You're an Elitist, Even If You Don't Know It

It's unfashionable these days to cheer for elitism. It's more honest to admit however, that in not cheering for elitism (or shaming people who do), one simply joins the ranks of a different elite.

Before I explain, let me tell a story.

Don't Forget to Think About College

It's only been a few years since I've been doing it. My wife and I regularly, but subtly encourage our oldest daughter to think about going to college. We'll soon begin doing the same with her younger sister. We try not to put too much pressure on the question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I've known enough "grown-ups" who still don't have answers to that question. Nevertheless, we do try to orient her toward a future that includes education on the horizon for quite some time. After that, she'll likely embark upon some kind of career, whether full- or part-time, and probably take some time to raise kids of her own.

Long ago now, my own parents started me down this same path. By the time I was in high school, I was on the college-prep track like most of my peers. Going to college seemed to be a no-brainer. It was just assumed in my family that I and each of my siblings would go to college immediately following high school, earning at least a baccalaureate degree.

Sometimes Learning Is No Fun

While I was in high school however, I hated school and dreaded the prospects of further study. While I was a decent student, I was sick of mathematics, bored with English, disliked reading, and abhorred writing. I intended to start college as a music major so I could at least do something I loved. I'm a drummer. I studied percussion. Of course, I still had to slog through general education courses, including math and English. But studying something I loved mitigated my full-on desire not to be in school.

Then something happened early on in my college career. I had a transformative experience unrelated to school. It was really something quite spiritual. And in the midst of it all, I realized I had stumbled upon something that I found utterly fascinating, something that pretty much changed the trajectory of my entire life.

I suddenly went from being someone who hated reading and writing to very quickly enjoying both. This was especially the case as I began to read in areas like philosophy, psychology, and Christian theology. All these areas were quite new to me, but I devoured almost everything I could find to read that helped me to adjust to the new way I now saw the world.

Before finishing my baccalaureate degree, graduate school was already on the horizon for me. That was a grueling four more years of rigorous academic and professional training.

Then, as if I were a glutton for punishment, I embarked upon doctoral studies. Seven more years later, I was finally done with formal education. Looking back on my former disposition toward school as a teenager, by the time I was done with post-secondary education, I had been in school for 29 years of my life (pre-school to PhD). If you would have asked me in high school, never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined choosing to further my education for that long. And looking back, I know I wouldn't have if it were not for that transformative spiritual experience.

What does any of this have to do with elitism?

Well, at least two things.

Let me get at those by means of another story. Hang with me. It'll all come together. I promise.

Connecting the Classroom to the World

While I was in graduate school, my goal was to teach. Toward the end of my studies, I began submitting job applications. My first job was teaching religion at a small liberal arts college in the Pacific Northwest.

Not long after beginning this work, I quickly realized that I was often teaching people who were very much like I was in the earliest days of my college career. Often, my students didn't want to be in the gen-ed courses I was teaching. Like me, they were sick of math and didn't like writing.

Toward the end of their four years, however, they began to think about what would come next. At this point, they were well-acclimated to the college experience and knew how to engage well in class. Remembering my own prior experience and disposition toward college motivated me as a teacher to conduct my courses in such a way that every student could take something useful away. I didn't need them to buy into everything that was on the syllabus. They didn't have to believe the religious material we were studying in order to earn an A in my courses. But I wanted them to be able to articulate how the things we studied mattered in the real world.

We often talked about current events, social attitudes, and why people behaved in the ways that they did. Religion, perhaps surprisingly, intersects all these areas in deep and penetrating ways.

During the years I taught, the environment of higher education more and more became one in which a great deal of emphasis was put on concerns like diversity, equity, and other issues related to social justice. These are important matters and, as a result, they'd spark important and challenging discussions. One of them had to do with elitism. We talked about it in my classes, what it meant, and how we should think of it.

Since leaving the university setting for a different but not completely unrelated career field, I've noticed that the concerns of the university for the last half-decade have more and more come to be the concerns of our culture at large. Elitism included.

Often, elitism is denigrated. Considered negatively, elitism is bound up with conceptions related to the abuse of power. We tend to think of those who have power as those who are prone to corruption for the sake of maintaining and bolstering their power, while limiting access to their ranks at the same time. This is the fashionable view I alluded to at the beginning. To the extent you adhere to this and stand against elitism, you rank with those who believe their views are more righteous than others, constituting a new elite.

Elitism and Power

We don't have to think of it that way, however. Elitism, to be sure, is related to power. Yet, it's possible to consider elitism and power from a positive perspective, too.

I'm an elitist. And so are you. We can make that statement simply by taking stock of some of our experiences, our credentials, our skills, our certifications, and more. If you have a high school diploma, that matters in our society. Certain rights and privileges are yours as a result of finishing high school.

The same is true if you have further education, like one or more college degrees.

Perhaps you've earned a unique title, like reverend or doctor.

Maybe you've achieved a certain military rank, like sergeant or you serve as "honorable judge so and so of the 9th Appellate Court." Or perhaps you hold a public office of some sort, like representing your neighborhood as an alderperson.

You might be a respected athletic coach, or have any number of certifications, like in exercise instruction or graphic design.

Perhaps you're a grandparent and give advice to new parents. Or you've retired from 30 years in the same career and consult within your area of expertise.

We could list so much more. In a word, we're talking about "achievements." And we live in a world where achievements of this sort have consequences, earnings rights, privileges, authority, power.

The basic idea is that you -- whoever you are, whatever your age in life, however much experience you have, whatever your credentials -- you know some important things, other people recognize that you know them, and thus you have a certain kind of power. You can influence others, teach them, or speak as an expert or with positional authority.

Not all power is equal of course, but we all have some. And that makes us elitists. Because we expect that people with power have the agency to use that power. And we will all use it. This then, is the basic understanding of what it means to be an elitist. Elitists are simply those who have power -- perhaps by means of credentials like a degree, a title that confers positional authority, or a certain amount of years of experience or special training -- and we expect others to recognize this power and defer to it in appropriate ways. As agents who can leverage our various kinds of power, we can use that power for good or ill.

As I discussed elitism with my students, helping them to see for example that their college degrees afforded them a kind of power, ranking them within a certain class of elites (i.e. college graduates), I also challenged them with these questions.

What will you do with your power?

Is your power for you? Or is it for others?

Will you use it to advance yourself or advance others?

Will you lay it down if it becomes necessary?

Thinking of power and elitism in these ways follows in the footsteps of Jesus. People generally have a positive view of Jesus. Perhaps this will prompt us to reconsider thinking of power and elitism from His perspective.

Let me be honest, however. Christians -- those who claim to follow Jesus - have not always followed Jesus when it comes to power. History shows in embarrassing and atrocious ways that Christians have often acted only for their own self-interests, while simultaneously claiming to be people for others.

We can explain this by saying that Christians, too, are merely human. But this does not justify it.

Rather than pointing to Christians, it's better to point to Jesus to think about how to handle the power we have. After all, He claimed to be the Son of God. But it was said of Him that He laid down all of His power, taking on the form of a servant instead, and finally giving His very own life for others (see Philippians 2.5-11). Rather than using power for selfish gain - and He was presented with many opportunities to do so - He chose a posture of powerlessness. Ironically, His powerlessness became the most powerful force of all, opening a future of hope for everyone who would follow Him.

It was that same powerlessness that transformed my life early in my first year of college. It was during that time that I met Jesus. Looking back, it seemed like a complete accident. I mean, I hadn't been looking to become religious. In fact, while not militantly opposed to religion, I still had some pretty serious objections. I thought of and described myself as an atheist. But in the end, it seems, I was powerless against God's haunting pursuit of me. And He changed everything about my life.

Meeting Jesus is like encountering the greatest kind of power you can imagine, rendering you in that moment into a powerless mess. It's then that Jesus uses His power for you, raising you to a new life that can be lived in His power and for others. This is the beginning of understanding what power is for -- not for ourselves, but ultimately for others. Hence the questions to my students about how they will live out their elitism, what they will do with their power.

Knowing that the power of God is the power by which we live, all other powers and privileges which we enjoy can be aimed outward, for the benefit of others, always empowered by the work of God through us for them.

So, my elitist friend, how are you going to use your power?

Written by Chad Lakies

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We Are Not Our Plans

David Brooks recently observed that moments of suffering help us to realize that all of us think we are "our plans." Our lives and identity are shaped around what we are planning for ourselves and our futures. Most of the time we take this for granted; we don't think about it. But moments when our plans are thrown into question and our expectations are dashed, these are the times when we come face to face with the link between our identity and our plans.

For seven years, I was a university professor. During one memorable semester, I had a student-athlete who suffered a significant injury with one of the core muscles that moved her hip. She was a basketball player and had played basketball for much of her life. Her college experience revolved around her role on the basketball team, including her tuition, since she was studying on an athletic scholarship. Yet, all at once, she was unable to play and had to sit out for the rest of the season. Medical professionals were unsure about the best approach to take that might lead to healing. It was unknown if she would be able to play again.

Her injury completely threw her off. Suddenly, she was asking questions like "Who am I?" and "What now?" The disruption of her plans raised questions about her self-understanding. Previously, she always had an answer. "I'm a basketball player. Basketball is my life." Yet, when she couldn't play anymore, the limited view that "basketball is life" was suddenly felt at the deepest level.

Obviously, there was more to life than basketball. Of course, this was already something that she knew in a tacit way. But up to this point in her life, she didn't have to think about it. Basketball was always there. And presumably it would always be there. But now she was pressed to face a reality, a future, that didn't align with her plans. And effectively, it called her very identity into question.

If we are not our plans, what are we? Perhaps we are our opportunities. But this sort of answer has to be contextualized and specified for two reasons. First, not all of us have (or will have) the same opportunities. Second, we're not talking about a pie-in-the-sky idea like imagining the "world as our playground" as if our opportunities are unlimited. The conditions and contingences of our opportunities are numerous, making opportunities limited for all of us. Nevertheless, we all have some.

In the midst of what appears to be the disintegration of our plans, we are presented with an opportunity. We are offered a chance, as it is often said in the business and political world, to pivot. Imagine pivoting, which is an athletic move turned metaphor, as the sort of re-orientation that maintains an anchor point. In the athletic move, one foot remains planted, while the other foot moves and turns the body in a different direction, from which a new move will commence. So, our plans are gone, but if we retain an anchor, a pivot point where we are still rooted firmly in place, we can rest a little and retain a confidence. While our plans are no longer in play, our identity may not be as threatened as it often feels like it is. This is part of what it means to say that we are not our plans.

Another former student found a way to pivot. She had entered college to be a nurse, believing for most of her life that nursing was her future. However, she didn't make it through the gauntlet that is chemistry, one of the most rigorous gatekeeping mechanisms for students who are pursuing a variety of professional medical degrees. While her experience was crushing in the short term, she didn't quit. Rather, after a brief period of grief, she ended up finishing her degree in English, writing an undergraduate thesis that was one part memoir, one part guide about her journey into this new opportunity. In other words, she left some notes for others on what she learned about how to pivot.

In the midst of our current pandemic crisis, there are countless people who have had their plans exploded in surprising and devastating ways. Many students have had their proms cancelled. High school and college graduations -- some of the biggest milestones of life -- have gone digital. Sports seasons have abruptly ended. Jobs have been lost and many more who are just entering the job market have no idea what the future holds. Major world events and traditions are cancelled because people cannot gather. Investments and financial stability are upended. Many of the vital non-profits that serve a vast array of social needs are now suddenly facing significant risk. Some long-established businesses are even calling it quits after just a few weeks.

But we are not our plans. Our identity runs much deeper than what we were planning to do tomorrow, next week, or next year. And that means we have an anchor from which we can pivot. Yet, not all anchors are as stable as others.

If your anchor is chasing the American Dream -- a good job so you can make money, find success, marry an attractive spouse, have beautiful children, buy all the best stuff, and make yourself the envy of everyone, all for the sake of being happy -- that anchor may have just disintegrated before your eyes. This may be especially true if you're a Millennial.

If your anchor has always been looking inside of yourself and following your heart, marching to the beat of your own drummer, you doing you -- perhaps your anchor seems to have evaporated in a flash. After all, it's likely your plans emerged out of what you believed you found in your heart. And the passion behind those plans, however real it feels, may be looking for a new target.

So how do we anchor ourselves to something we can be confident in? How do we known which direction to face and what opportunities to pursue when we have to pivot? None of us have trained for this. We're unprepared. But we want to move forward in hope, and with as much confidence as possible.

Perhaps the suffering we're feeling gives us the chance to recognize that the "promises" of the American Dream aren't really the promises we were told they were. Sadly, we were misled.

Even more, perhaps the promises of finding your authentic self and your true passions by looking inside yourself are also turning out to be a letdown. The wisdom of the ages, from philosophical and religious traditions across world history have warned us of this. But our present cultural situation stubbornly encourages us to focus almost solely on ourselves and our own happiness. Our ears are closed to hearing alternatives -- except when we face a crisis.

Years ago, I had a conversion experience. Subsequently, all the plans I had for how I imagined my life would go either disappeared or were radically reoriented. Things I thought I would never do or would never be interested in became the very things I found myself doing and digging into with an almost insatiable vigor. A new anchor emerged in my life, and it's been there ever since.

That anchor was a Person, and His Name is Jesus. Meeting Him was something I had intentionally tried to avoid over the years. Yet it seemed to happen by accident. I wasn't in the middle of a crisis at the time, but meeting Him seem to cause one. I had to figure out who I was now, once I came to know my identity not by looking into my heart, but by knowing that He thought of me as His child. His influence over the shape of my life was tumultuous for my original plans. But it's been a grand adventure ever since, and remains so as I write these words.

The two things that I've learned about Jesus are these: He's the most stable anchor that I know of and, when pivoting, He's always a point of reference for where I should aim myself. He's never let me down. One of the best parts about knowing Jesus is that my own plans can take a back seat. And to the extent that I've been successful at releasing my plans (or when I've faced challenges and have had to re-orient), I find myself always a part of a bigger set of plans than I ever could have imagined, even when things aren't always clear. It's like He wants me here, part of this thing, this movement that's bigger than myself, and through which I've experienced more fulfillment than I think I would have if I had it all my way.

We're not our plans. But with Jesus, our plans can easily be reshaped to align with His. Perhaps we'll never achieve the American Dream that way. Perhaps we'll have to make some radical shifts. He doesn't promise it'll be easy, or that it won't at times be painful. I'm glad for that, because He's honest that life isn't always going to make us happy. Yet, when our identity is no longer rooted in our plans but instead anchored in Jesus, we can be content, fulfilled and joyful, come what may.

Written by Chad Lakies

You can share your thoughts on this blog by clicking here and leaving a comment.

You can let the folks at THRED know what you think by clicking here.