and graciously as we can.
Captain Obvious: I'm not just talking about running anymore.
Sooner or later, whether due to age or other physiological factors, I will plateau and decline. And that's as it should be. Continuous growth is not sustainable for our planet; continuous improvement is not sustainable for a body, either. So I'm working on embracing the spirit of Gandalf, whose cheeky comment to Frodo (above) feels a lot like radical contentment. I am neither slow nor fast. I am the speed I am meant to be right now.