Putting Religion Back in Our Schools

It's about time we put religion back in our schools. Now, hold on ... I'm not talking about what you think I'm talking about.

The separation of church and state is important. I truly believe that prayer, theology, and religious practices are not meant to permeate the boundaries of our secular institutions, schools, the halls of government, etc.

But that doesn't mean we should take religious education -- teaching students the basics of other religions, and non-religions, in a rigorously academic manner -- out of schools. In fact, we should consider doing just the opposite.

Here's why: while the United States is one of the most religious countries in the developed world in terms of belief and practice, it is one of the least religiously literate. That means that while we have faith, we lack facts. When it comes to knowing about religion -- our own or that of others -- we come up short.

Linda Wertheimer grew up in rural Ohio. She and her siblings were the only Jews in school. They faced a ton of anti-Semitic rhetoric and ostracism. Later in life, she wondered if it would have made a difference if teachers had taught her fellow pupils about many religions instead of promoting only one (Christianity).

Inspired by this experience and knowing that some schools actively engage in religious education, Wertheimer wrote the 2016 book Faith Ed. Not only does her book provide an in-depth and thoughtful look at particular cases of controversy and success in religious studies education at primary and secondary levels across the U.S., but she rightly highlights a public education system wrestling with the practicalities of how to nurture a new generation of religiously literate U.S. citizens.

What she found is that teaching about religion in public schools is important, and not only can it make a difference for religious minorities, but it can also renew a dialogue between religious leaders of all types on how we might work together toward peace and justice in the public realm.

Wertheimer said, "It's more vital now than ever to emphasize the importance of religious literacy, because education can reduce ignorance and the bigotry we're hearing aimed at Muslims in particular these days."

The basic idea of religious education in public schools should be this: to learn not only the information about other faiths, but to learn to respect other faiths and faith-filled persons, even if we do not agree with them. That's a tough thing to do, but some people are leading the way.

For example, Wertheimer highlighted the Core Knowledge curriculum offered by The Core Knowledge Foundation, which starts students out at a young age with information about different religions in a neutral, balanced way. The curriculum is based on what students should learn as part of social studies and geography.

Furthermore, parents can take the step to educate themselves and learn along with their children. Not only would this promote better religious literacy in the home, but would allow for parents to give guidance along the way if they were concerned about the content of their child's education in religion.

Whatever we do, we can't do nothing. It is vitally important that in an environment of highly-charged conversations that often unintentionally play on stereotypes, or even meaningfully demean people of other religions, that we take steps to learn more about other religions.

While a lot of Americans think religion shouldn't be in schools because it's against the law, it was actually Supreme Court Justice Tom Clark who said in 1963 that "It might well be said that one's education is not complete without a study of comparative religion or the history of religion and its relationship to the advancement of civilization."

Amen, Tom. Amen.

By Ken Chitwood

Teaching religion in school can be a touchy subject, but that doesn't mean the subject shouldn't be addressed. There are those on both sides of this fence. What do you think about teaching courses on religion in public schools? Have you or your kids had an experience with this? What have been the pros and cons?

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Living in a World of Mutual Display

The philosopher Charles Taylor once said that we live in a world of "mutual display." I'm more and more convinced that he's right. Whether I like it or not, I'm stuck and complicit in a system that encourages me to judge others according to what brands they're wearing, what causes they're supporting, how happy they look, and so much more -- all in comparison to myself. And it forces me to ask: am I good enough?

Perhaps this isn't anything new. You might tell me that humans have judged each other this way for all time -- it's just a feature of our humanity that we compare ourselves to one another. I'd agree, of course. But I'm worried that it's worse than ever before. We can -- and we do -- put ourselves on display more often now as well as observe and judge the display of others almost perpetually.

If you're on social media like I am, you'll know what I mean. How many times do you find yourself wishing that your life was as happy and interesting as all your friends seem to be when you see their pictures on Instagram and their big announcements on Facebook about achieving life goals or reaching that fitness milestone? Thinking about my own life in the midst of this constant flow of everyone else's "See how happy I am!" and "See how interesting my life is!" can get downright depressing.

I feel the pressure of technology in demanding that I'm always "on." I feel the tyrannical imperative of being interesting (think of the old Dos Equis commercials) or watchable. I can't shake the feeling that I'm in some sort of competition with everyone else to see who has the happiest, most envious life. And if I don't get the likes, the views, the comments, the clicks -- all made possible by technology's interconnecting networks of all of us -- I'm not sure my life has much worth.

Some lament the fact that we're "addicted" to technology. Faces are buried in smartphones as I walk across campus trying to avoid running into distracted students and colleagues. Sure, that alone might indicate we have a problem. But it makes me wonder if we're not really addicted to technology, but rather, as Alan Jacobs has noted, we're addicted to each other. And the technology, with its "there's an app for that" readiness, is eagerly waiting to serve up any and all methods of social validation that we desire. And boy do we desire it! (However, as much as I try not to think about such things or try to resist how important this has all become to me, I'm secretly hoping you'll share this post on your social media feed.)

Did you know that the UK just hired a Minister for Loneliness? I think that's a stunning admission by a major representative nation in Western society that we have a problem. Sherry Turkle, a researcher at MIT who investigates the way relationships are affected by social media, wonders if we're experiencing a loneliness epidemic. The irony of her work is that it examines the very technology that is supposed to be bringing us closer together, creating greater and stronger connections, but seems ultimately to be making us more lonely.

Turkle is no Luddite -- she's not interested in getting rid of technology. She is convinced, however, that we're immature users of immature technology. So she suggests some ways that we might overcome the loneliness brought on by our constant engagement in our personal devices through which we look for social affirmation but only end up being depressed, and by means of which we search for community but only end up with social connectivity without the connection (as she says, we're "alone together").

Curiously, some of her ideas look remarkably like old-fashioned spiritual disciplines. She suggests solitude and silence. More than 70 years ago, the theologian, pastor, and martyr Dietrich Bonhoeffer suggested the same thing in going about building a community of mutually supportive students at a small, secret seminary he started in Nazi Germany. In a classic and well-loved book, Bonhoeffer taught that solitude and silence actually prepare us for the deep, intimate community we desire because such disciplines teach us that our worth actually comes from God, our Creator, who made us for community -- first with Him and then with each other. Furthermore, in silence and solitude, Bonhoeffer suggests that we get to know ourselves and our own thoughts better, such that we're more able to share deeply in those relationships with one another for which God created us.

I find hope here. It's not only that I'm caught up in the distracting, competitive, and often depressing world of technology, especially when it's meant to bring us closer together, not to mention happier. But I see so many around me who are, too. Turkle seems to be channeling something ancient to help us to achieve the kind of community we're aching for. There may not be an app for our present problem, but there does seem to be an ancient kind of technology (if you think of spiritual disciplines that way) that can help.

Written by Chad Lakies

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Responding to an Apology: Do Words Matter?

Have you noticed how much we seem to police our speech these days? It seems we're constantly told what we should or should not say, what's appropriate or inappropriate. And we're held to a high standard. Some mistakes are costly.

In the last 10 years, I've had the privilege to travel to Europe a few times. I'm always glad to go England, because they speak English there. While I've studied other languages, I can't speak anything other than English. So traveling to England is much more comfortable for me than other places I've gone.

Even so, I've learned a few things about how I should police my own speech while traveling in England. Not everything I mean when I say a word means what I think it means in England. For example, as a father of young children I might talk about a stroller -- but in England it's called a "pram." I might talk about changing my child's diaper -- but in England it's called a "nappy." I might talk about a pacifier -- but in England it's called a "dummy," which might be a word of offense here in America.

Of course, even though I used some wrong words from time to time, my mistakes were completely unintentional. You might say they were well-intentioned, as I was just trying to make my way through the world in an unfamiliar place with what I thought was nevertheless a very familiar language.

This got me thinking about some of the other things we say that, while well-intentioned, might in fact communicate things which, were we aware of it, we would not want to be saying.

Imagine that a friend of yours has realized they did something to hurt your feelings, and so they offer an apology by saying, "I'm sorry." Because you're both friends, and perhaps because you think whatever they did was no big deal, you offer a typical response: "That's okay."

This response is unquestionably well-intentioned. It's no different than saying "No worries" or "No big deal" or something similar. But have you ever noticed that such phrases might not be the best response to an apology? What if when someone says, "I'm sorry," the best response might be to forgive them? What if, when we respond with "that's okay," we in fact negate their apology? I mean that our friend has recognized the action as not okay, and so offered an apology, but our response of "that's okay" ignores that recognition or entirely refuses to agree with it.

Of course, this is all unintentional. It's just like my using the wrong words in England. We take our language for granted, using it habitually without thinking. But what if our well-intentioned sayings and responses, like "that's okay" when someone apologizes, have unintentional consequences?

Let's think about this a different way. When Jesus lived, He forgave the sins of humans around Him. He also told His followers to do the same. I was compelled to think more deeply about this recently as I am trying to use my words more intentionally.

Jesus recognized that in forgiving another you're going further than just letting them off the hook; you're fully acknowledging their apology. You're also saying something significant about your relationship with them: forgiveness means you're not counting their offenses against them. In fact, you're telling them, "Your slate is clean with me." This is the same effect as when Jesus forgives us: our slate is clean with Him.

At the very least, this indicates that forgiveness is actually a big deal and that it matters when we respond to others. Saying "I forgive you" when someone apologizes would truly honor the fact that they've apologized and acknowledged a wrong they believe they've committed.

When I consider it this way, it makes me think that Jesus just might be on to something.

Written by Chad Lakies

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You Can't Find Purpose from a Job Alone

It's curious how artists are often able to describe realities with far fewer words than scholars. What takes a scientist or a historian hundreds of pages takes a lyricist or poet just a few lines or stanzas.

It's also curious how sometimes an outsider's take better captures the reality of insiders. A little critical distance, a little objectivity, helps a lot. Clarity and enlightenment ensue.

In a combination of both of these tendencies, the late postmodern novelist and atheist, David Foster Wallace, said something remarkable about us all when he unexpectedly characterized us as "religious." In a famous commencement address, Wallace said, "Everybody worships." Here's the full context of that comment.

Everyone is Religious

"Because here's something else that's weird but true: in the day-to day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshiping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And the compelling reason for maybe choosing some sort of god or spiritual-type thing to worship-be it JC or Allah, be it YHWH or the Wiccan Mother Goddess, or the Four Noble Truths, or some inviolable set of ethical principles -- is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive. If you worship money and things, if they are where you tap real meaning in life, then you will never have enough, never feel you have enough. It's the truth. Worship your body and beauty and sexual allure, and you will always feel ugly. And when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally grieve you. On one level, we all know this stuff already. It's been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, epigrams, parables: the skeleton of every great story. The whole trick is keeping the truth up front in daily consciousness." Excerpted from This Is Water: Some Thoughts, Delivered on a Significant Occasion, about Living a Compassionate Life by David Foster Wallace

The bucket seems pretty large for what Wallace might count as something we worship. It could be any of the things we might traditionally imagine like the institutional or historic capital "R" religions. Or it could be something like going to the mall, as James K. A. Smith has argued. Or sports fandom. Or sundry other things.

What if we have a religious relationship with our work?

In the 1960s, a Senate Committee issued a prediction that by the year 2000, Americans would only work 14 hours per week. There was significant hope increased automation and efficiency would mean that Americans could enjoy more leisure. It would be the first time in human history that a population so large would be working so little.

Perhaps much to our chagrin, the Committee's prediction never came true. In fact, it now seems rather silly. In our workaday world, it's difficult to fathom how someone could have imagined such a leisurely future. In contrast, many of us would claim we work more than we ever have. Even our own personal devices are a leash to the workplace, with e-mails, text messages, alerts, and calendars calling out to us at all hours.

Work and Worship

Writing in The Atlantic, Derek Thompson laments that so many younger workers have grown up in a world that recommends finding meaning and one's purpose in their job. Americans even use religious language to talk about it. Our jobs are our "callings." And when we talk about callings, the most common synonym that immediately comes to mind is "job," so ingrained in our imagination is this way of thinking.

Thompson suggests, following David Foster Wallace, that our jobs have become like altars, places of worship. They command our ultimate allegiance. We often hope to find a sense of deepest fulfillment from our work. We bow to our job like a god. Thompson calls this new religious impulse "workism."

Before workism, there was the culture of "total work." The early 20th-century philosopher Josef Pieper, writing in Germany just after WW II, expressed deep concern about how work had taken on a religious dynamic. The "total work" world is what produces workaholics, Pieper thinks.

His concerns are the kind that give us pause. In trying to describe how we imagine working as a normative feature of our existence (everybody should work [hard]), Pieper helps us to wonder why. Why is a "normal day the working day?" Or similarly, he wonders why we imagine vacation as "time-off" as if the "on" of our existence -- the normal way of things -- is to think of ourselves as always working. That the workaday world has such an influence on us to shape our imagination of daily existence in this way is why Pieper refers to our culture as one of "total work." Work is totalizing in its effect on our imagination. It's nearly impossible to think outside of it.

We've made "work" the center of our universe. Well, perhaps better, work has unwittingly become the center of our universe, without our having asked for it. Pieper's thought helps us see all the other words and ideas that orbit closely around it. In fact, he suggests, our whole lives seem to orbit around work. Our early years of getting an education are preparation for the workforce. "Retirement" has to do with that period of life that's "after" our working period.

A Place for Leisure

But it wasn't always this way. Pieper's discussion of work comes in a strangely titled book, Leisure: The Basis of Culture. What makes the title strange, at least to our ears, is that we often think of "leisure" in the same way that we think of laziness. Both are forms of "not working" and, therefore, they're often thought of synonymously. Leisure does have a positive connotation, often referring to some kind of relaxation and even fun. But again, Pieper's concern is that we are defining relaxation and fun in the same vein as we think of "time-off."

To illustrate the power of Pieper's point -- that we live in a culture of total work, or that work is totalizing in that it so powerfully shapes our imagination -- consider why the title of his book sounds so strange. If we hear the word "leisure" and one of the first synonyms that comes to mind is "laziness," why is our take so negative? Perhaps it has to do with the fact that leisure, in its association with time-off, connects laziness to a lack of productivity. And productivity seems to be the highest value in the total work world, according to Pieper.

This should be no surprise in a world so famously defined by the Protestant work ethic, a term many of us have heard, even if we're unaware of its source. The great sociologist working at the turn of the 20th century, Max Weber, bequeathed to us this term in the title of his book The Protestant Work Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism. Yet it's perhaps that "spirit of capitalism" that plays the more important role in our reflection. For Weber argued that the highest good in a culture of total work -- a culture of productivity -- is profit. The more profit the better. And how is profit achieved? Greater and more efficient productivity.

I think Pieper is right. It's hard not to imagine our life without reference to work. It's true for me, and I know it is for many others. I also think that, because Pieper is right, David Foster Wallace is also right. We allow work to have so much importance that it takes on a religious significance. It becomes an altar where we worship, whether we realize it or not, whether we consider ourselves religious or not.

Affording work a place of religious significance is exactly what Thompson argues in The Atlantic. Framed between David Foster Wallace who says that everyone worships and Josef Pieper who says that we live in a culture of total work, Thompson's claim that we look to our work to find meaning and purpose -- even thinking of our work as our life's calling -- should be no surprise. Workism is one of the new religions of 21st-century Americans.

Purpose Beyond Your Job

Yet, perhaps you've found yourself at one time or another wondering, "What more is there?" While we can all find certain kinds of satisfaction in our work, it's not always like that. There are days when we drag ourselves out of bed and coerce ourselves into showing up, whether you work in your living room, a laboratory, or on the factory line. Dissatisfaction easily creeps in.

An ancient monk speaks to us from days long gone, telling us our feelings of dissatisfaction are quite valid. Martin Luther would be just as troubled as Pieper concerning how we conceive of work in our time. His thinking about work is helpful for those of us caught up in the religion of workism in two different ways. First, he advises us to think of work in a manner that includes much more than only our jobs. Second, when work is so broadly understood, we can go on to imagine how we might discover purpose and meaning within a cosmic framework, one that transcends the mere workaday world.

In the first sense, Luther points out the presence of lots of other kinds of work in our lives. Work isn't just where you make a living and earn a paycheck. You're working when you're changing your children's diapers and seeking to raise them well. You're working when you're obeying the laws of your society, which aim to bring security and peace to you and your neighbors. You work when you watch out for your neighbor's home or pets while they're away, lend them a tool, assist in a project that you have the skills to help with, or volunteer for any number of sundry opportunities in your community. In short, following the words of Jesus, Luther thinks of work so broadly because he imagines it as a fulfillment of what it means to "love your neighbor as yourself" (see Mark 12:31). Work, from Luther's point of view, is always understood as a form of serving others.

In the second sense, work is caught up in something much larger than just the work itself. Work has a cost, to be sure. It's not always easy, fun, or fulfilling. And it has to be done whether we like it or not. But it has great benefits, too. Our work, viewed through Luther's lens, is connected to the activity of God Himself, the One who created and sustains all things. In fact, your work, the labor of your hands, feet, mind, and voice, is the very energy that God uses to accomplish His own work of caring for all of creation -- humans, most especially. So even the most mundane and routine things, like changing diapers, voting, mowing the lawn, and getting dinner on the table, make a difference in the world that is good for us all. Seeing work this way makes it meaningful and purposeful not from our own perspective or that of others, but from God's. He sees you and uses you. The activities of your life are caught up in something bigger than yourself.

Jesus once said, "Man does not live by bread alone" (see Matthew 4:4). I say that humans cannot find purpose from a job alone. Jesus continued, saying that we live only from the very Words of God. As a corollary, our lives are only purposeful because our Creator puts us to use.

Luther's biblical understanding of work helps us transcend workism. If you've found yourself wondering if there's something more than just work, something more to life than just drawing a paycheck and living toward retirement, Luther says, unabashedly, yes! Religion then, ironically enough, matters to our work, even if our work should not be our religion. Luther would say Thompson's view is a bit short-sighted, a bit too narrow. Rather, you honor God in your work because your work inevitably brings about benefits for your neighbor. And God cares for you through their work, too.

Written by Chad Lakies

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The Perilous Frontier of ME: Why "You Do You" Always Fails Us

An Unexpected Journey

Here's a familiar story many of us learned in our American history classes. The main characters are pioneer explorers Lewis and Clark. Their task was to find a waterway to the Pacific Ocean. Their journey begins on the Mississippi River. The journey ends where the Columbia River, which now forms part of the border between Oregon and Washington, meets the saltwater of the ocean.

The explorers were 15 months into their journey. Portaging their canoes, they were about to crest the highest ridge they had yet encountered. Having made camp for the night, the explorers dreamed with excitement about what they believed they would discover the next day. Flowing down from the crest of the ridge would be a gentle descent toward the shores of the Pacific. Or so they thought. The next morning revealed a surprising and unexpected reality.

Keep in mind that Lewis and Clark, along with their fellow explorers, only knew the lands of the Eastern United States. Broad, flat plains. Navigable waterways. Unintimidating mountain ranges. As they departed for their journey west, there was no reason not to expect more of the same.

So they were unprepared for what they did see. And it terrified them. Ahead was no gentle plain, no ocean shores. Instead, they faced the eastern foothills of one of the most terrifying and deadly mountain ranges in the Western world: the Rockies. Yet rather than turn back, they leaned into their charge to find a way to the Pacific. Abandoning the assumption about waterways leading to the nation's western shore, they left behind their canoes, knowing they could later make more. They made friends with those they met -- natives for whom this new frontier was nothing other than home -- who would lead and guide them toward their ultimate destination.

Suddenly making it up as they went, negotiating each new circumstance one at a time, the leadership writer Tod Bolsinger says Lewis and Clark learned how to "canoe the mountains."

Facing New Frontiers, but Unprepared

Like me, if you grew up playing Oregon Trail, you too are unprepared for the terrain you face today. Yet ours is not navigating the formidable frontiers of new territory. Ours is a social frontier, one we never expected and for which we lack the training to navigate. In fact, we might even say the training we did receive has in many ways been detrimental.

By "training," I mean something simple. Playing Oregon Trail, we learned not just about geography but also, however subtly, about independence and a kind of rugged individualism. To make your way in the world, you had to look out for yourself. Much of the formation we experienced in our education encouraged this, too. "Think for yourself," we were told. In the present time, we say to one another with a hint of vivifying encouragement in our voices, "You do you" (implying that we will do the same). We may have heard from time to time about the vice of selfishness, but it's difficult to deny that many of our experiences in life emphasized and even taught us habits of self-focus. The number one person you need to be concerned about is yourself. Your own success should be your primary goal.

Life in the midst of a what feels like a never-ending social crisis is difficult to navigate if we simply seek to serve ourselves and meet our own needs.

The COVID-19 pandemic requires us to navigate a world full of other people who may or may not carry the virus (any of us could have it, too), and so we seek to prevent further transmission by wearing masks, washing our hands, socially distancing, and staying home. Well, some of us do. And this presents a challenge. There's vast disagreement about how to behave, inconsistent observance of medical guidance, disagreement about whether the guidance is valid, and deep suspicion and mistrust of others, perhaps most especially the so-called authorities and experts. If "you do you" and so does everyone else, how do we move forward united?

There's more than a pandemic shaping our social frontier. Think of the unrest over racial tensions. An election year characterized by vitriol. Contempt and anger fueled by the "outrage-industrial complex" of the 24-hour news cycle and bots that capitalize on social media algorithms. The loss of work, the loneliness of isolation, anxiety about the present and the future, the fog and the boredom of working from home, the longing for a hug from loved ones who are frail or far away, and so much more.

Formation Gone Wrong

Our training was not for this kind of world. Ironically, perhaps our own formation has created it. Living solely for oneself, we might say, has produced the conditions we now experience. Autonomous individualism pits me against you, us against them, and leaves us at a loss for how to move forward with a sense of togetherness that is derived from anything more than anger and a wandering eye looking for whoever is to blame for this hell in which we feel trapped and hopeless.

Even seeking to blame others, whether people, systems, or institutions, is indicative of just how difficult it is for us not to think first of ourselves -- someone did this to me; it cannot be my fault.

If we are to find any help out of this self-myopia, it might be found in the most unlikely place. The mirror. How, you might ask, can a mirror, with all of its self-referential power, help me to escape the grip of an exclusive interest in my own needs, my own concerns, my own self?

A Hard Look at Ourselves

There's a lesson to be learned from the response given to an inquiry sent to British intellectuals in the early 20th century. G. K. Chesterton was a journalist and essayist. He was one of a number of distinguished thinkers to whom The Times, a British newspaper, sent this question: "What's wrong with the world?" Chesterton is said to have written the shortest response, saying something like this: "Dear sirs, In response to your question, 'What is Wrong with the World?,' I am. Yours, G.K. Chesterton."

What if we adopted Chesterton's posture? What would it mean if we began not by pointing the finger of blame away from us but, in a reasonable and humble manner, toward ourselves? What if we answered, "What is wrong with the world?" by thinking first of ourselves and our own self-seeking, instead of the problems of others?

Of course, in a time in which we prize positive mental health and self-care, this approach could be rejected as just too damaging and brutal. Why cause more harm by thinking about our failures? Yet, it is meant only to recognize, like St. Augustine, that just as there are parts of the world that we do not like but cannot do anything about, so also are there things about ourselves which we do not like but can do nothing about.

The Russian writer Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn had good reasons to point the finger of blame. He was unjustly imprisoned for challenging an unjust social system. Yet, he looked first in the mirror, recognizing his weaknesses. His time in the Russian gulags generated deep reflection, after which he admitted, "If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?"

Solzhenitsyn's question is obviously rhetorical. None of us are willing to destroy a piece of our own heart. So we must turn elsewhere to deal with the evil we experience.

Moving Toward Selflessness

In his brief account of the life of Dorothy Day, the founder of the Catholic Worker Movement and often considered while she was alive one of the most radical activists in the American church, David Brooks suggestively wonders if Day was just a little crazy in his The Road to Character.

"Day was unusual, maybe even perverse, in that she sometimes seemed to seek out suffering as a road to depth. She probably observed, as we all do, that people we call deep have almost always endured a season of suffering, or several such seasons. But she seemed to seek out those seasons, and to avoid some of the normal pleasures of life that would have brought simple earthly happiness. She often sought out occasions for moral heroism, occasions to serve others in acts of enduring hardship."

"Who would intentionally seek out suffering?" we're meant to wonder. Brooks' account of her life seems remarkably out of place, especially in our time when suffering is usually treated as a problem to be solved, something in need of a cure. Yet Brooks continues, assuring us that Day is not out of her right mind, saying,

"She was not a trapped animal compelled to suffer by circumstance; she ardently chose suffering. At each step along the way, when most people would have sought out comfort and ease -- what economists call self-interest or what psychologists call happiness -- she chose a different route, seeking discomfort and difficulty in order to satisfy her longing for holiness. She wasn't just choosing to work at a nonprofit institution in order to have a big impact; she was seeking to live in accord with the Gospels, even if that meant sacrifice and suffering."

The way Day lived was grounded in a particular story, a mission.

Facing the frontier of the brutal West in search of the shores of the Pacific, driven by President Jefferson's commissioning to seek a route for travel and commerce, Lewis and Clark "canoed the mountains," in part by seeking wisdom from those for whom that land was native territory, home. There is wisdom we can receive from others who've suffered difficult roads.

Dorothy Day, and the other figures about whom Brooks writes, offer images of wisdom for our time. We are not quick to choose suffering. Yet, in all our myopic concern for ourselves, there is a part of us -- a part of our hearts as Solzhenitsyn would say -- that longs to make a difference, that longs to live otherwise and meaningfully, to feel a part of something that connects us to others.

Day points us in that direction. She sought to live in accord with the Gospels. In those ancient accounts, we meet a man named Jesus who lived His life entirely for others, even to the extent that He let Himself be killed that others might live. His followers recorded these words, which give us a sense of Jesus's philosophy of life.

"Whoever wants to be My disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow Me. For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will find it. What good will it be for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit their soul? Or what can anyone give in exchange for their soul? For the Son of Man is going to come in His Father's glory with His angels, and then He will reward each person according to what they have done" (Matthew 16:24-27).

This is far from our contemporary saying, "You do you." Yet Jesus doesn't merely leave these words for us as a command or some point of reference against which we judge ourselves as a failure. Rather, He calls to you and me and promises to help us do it. For those who follow Jesus, who reflect on their own lives realizing that there are things about themselves that they do not like but can do nothing about, Jesus gives grace, helping us to see that what we think is impossible, is very much possible.

These words of encouragement from one of Jesus's greatest known followers, St. Paul of Tarsus, show us the way: "Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of the others. In your relationships with one another, have the same mindset as Christ Jesus ... for it is God who works in you to will and to act in order to fulfill His good purpose" (Philippians 2:3-5; 13).

Jesus invites us. Let us venture into our social frontier by taking stock of what we see in the mirror, asking God for help, and letting Him use us to make a difference in the world, through the same care and compassion that drove Him to give His life for us. Perhaps living our lives for others might truly be the wisdom (and revolution) we need.

Written by Chad Lakies

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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

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