Whatever successes I’ve managed as a dad are due in part to the better dads I’ve gotten to know over the years. I’m lucky to have friends who work hard to love and lead their kids with courage and compassion. They’ve managed, at least a little bit, to rub off on me.

Three of them stand out:

First is a guy who’s tailored made to be a stay at home dad. He cooks, runs the house, is super patient, spends quality AND quantity time with his kids, and has me beat, hands down, in an area of great personal struggle: intentionality, i.e., the fine art of being purposeful, engaged, and hard working when it comes to the kids.

While he’s an excellent homemaker, he’s no pushover; he can swim underwater farther than I can (by maybe 10 feet), knows more about home repair than I do, and I’m fairly certain that he could best me in fisticuffs. After his first and only surf trip, he’s now on the same level as I am. Drives me crazy.

I was raised to believe that homemaking is the woman’s work, i.e., the man is supposed to be the breadwinner, the worker, while the wife stays home and takes care of everything else. That’s all a product of southern toxic masculinity culture of course, but being friends with another at-home dad who’s killing it, and who’s no pushover, helps a ton.

Watching him give so much to his kids encourages me to slow down, pay attention, spend time, and turn the intentionality dial up a couple of notches while my kids are still with me.

I do wish, however, that he’d talk to his five year old about wearing pants in public.

Next is a friend I’ve known for almost 20 years. He’s a nerd, (much like myself), and has beaten me at fisticuss, a number of times, but is really good at something that makes so many of us a bit squeamish.

American parenting, for whatever reason, is very anti-push. We don’t want to hurt our kids, or make them feel bad. We want them to be who they are, not who we want them to be, so we tend towards a more laissez-faire style of parenting, one that ends up on the opposite extreme from the style of parenting that pushes too hard.

There’s a balance, one that respects the need to let kids grow freely while respecting the other need to push them past their comfort zone. I think that this friend lives super close to the healthy middle ground here.

A few years ago, we took a trip to the mountains with a few other families, and started a game of kickball in one of the local parks. One of my friend’s kids didn’t want to play. It seemed like he didn’t get the game enough to have fun with it. Dad stepped in and pushed, and the kid started crying.

Watching all of this, I got a bit triggered. I hated sports when I was a kid. I didn’t grow up in a sporty home and didn’t understand what things like football and baseball were all about. When people forced me to play, I cried too.

And it’s awkward to watch a parent step in, shut down the whole game, and make a child cry.

But the kid played, kicked the ball really hard, made a few bases, smiled, laughed, dried the tears, had a great time, and learned something about sports that I didn’t learn until I was in college. Sure, this kid might never be a professional athlete, who knows, but I’ll wager that this isn’t the only time he’s learned a valuable lesson – earlier than he would have otherwise – because his dad appreciates the value of a good push.

I had a great time watching it all.

The last guy is somebody I’ve never met, but I’m in a very close relationship (some might call it steamy) with his daughter, and have heard many stories about him.

There’s one in particular that you won’t be able to unsee if you’re a dad that struggles with patience.

When my friend was a kid, she decided to go into the back yard and start a garden. The result was a very large area of dirt in the middle of an otherwise pristine lawn. If you’re a yard-o-phile who’s spent years perfecting the art of green grass, you’re as horrified as I am.

When dad came home from work, he calmed himself, I’m sure, then called his kid over for an explanation. He didn’t fuss, punish, or lecture. He just opened a dialogue.

My friend recounts the conversation thusly:

Dad:   Hey, what’re you up to?
kid:   I’m making a garden.
Dad:   What are you going to plant in your garden?
kid:   ….. ummm… I dunno…. (she hadn’t thought that far)
Dad:   I know, what if we plant some GRASS in the garden?
kid:   Yeah!!!!

So they planted some grass in the garden.

I would’ve lost it. Grass is sacred. And I’m tired of the very frequent property damage that comes part and parcel with having children. If I came home to a large dirt square in the middle of my pristine lawn, heads would roll. But because there’s at least one dad who managed a different, most excellent response, I’m compelled to reconsider the importance of sacred things.

Patience is tough, especially when you’re in your post-mid-fifties. When I see a dad exercising this level of patience, I’m all ears.

Alas, some areas of my parenting are barely functional, the three illustrated above are the weakest. Knowing other dads who’ve managed to excel in these has helped me to grow beyond where I would’ve ended up otherwise.

Thanx Dads.

 

Photo by Heike Mintel at Unsplash.com

Many years ago, I had the opportunity to speak about religious things at a gathering of Dallas area teenagers. I was a new Christian, still trying to find my way around a new culture, honored to be asked to speak in public for the first time in my life.

I was nervous, and really wanted to hit it out of the park, so I worked for days trying to get everything just right. When showtime came ’round, I spoke with confidence, told a few jokes, and held everyone’s attention for the entire 30 minutes. Of all my public speaking engagements, this might’ve been the best. That’s my perspective of course. Preachers tend to be the worst at judging thier own stuff.

Afterwards, multiple people went out of their way to compliment my words, some who I’d never spoken to before. In that moment, I was convinced that I had a gift (again, my perspective). In the year that followed, I never wondered why the group never asked me to speak again, I was too busy basking in the glow of that one moment.

I wanted more.

Not long after, I made a huge career switch and enrolled at Dallas Theological Seminary where I was formally trained in the art of “homiletics,” i.e., preaching. I then raised a bunch of money and started my own church. Floating around in the back of my mind was a longing to preach, to experience whatever I had experienced that day in Dallas.

I’ve preached many sermons since, some great, some awful, and all points in between. There are 100 things I love about communicating and influencing, but I can’t say that I don’t enjoy the power. Speaking to a large group of people, most of whom have glued their eyes to yours for almost an hour, is a little intoxicating.

Before you judge me, remember that we’re all struggling to do the right thing for the right reasons. If our motivations are 2% pure, we’re doing great, according to a friend of mine whose truth I’ve hung on to for dear life.

For whatever reason, humans love power. Give us a small taste and we’ll spend our days in hot pursuit. There’s no way to completely eradicate it, all we can do is try and wield it for good while keeping it from dominating our lives. War, theft, cheating, lying, controlling relationships, workaholism, whatever will always come part and parcel with the human story, and at the core of it will be an innate desire for power.

We could ponder why this longing runs so deep within us, or what God was thinking when he embedded it in all of humanity.

But I’m wondering why we only want a certain kind of power, why the power that’s in our laps isn’t the power we want.

The power we have

For example, consider someone who’s been beaten up by the world, roaming about in a zombie-like state of self-rejection and the depression that attends it. Those people are legion, by the way; some are “confident” and “successful,” well-trained in the art of hiding their hurt, others are homeless. The rest live somewhere in between.

The only way out of that mess is similar to the way in. When a trusted, beloved human convinces us that we’re not worth much, only another trusted human can convince us otherwise. My life has been forever changed by the latter.

That’s power.

If you’re an American Christian, like me, you’ve probably got some extra money in your pocket, and you’re free, like me, to do whatever you want with it. We can take some/half/all of that cash and support people in need: children, single moms, homeless people, others struggling to make ends meet in our city.

Evangelical Christianity – by itself – could put an unthinkable dent in global suffering.

Power.

Kindness, compassion, generosity, and forgiveness are much more powerful than their evil counterparts, rippling into the human corpus like nothing else. We can wield those whenever and however we want. If evangelical Christianity – by itself – chose to use these as much as Jesus commanded us to, the world would truly be a different place. We’ve chosen instead to wave our political plastic swords about because the devil’s politician whispered in our ears that we’re somehow more powerful than everyone else.

I have time, money, energy, experience, and resources that could be spent on behalf of folks who don’t have nearly as much, who would gladly accept my help without batting an eye. But I excuse myself. “I’m tired,” I say, while spending 7 or so hours a week writing things that will only ever bless a small congregation, hoping that it will one day blow up into something bigger.

The power we want

The power that you and I have is the power that everybody has. It’s “common,” “everyday,” “easy.” It comes without a PhD or some other sexy marker that might distinguish it from everyone else’s power. If we choose instead to wield the common powers, there won’t be any applause, or acclaim. Nobody cares, save the person we just saved with it, and maybe God.

“…whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.” ~ Matthew 25:40

By definition, only a relative few can wield sexy power. If more people find it, by definition, it becomes common. Is that the reason why so many will spend their lives chasing it, because nobody else has it?

A few years ago I preached another sermon, a short one that I threw together for a friend’s wedding on the ski slopes of Beaver Creek. I didn’t think it was any good, but people went nuts, like they’d never heard anything like it. I spent almost the entire reception fielding complements from complete strangers.

Fortunately, my wife was close at hand to help with the mild, post-sermon depression that followed the next day. I wanted more of the attention, the accolades, but it was over. That stuff always ends, but this was the first time I was ready to face it, to process it.

It was fun to walk around a slopeside cabin during the reception, like some kind of celebrity. I’ll never forget moments like that. But I’ve begun to realize that they don’t add anything to my life. They haven’t made me happy, or more mature, or able to appreciate the things I do have, the things that don’t disappear like a whisp.

I’ve also learned that the cosmos has placed much limitation on sexy power. The boundaries are as big and plentiful as the bruises I have from beating my head against them. The exact opposite is true for the more common powers – I can give, serve, help, love, forgive, etc. as much as I want, whenever I want.

You have to wonder why power’s boundaries are set up this way.

Regardless, we can spend our lives trying to find a way through immovable walls, or spend them walking through open doors. If fame and popularity somehow find their way to us while we’re doing so, great, grab them. But understand that whatever fame you find won’t change anything. Friends who’ve found much more than I have would say the same thing.

Sexy power has made nobody happy, nor has the money or whatever else that comes with it.

Go figure that scripture is full of commandments to wield the common powers while, so many times, condemning the pursuit of the sexy ones, always warning against their use, and never celebrating them.

Tribes aren’t inherently bad. Humanity has always broken off into smaller groups, based on any number of things like geography, common interests, faith, political ideology, etc. There are times when smaller tribes manage to merge into a bigger tribe, and vice versa. Regardless, if you’re human, and you have a desire to connect with other humans, especially Christian humans, you’re part of a tribe.

Sometimes, tribes get toxic, and when we’re stuck in one we’ll have a hard time finding the exit. Living among people who look, think, believe, and vote exactly as we do is comforting, as is the belief that the people outside of our tribe are some kind of evil. Add to that the pain of admitting to ourselves that we’ve been in the wrong for so long and you get a task that’s nigh unto impossible.

Toxic Tribalism

It’s important that we first admit that we’re part of a tribe, then audit it, asking difficult questions and forcing ourselves to be open to the possibility that it might be time to leave.

Segregated?

I’ve never seen our country as divided as it is now, our tribes pointing fingers and vilifying each other like never before. Add to that America’s growing penchant for political hate speech – and our sucker-level acceptance of it – and you get a bunch of toxic tribes that aren’t going to heal themselves.

In the middle of all of this is segregation, i.e., the refusal on our part to get any level of face-time with people who don’t look, think, and act like we do. In this, our beliefs go unchallenged, free to run unfettered, which is fine when our beliefs are the right ones.

But people who segregate themselves in this regard rarely have the right beliefs.

Segregation at any level – racial, political, ideological – is the easiest way to spot a toxic tribe.

They’re Coming to Get You

Second to segregation, and closely related to it, is the idea that there are people outside of our tribe who pose some kind of threat to life, liberty, and happiness. The anti-gun control tribe has fallen victim to this, for example, claiming that any level of assault-rifle control is the first step towards the removal of all guns. Once our guns have been confiscated, the government can do whatever it wants.

We won’t be able to defend ourselves.

Never mind that the government has much more firepower than any civilian and can do whatever the anti-gun control tribe is afraid of without taking everyone’s guns.

This fear doesn’t come from a lack of reason, or cognitive ability. It comes from segregation. We put great distance between us and the voices that might challenge us into a bit more objectivity.

The only true threat is the stupidity that follows.

Another good example is Critical Race Theory, now being taught in many schools at the elementary level and beyond. One tribe believes that CRT is not based on any real data and poses a threat to white America’s freedom. A different tribe believes that our system is rigged in favor of whites at the expense of everyone else, and that we need to do something about it.

Because the anti-CRT tribe refuses to get any face time with the pro-CRT tribe, it segregates itself from crucial data, opinion, and perspectives, and a better truth.

Because CRT pushers are the enemy tribe, anything they offer as data or evidence to support their view is condemned as the devil’s agenda, easily burned to the ground. The raw data of unemployment, wages, income, law enforcement, housing, and segregation – all required to get at the core of this issue – go rabidly unconsidered.

Show me a tribe that’s segregated itself from other tribes, one that can’t articulate their concerns and has declared them a threat, and I’ll show you a tribe that’s gone toxic.

Politicians, influencers, and and media outlets who wield the power of our tribes for their own personal gain (they are legion) are the final nail in the coffin. They audit the hopes and fears of the biggest tribes, then leverage the proper words and symbols to convince us that they’re part of our tribe, that we were right all along; the people outside of our tribe are dangerous.

Stuck?

Sadly, the only way out is a step we won’t take.

Logistically, it’s easy, especially for Christians. All you have to do is grab a coffee or (preferably) something stronger and ask questions. “I want to understand why you are pro gun control,” for example, is a great place to start. Don’t argue or debate. Just listen. Learn. Understand.

You don’t have to walk away a tree-hugging hippy liberal, but you do have to walk away with an education. If you’re part of a toxic tribe, that’s something you desperately need.

When I moved from the deep South to downtown Denver, I changed tribes. You might accuse me of being a sucker for whatever political wind dominates the culture, and you might be right.

What pushed me over the edge was a conversation with a highly educated OB resident who ripped me to shreds for my view on abortion. Everything she said was verifiable, fundamental to any discussion about abortion, and completely missing from my white, conservative, suburban tribe’s abortion discourse.

Completely.

It wasn’t the data that convinced me of the need to switch tribes, it was the fact that my tribe had missed so much.

Listening changed everything.

Don’t hear me saying that my old tribe is evil, or worthy of abandonment. I have many friends from that crowd and I engage them on social media and beyond. I tune in to their media outlets. I am neither frightened of them or segregated from their opinion.

Emotionally, for most of America, taking this step is almost impossible. I stumbled into it, forced, you might say. I would’ve never chosen to sit across the coffee table from someone so drunk on liberal Kool Aide.

But it was a powerful conversation, one that taught this Jesus follower a much needed lesson on the dangers of toxic tribalism and the importance of humility in the political arena.

I also learned that someone from a different tribe isn’t always crazy, or dangerous.