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Thinking Out Loud
  • The “Preaching-to-the-Choir Syndrome”

    by Michael Jinkins | Feb 01, 2011

    Or, When Talking Only Makes Matters Worse

    Deliberation—defined as open-ended conversation intended to help groups explore and better understand the complex issues that concern them—has often been held up as the gold standard for all sorts of social groups. It is considered by many to be the essential ingredient of democracy. But in recent days some studies have shed light on the darker side of deliberation.

    In their recent study, reported in Critical Review: A Journal of Politics and Society, David Schkade, Cass R. Sunstein, and Reid Hastie describe those conditions occurring in a deliberative group which actually produce extremism, rather than those that moderate the views of participants. In experiments among politically and socially liberal and conservative groups (the groups were selected so that they were made up of all liberal and all conservative members) in two Colorado cities, the researchers found that after a fifteen-minute discussion of current issues, “group members showed significantly more agreement and less heterogeneity in their anonymous post-deliberation expressions of their private views,” and their “deliberation sharply increased the disparities between the views of the largely liberal citizens of Boulder and the largely conservative citizens of Colorado Springs.” This is the key point: “Before deliberation, there was considerable overlap between many individuals in the two cities. After deliberation, the overlap was much smaller."[1]

    We might call this the “Preaching-to-the-Choir Syndrome.” Deliberation under certain conditions actually tends to drive us apart rather than draw us together, making it less likely that we will find solutions to the problems that face us.

    In contrast to this kind of deliberation, I am reminded of James Surowiecki’s fascinating book a few years ago, The Wisdom of Crowds, which described the circumstances under which groups made the best decisions. Surowiecki summarized his thesis, based on evidence drawn from a variety of social, economic, and political experiments: “under the right circumstances, groups are remarkably intelligent, and are often smarter than the smartest people in them,” he wrote. The “right circumstances” included diversity of perspectives and the absence of over-bearing personalities that tend either to squelch divergent opinions or to force consensus. Surowiecki writes: “If you put together a big enough and diverse enough group of people and ask them to ‘make decisions affecting matters of general interest,’ that group’s decisions will, over time, be ‘intellectually [superior] to the isolated individual,’ no matter how smart or well-informed he is."[2]

    Obviously, these reports are not talking precisely about the same things, but taken together they do call into question our tendency to talk and listen only to people who already agree with us. If these reports are to be believed, conversations among folks who share the same general values and perspectives tend to make our views more extreme. And the lack of diversity in our conversational groups probably makes our understandings and decisions less intelligent.

    Even the most fair-minded and dedicated of us can get kind of crazy in certain conversations when the partisan choir to which we belong really gets on a roll. We are better served to talk about the deeply contentious issues of our time in groups of persons who hold different views, who come from different perspectives, who have different life experiences.

    You know, of course, that St. Paul got here long before us. The soaring Love Chapter, I Corinthians 13, was never intended to be read at a wedding. It was written for instruction in the midst of a church fight and makes for far better reading at a church board meeting. It needs to be heard in the context of Chapters 12 -14, in which Paul said, “God arranged the members in the body, each one of them, as he chose. If all were a single member, where would the body be? As it is, there are many members, yet one body. The eye cannot say to the hand, ‘I have no need of you,’ nor again the head to the feet, ‘I have no need of you.’ On the contrary, the members of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable, and those members of the body that we think less honorable we clothe with great honor… .” (I Cor. 12:18-23)

    If we want to be smarter, if we want to make better decisions, if we want to have a better society, a better church, a better world, we would be wise to ensure that our deliberations do not include only people just like us. This is one of those values that may just be more foundational than the other values that we hold—if, that is, we value our common life more highly than we value our views. What was it G.K. Chesterton said about the difference between the heretic and the orthodox? Ultimately, the heretic loves his opinions more than he loves the church, while the orthodox love the church, even when she disagrees with it, more than her own individual opinions. There’s just no such thing as community without difference.


    [1] Schkade, Sustein and Hastie, “When Deliberation Produces Extremism,” Critical Review, Vol. 22. (2010) Nos. 2-3, pp. 227-252.

    [2] Surowiecki, The Wisdom of Crowds (New York: Doubleday, 2004), xvii.

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  • God Is Simple, God-Talk Isn’t

    by Michael Jinkins | Jan 25, 2011

    One of the benchmark doctrines of orthodox Christianity is that God is simple, by which St. Thomas Aquinas means that God has no physical parts.[1] Another fundamental teaching of orthodoxy is that God is incomprehensible. St. Augustine of Hippo warns us: “If you think you comprehend, then it is not God you’re talking about!”

    I remember as a young child asking my mother what it meant when Jesus said, “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” Jesus was not only the Great Physician and a master storyteller, he was one hard teacher to figure out. But you know what? I’ve never forgotten that text or the conversation with my mother about it.

    Last fall The Economist reported on new research by Daniel Oppenheimer, a Princeton University psychologist, which suggests that if you want people to learn something “make the text conveying the information harder to read.” The Economist comments that one of the perennial paradoxes of education “is that presenting information in a way that looks easy to learn often has the opposite effect. Numerous studies have demonstrated that when people are forced to think hard about what they are shown they remember it better.”[2]

    This may be why I can’t shake Louise Gluck’s intellectually challenging poetry, or Flannery O’Connor’s enigmatic short stories, or novels like Toni Morrison’s Beloved. They demand so much attention. I recall a conversation between Oprah and Morrison in which Oprah confessed she sometimes has to go over and over a passage to understand it. Morrison said that the process to which Oprah was referring “is called reading.”

    There’s a lesson worth learning for those of us who care about Christian education.

    We have done our people a breathtaking disservice by trying to make theology (God-Talk) easier to understand. Dumbing-down our God-Talk has only made us dumber about God.[3]

    God is simple, metaphysically speaking. But this statement (“God is simple”) is not simple. It is a subtle, complex theological statement with a technical meaning. And why should God be intellectually simple? Though God is (in the sense in which Thomas Aquinas used the terms) “simple,” understanding God (the creator of a universe in which distances are measured in light years and galaxies number in millions) is anything but simple.

    I am tempted as a theologian to say that God is so utterly incomprehensible that we can only speak of God by saying what God is not (God is not mortal, not visible, etc.). In the history of theology, this approach to speaking of God is known as “the negative way.” But even that way of speaking of God is also outrageously simplistic nonsense, if we believe it renders God comprehensible.

    This is the great adventure of theological education. I’m talking about the kind of theological education we do in our congregations, in Sunday schools, and in our homes, and not only the kind we do in graduate theological schools. It invites us to comprehend that which cannot be comprehended, to interrogate that which provokes ever new questions, to engage with our whole hearts and minds the God who created us out of nothing, though of course we have no real conception of what it means to say “out of nothing.” There’s no way to appreciate the fact that God numbers every hair on our heads without appreciating the endless expanse of a universe that is a Tinker Toy to God.

    So, three cheers for the doctrines of divine aseity (the utterly mystifying doctrine that God loves us, but does not need us, which Thomas Merton credited with winning his heart to become a Christian) and perichoresis (the doctrine of Trinitarian theology that reflects the mystery of the mutuality and harmony and inter-relatedness of the three “persons” of the Trinity). And three cheers for every pastor and teacher who glories in Jesus’ parables of the kingdom that have no simple answer and no clear moral, and leave us scratching our heads or offended!

    And three more cheers for everyone who can’t shake the feeling that if we just chew on this idea about God a little longer then maybe, just maybe, we will understand something that makes sense of it all. This way wisdom lies.

    “For those who have ears to hear, let them hear!”

    ______________________________

    [1] See: Q. 3. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica

    [2] The Economist, “Learning Difficulties,” October 16, 2010, 98.

    [3] I am grateful to the late John Macquarrie for popularizing the term, God-talk in his remarkable book, God-Talk: An Examination of the Language and Logic of Theology (London: SCM Press, 1967).

    Go comment!
  • People Are Good

    by Michael Jinkins | Jan 18, 2011

    People are good.

    This may sound like a strange thing for a Calvinist like me to say (“yes, Virginia, there is original sin”), but I make this affirmation on the best authority. My daughter, Jessica, thinks it is true. She should know. She talks to hundreds of strangers a week.

    Let me back up for a moment to explain.

    Recently, Jessica called me to say she had enjoyed reading the blog about getting our focus right. She said she liked the idea, but wanted to expand it. She has been noticing the way popular media focus on anger: angry political activists on the left and the right; angry crowds gathering at government buildings; angry politicians and pundits shouting over one another on television and radio; angry religious people objecting to the religious views and values of other religious people; and angry atheists objecting to the fact that some people believe in God. Anger. Anger. Anger. If you were just going on what you see and hear via the media, you would think that everyone is ready to pull everyone else’s hair out, that we live in a nation on the brink of revolution or civil war or, at least, a good smack down.

    However, Jessica continued, in her line of work she speaks to hundreds upon hundreds of people, people she has never met face to face, people who have no investment in her personally, people she meets over the phone as a part of her work counseling individuals regarding their health insurance options. She observed that if she talks to three hundred people, on average, only three or four of them seem angry—and these are people who don’t have to talk to her at all. In fact, most of the people she encounters respond to her with warmth and humor.

    Now, it helps that Jessica is the happiest person you will ever meet, more likely to quote from Young Frankenstein or Monty Python’s Meaning of Life than Hamlet, but she may be on to something. It may be that we find in other people exactly what we are looking for. Not that people are Rorschach ink blot tests we can simply fill with our own meanings, but I do think people are ready for their best selves to be encountered by others.

    I remember a story about one of my long-time heroes, Carlyle Marney. Marney was a renegade Baptist preacher with a voice deeper than God’s and a theological perspective that was “progressive,” to say the least. Someone complained to Marney that every time he presided at the Lord’s Supper the deacons sat on the front pew looking to all the world like model Christians. The complainer said that he knew for a fact that these deacons are hypocrites, every one. Marney smiled and said that these deacons and all the rest of us are just pretending to be what we want to become. A Barthian theologian might go one step further than Marney to say that we are pretending to be what we already are in Jesus Christ. [Marney was pretty hesitant to say that much. For example, when the volumes on the Doctrine of God were published in Karl Barth’s Dogmatics, Marney remarked that nobody knows 1,500 pages about God—not even in German!]

    A few days ago, as Seminary student Keatan King (a fellow native Texan) was leaving our house after a party, she stood on the front porch, facing into a bracing winter wind and blowing snow, and said, “And God called this good?!” Maybe it is even harder to call other people good than it is to say nice things about the north wind. But I think Jessica is right. We all have bad days, and God knows we all need forgiveness, but most people are basically good. They were created in God’s image, after all. Maybe they are just waiting for someone to notice and respond accordingly.

    Go comment!
  • Thoughtfulness, Politics, and Statecraft

    by Michael Jinkins | Jan 11, 2011
    We often hear that statesmanship (to use the old word) or statecraft, as I would prefer to call it, is in short supply these days. I sometimes find myself wishing for a return to the days when Tip O’Neill and Ronald Reagan could duke it out all day long, then retire to a private office in the evening to share jokes and stories and a convivial beverage. But that’s probably pretty romantic thinking. The good old days were rough around the edges too, as any of us soon discovers by reading about the presidential campaigns of Thomas Jefferson and John Adams or of John Quincy Adams and Andrew Jackson, just to pluck two examples. Most of us appreciate, however, the example provided by Doris Kearns Goodwin’s Team of Rivals, which demonstrates how political competition could survive and flourish at the heart of an administration, and ultimately become a force for the good.

    Recently, I was reminded of how well statecraft and politics can co-exist in the life of a leader in our own time, by reading Daniel Patrick Moynihan: A Portrait in Letters of an American Visionary, edited by Steven Weisman.1 I have long admired Moynihan. His book on the dangers of secrecy2 remains a classic. It sits on my bookshelf right beside Sissela Bok’s study, Lying: Moral Choice in Public and Private Life.3 I could hardly recommend two better books on moral power and public leadership than these. Moynihan had a knack for words and a well-deserved reputation for incisive thoughtfulness.

    Weisman’s collection of Moynihan’s letters and papers, in fact, reminds us what politics can look like, and how it can serve statecraft, when suffused with thought. Take, for example, this prime Moynihanian quip: “Everyone is entitled to his own opinion but not to his own facts.” Or this insight: “The central conservative truth is that it is culture, not politics that determines the success of society. The central liberal truth is that politics can change a culture and save it from itself.”

    I found myself amazed by Moynihan’s reflections on why the provincial will become more important—and not less so—in responding to globalization; and how the provincial and the local call forth protection against the homogenizing forces of the dominant culture. Not only were his observations prescient (written in 1965), they reflected a rare level of literary sophistication and beauty. First, he reflects on literary critic John Wain’s comments on Dylan Thomas’s “Welshness,” to explain why, as the world grows smaller, we need to recover the peculiar accents of our own villages. Then, responding to the erudite Harvard historian of Puritan New England, Perry Miller, Moynihan reminds us that “religious liberty in America revives not so much from the enlightenment of Puritan divines, as from their inability to muster a majority made up of any one denomination in order to suppress the others.”

    I also found myself moved reading a transcript of an interview from December 5, 1963, in which a young Pat Moynihan reflected on the assassination (just days before) of President John Kennedy. Moynihan served in the Kennedy administration (as well as the Johnson and Nixon administrations).

    “We all of us know down here that politics is a tough game. And I don’t think there’s any point in being Irish if you don’t know that the world is going to break your heart eventually. I guess we thought that we had a little more time,” he stated.

    Later, in that same interview, he reports what he said to his colleague, Mary McGrory. After the assassination of the president, she said, “We’ll never laugh again.” Moynihan said, “Heavens. We’ll laugh again. It’s just that we’ll never be young again.”

    Reading Weisman’s book, I found myself aware of just what a gift it can be to the complex needs and interests of a nation to have politicians whose thoughtfulness serves statecraft, who can lead us as a people into deep examinations of the sometimes incommensurable (and essential) values we hold: noting, for example, the irreducible tensions between equality and liberty, security and freedom, and so forth. In a time when “we the people” so often clamor for leaders to fulfill our every whim with no thought for the costs; to conform our public commitments to an idealized and sanitized version of our founding; or to reduce the interests of political, stately, and international affairs to a sport or a contest among celebrities, my theologian’s heart was strangely warmed as I read the reflections of this rather old-fashioned politician who refused to settle for easy answers, even under the pressures of winning the next election.

    Finally, I was struck by the liveliness of the thought, the originality of a mind willing to challenge the settled orthodoxy he had inherited. Here was a politician who emerged as a statesman because, ultimately, he refused to let his party affiliations trump his thinking. Sure, there was partisanship in Moynihan. There was ambition. There was opportunism too. But there was something else that redeems the lot. There was humanity and good humor—and thoughtfulness.

     

    1 Published by Public Affairs in 2010.

    2 Daniel Patrick Moynihan, Secrecy (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998).

    3 Published by Random House in 1978.


    Go comment!
  • Your Nominees for Today’s Niebuhr

    by Michael Jinkins | Jan 04, 2011

    A couple of months ago I asked that readers of this blog and those who heard my convocation address (The Life of the Mind in the Service of God: Why a Thinking Faith Still Matters) nominate candidates for Today’s Reinhold Niebuhr. As you will remember, I suggested Cornel West, Marilynne Robinson, and Stephen Prothero. Your responses were fantastic, and I’d like to share them with you. (The names of nominees are in bold while the names of those who made the nomination are in plain print.)

    One of the most provocative and interesting responses came from a member of the Louisville Seminary faculty, Frances Adeney, who asked, “Do we really need a Reinhold Niebuhr?” She affirms the postmodern shattering of any sort of monolithic perspective and observes: “Maybe we are doing well with Elizabeth Schüssler Fiorenza to help us interpret scripture, Eboo Patel to inspire us to work creatively with youth, and Titus Presler to show us how to do global mission.” Elizabeth Schüssler Fiorenza received another nomination, by the way, from Chris Lieberman, noting Fiorenza’s “depth of contribution to theological inquiry, biblical studies, and her ability to mentor and encourage women (especially) and people at the margins outside the established order to become dialogue partners in interpreting and practicing the gospel of Jesus Christ.”

    Louisville Seminary alum Hal LeMert (BD ’61) seconded my nomination of Marilynne Robinson, remarking how much Robinson’s collection of essays, In Search of Adam, strikes a Niebuhrian tone. And employee and alumna Steffanie Brown (MDiv ’01) seconded my nomination of Cornel West, remembering “an impromptu speech” West gave “at a coffee house in Louisville’s West End.” Another friend, Scott Black Johnston, has a great story about washing his clothes at the same Laundromat as West when he was a student. Brad Wigger (MDiv ’84), a member of the Louisville Seminary faculty, gave a third vote to Cornel West, incidentally, making West the most nominated of all.

    Wendell Berry was nominated by both Rollin Tarter (ThM ’67) and Brad Wigger. Brad also nominated Marian Wright Edelman; and Rollin also nominated John Caputo. Amariah McIntosh (MDiv ’01) suggested Professor Michael Eric Dyson, commentator Tavis Smiley, and the Reverend Jeremiah Wright, while Skip Hansen (MDiv ’76) nominated President Obama, who, himself, has mentioned his indebtedness to Niebuhr’s Christian Realism.

    One of our Seminary students, Deb Trevino nominated Leonardo Boff, mentioning that she was writing a paper for the course, “Theologies of the Global South,” focusing on Boff's books, Cry of the Earth, Cry of the Poor and Essential Caring: An Ethic of Human Nature. And a good friend and (like some other nominators) alum of Louisville Seminary, K. C. Ptomey (MDiv ’67), recommends Douglas John Hall “as a contemporary theologian who embodies the legacy of Reinhold Niebuhr.” Probably the best essay I read this fall was Hall’s “Cross and Context” in the September 7 issue of Christian Century. If you missed it, thumb through back issues of the Century or follow the link and read this one! Kathy Mapes, Director of our Academic Support Center, brought it to my attention.

    Without a doubt, the most touching nomination was from Dianna Bell who nominated her daughter Kathryn Dianna Bell as “a potential young Niebuhr.” Kathryn Dianna’s grandfather, J. Leslie, was a 1930 graduate of Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary; her father, Donald L. was a 1962 graduate of Louisville; and Dianna was a 1973 graduate of Princeton. Kathryn Dianna graduated from San Francisco and General Theological Union in 2006. Dianna wrote: “Donald and I are amazed and deeply thankful to see the gifts that God is honing in this young, intellectual, compassionate, committed, and playful individual.... She feels that the Presbyterian Church has settled for mediocrity at best. I think she has some significant possibility of being part of the church’s turnaround.” As a father and father-in-law of two Presbyterian ministers I can fully appreciate Dianna’s pride and hope.

    One of the things I love most about Niebuhr was his ability to produce a memorable phrase. So, today, by way of thanking you all for participating in this exercise, I want to leave you with a few classic passages from Niebuhr’s Leaves from the Notebook of a Tamed Cynic, the diary he kept as a young pastor in Detroit, Michigan. He wrote:

    An astute pedagogy and a desire to speak the truth in love may decrease opposition to a minister’s message … but if a gospel is preached without opposition it is simply not the gospel which resulted in the cross. 1

    On the other hand:

    If the Christian adventure is made a mutual search for truth in which the preacher is merely a leader among many searchers and is conscious of the same difficulties in his own experience which he notes in others, I do not see why he cannot be a prophet without being forced into itinerancy. 2

    Cynics sometimes insinuate that you can love people only if you don’t know them too well; that a too intimate contact with the foibles and idiosyncrasies of [people] will tempt one to be a misanthrope. I have not found it so. I save myself from cynicism by knowing individuals, and knowing them intimately. 3

    And, finally, one of my favorite Niebuhrisms:

    “It is so easy to repent of other people’s sins.”4


    1 R. Niebuhr, Leaves from the Notebook of a Tamed Cynic (San Francisco: Harper, 1980 edition). The original was published in 1929. P. 140.

    2 Niebuhr, Leaves, 54.

    3 Niebuhr, Leaves, 94.

    4 Niebuhr, Leaves, 165.

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  • Let Not Your Hearts Be Troubled

    by Michael Jinkins | Dec 27, 2010

    Welcome to the future. It’s not what we were led to expect. The Jetsons don’t live here anymore. It’s messier than we imagined it would be. Technology did not save us after all. Our high tech gadgets just fill up our inboxes while we sleep and leave us more perplexed when we awaken.

    Welcome to the future. No, it’s not what we expected. Not even in matters of faith.

    Presbyterians, Lutherans, and Episcopalians—the three gold-chip Protestant families—and all the other folk who brought us the famous Protestant Reformation are dismayed that people today don’t know or care how important we used to be. Years ago, we were the ones making the jokes about others (Remember Garrison Keillor’s joke about the Unitarian missionary-founders of Lake Wobegone and how they had attempted to convert the resident Native Americans through interpretive dance. Now we’re the punch line: What do you get when you cross a Presbyterian and a Jehovah’s Witness? Someone who goes door to door but has no idea what to say.)

    Welcome to the future. Now what?

    After decades of hand-wringing and self-absorption and blaming—none of which did much to change our situation—after spilling oceans of ink in the cause of self-study, and cornering the market on butcher paper to list our options, and running from one snake-oil-dispensing consultant to another who promised to rejuvenate our future by jettisoning our past (at the cost of $49.95 plus postage and handling), we danced across a dozen dance floors with every darling at the ball and ended up exactly where we started.

    What’s next?

    I suggest we learn again to dance. But this time with the one who brought us to the ball. I suggest we remember why we learned to dance in the first place. So, I’ve got a resolution for us that I know we can keep. Resolve: “Let not your hearts be troubled.”

    Just saying this, I know I risk sounding like someone who is drafting the ostrich brigade. But in bringing to mind the words of St. John’s Jesus (and lyrics by The Band of Heathens), I’m asking for us to do something more.

    So many of our attempts to respond to the challenges facing us have begun with us, with our ingenuity, our ability to structure and re-structure, our efforts of all kinds. I would never want to suggest that we are not full participants in every movement of God’s Spirit. But, I want to offer a suggestion that our confidence in ourselves is misplaced.

    I am not optimistic about the future of the church. I am hopeful. The difference is huge, and it is theologically significant.

    I think we sometimes forget the ecclesiological significance of the fact that we serve a God whose emblem is a cross. Perhaps the disciples who retreated to a safe house and discussed the reorganization of the messianic movement while the messiah was executed by the Romans (clearly the low point in the whole Christian movement) are not all that unlike us. While some disciples formed committees to explore the restructuring of the Jerusalem office and others simply mourned the burial of their ideals in Joseph’s tomb, God was at work. God is, after all, in the resurrection business. God is the only one who has ever achieved actual creation.

    It was inevitable, really. But sooner or later, once we came to believe that it all depends on us—our cleverness, our faithfulness, our efforts—at some point we were going to find ourselves anxious and exhausted, while the task before us remained tenaciously daunting, even impossible. Score seven for St. Augustine; Pelagius 0.

    Not only are the gospels true. They are real. And the point I’m taking from them as we begin a New Year is this: What is impossible for us is child’s play for God, whether it is the transformation of an individual’s life, the toppling of a seemingly all-powerful empire, the liberation of oppressed and enslaved people, or the spread of the gospel among those who seem utterly uninterested in God. God invites us to participate in all of God’s mighty acts. But, here’s the really exciting part, God invites us to participate in large part by remembering what God has done and by gossiping the good news of what God can do in the face of apparently impossible odds.

    You, of course, remember that whole passage from John’s Gospel: “Let your hearts not be troubled. You trust in God,” Jesus said, “Trust also in me.” I think this is one New Year’s resolution we can keep. And if we can’t, God will keep even this for us.

    Go comment!
  • A Christmas Message

    by Michael Jinkins | Dec 21, 2010

    “And it came to pass in those days that
    there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus….”

    When I woke up this morning, these words kept running through my mind.

    They are words rich in associations. I remember them read year after year in church as a child. They opened Christmas pageants and formed the text for many sermons. As I sit writing you this morning, they appear on the page of my grandfather’s Bible in the trusty old Authorized Version (aka, The King James Version) which lies open before me.

    Strange it is that these words refer to a tax law, whether real or legendary. The associations trump the literal reference and lean into the larger purpose of the text, to announce to us the unprecedented act of God and to tie that act of God to human history, our history.

    What does it mean to expect the impossible? That’s what Christmas is all about, isn’t it?

    The associations of this biblical text whisk me from an ancient tax law to a twentieth century poem. Both remind us why we expect the impossible. Simply put: Nothing less will do.

    As poet W. H. Auden says, in his Christmas Oratorio, “For the Time Being,” echoing the gladiator’s pledge to every Imperial Caesar and turning it to a redemptive purpose:

    We who must die demand a miracle,

    How could the Eternal do a temporal act,

    The Infinite become a finite fact?

    Nothing can save us that is possible;

    We who must die demand a miracle. 1

    Christmas is rich in possibilities. Every happy child knows this is true. And every unhappy child dreams of it. But we should never forget an even more important truth. Christmas is rich in impossibilities. As the child, whose birth this day commemorates, reminds us: that which is impossible to us is possible for God, and that includes our salvation. So I leave you this morning with a final word from the poet:

    To those who have seen The Child, however dimly,

    however incredulously

    The Time Being is, in a sense, the most trying time of all….

    Remembering the stable where for once in our lives

    Everything became a You and nothing was an It. 2

    Merry Christmas!


    1 W. H. Auden, “For the Time Being,” in Collected Longer Poems (New York: Random House, 1934), 138.

    2 Ibid., 196.

    Go comment!
  • The Foolishness of the Gospel vs. Rank Silliness

    by Michael Jinkins | Dec 14, 2010

    Morning “news” programs have never been just news. Chimps provided comic distraction from heavier news items in the early days of television. So for me to complain about a latter-day “Fall” from some mythical Golden Age rings hollow. But, these days, I feel almost as though the Morning “news” programs on all the major networks are trying to out-do one another in becoming caricatures of themselves. Silliness reigns supreme.

    Okay, I can accept this, though with some real regret. And I can make alternate arrangements—as I do now—to get my news otherwise. But what is really bothering me is that many churches seem to be taking their cues from the same cultural trends that have nearly trivialized to death the morning programs. I fear walking into some churches these days to be greeted by a dancing chimp, or worse.

    A few weeks ago, a student reported about an ordination service in which the head of the ordaining commission paused from cracking jokes (some of which were in really poor taste) to say, “Now we have to get to the boring stuff. I need to ask you these questions.”

    The “boring stuff,” incidentally, was not just any set of questions, by the way, but the vows by which the new minister was promising God and God’s people to trust in Jesus Christ as Lord of all and Head of the Church; to accept the Bible as God’s Word; to be instructed and led by the confessions as she leads the church; and to be a friend among her colleagues as she seeks “to serve the people with energy, intelligence, imagination, and love.”

    When we make vows in the presence of God, as Thomas More says in Robert Bolt’s play, “A Man for All Seasons,” we hold our souls in our hands. This is a sacred drama unfolding in real life, in other words. And the drama played out in the service of ordination is far more powerful, provocative, and interesting than any weak comedy being contrived.

    I’m a funny guy. Really, I am. Everyone says so. And I enjoy being light-hearted, even in church. But we are in danger of converting the Temple of the Most High God into a bad imitation of Caesar’s Palace—and I don’t mean the Caesar’s palace we conquered by dint of faith two thousand years ago.

    In a recent New York Times column, David Brooks wrote a fascinating essay, “Weekness and Endurance,” about a new trend he is seeing. People, he said, in this post-bubble age, have rendered a judgment on the shortsightedness of the past two decades. It’s time, they are telling us, “to be a little more serious, to think about the long term more, to return to fundamentals.” Over-against the tide of ephemera and superficiality that has characterized the media and much else, “there must be room,” he writes, “for a magazine that offers an aspirational ideal… that separates for busy people the things that are enduring from the things that aren’t.”[1]

    If there’s room for a magazine to do this, I guarantee there’s room for a church. We’re in the “enduring ideals” business. And it is time we remembered this. Conan, Letterman, and Stewart have the comedy market covered. There are better story-tellers on NPR. And as long as Eric Clapton keeps doing his Crossroads tour, the church will never be better than a third-rate venue for rock music.

    What does the church have that others don’t? Please excuse me while I get biblical, but we have the Word of God in an earthen vessel. We have a genuinely serious response to the genuinely serious realities facing the peoples and societies of our world. We don’t need a church that humors our foibles, but a God who forgives our sin. We don’t need a liturgy that tells us to try a little harder, but a God who raises us from every death. There’s not much room in the foolishness of the gospel for base silliness; the folly of the cross is for real.

    We are in danger of trivializing ourselves right out of business here, dear friends, in our quest to look cool; and where else will the world turn when the world finally begins to wonder if someone somewhere has something serious to say about the human predicament and the state of the cosmos.

    When I finished reading Brooks’ essay, my thought went immediately to St. Paul, a pretty fair evangelist who was convinced that the gospel is a matter of life and death. But my thoughts went somewhere else, too. I returned to one of my favorite poems by that dyspeptic, old, agnostic Anglican, Philip Larkin, who visited an empty church one day and wondered at the mystery entailed in that “serious house on serious earth” where “all our compulsions meet, are recognized, and robed as destinies.” He reflected that such a place can never be obsolete “since someone will forever be surprising/ a hunger in himself to be more serious,” and will, therefore, gravitate “to this ground,” which is “proper to grow wise in.”[2]

     


    [1] David Brooks, “Weekness and Endurance,” The New York Times, Friday, November 19, 2010.

    [2] Philip Larkin, “Church Going,” Collected Poems, Anthony Thwaite, ed. (London: Marvell, 1988).

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  • Reports from the Field #2: Education for the New President (Continued)

    by Michael Jinkins | Dec 07, 2010
    Recently, I asked one of our professors a question that I am asking a variety of people in our larger Seminary community: “What are the challenges facing the church (both the Presbyterian Church U.S.A. and the larger church), and how might our seminaries serve the church to meet these challenges?”

    The professor was ready for this question. In fact, he had a book sitting on the table with a passage underlined. He read it to me: “Wherever ecclesiology [the doctrine of the church] moves into the foreground, however justifiable the reasons may be, Christology [the doctrine of Christ] will lose its decisive importance, even if it does so by becoming integrated, in some form or other, in the doctrine of the church, instead of remaining the church’s indispensable touchstone.”[1]

    After reading the passage, he gave me the book. I am grateful to my faculty colleague and to the author of this passage, Ernst Käseman. They both remind us of how easy it is for our focus to slip from what Paul Tillich called our “ultimate concern” to lesser matters, even when the lesser matters matter as much as “the church.”

    In another conversation, this time in a suburb outside Detroit, a young pastor who graduated from Louisville Seminary just a few years ago put his finger precisely on the issue. When I asked him what are the challenges facing the church, he immediately said that our church isn’t focusing on the right things. We are locked, he said, in interminable arguments to which there is no end, while all around us there are people in need of the good news of Jesus Christ, people in need of grace and love and care.

    We might call this “the theory of displacement of vision.” Focus on our ecclesiastical agreements and disagreements, focus on our institutional stability, organization, and survival, displaces focus on Jesus Christ as the revelation of God. It distracts us from the call that Jesus Christ addresses to each of us, to follow him in the way of the cross. And, paradoxically, it is only inasmuch as we focus on God that our own lives (not least our own life as church) comes into proper focus.

    Maybe we can only see the church well if we see the church with our peripheral vision.

    All of which brings me to one more conversation, this one with a student. Over a hamburger at a local Louisville restaurant he told me his story, of how God called him and his wife from lucrative careers and relative wealth to come to Seminary to prepare for a life in ministry. He told the story of his son’s grave illness and how God touched their family and transformed them all in the midst of near tragedy. This student was absolutely radiant. And his radiance did not come from confidence in the ability of the church to realign its structures. He reminded me that the church, for all her gifts and wonders, the church even as (to use St. Paul’s metaphor) “the body of Christ,” is really something of a by-product of humanity’s redemptive encounter with God.

    God brings us together. God creates the church by calling us. And if we hope for the church’s health, it is upon God that we must focus our attention. If we do this, then perhaps, out of the corner of our eyes, we will catch a glimpse of a renewed church. When we get our focus right, the challenges facing the church fall into place.


    [1] Ernst Käseman, Perspectives on Paul (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1969), 120-121.

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  • Reading People with Whom We Disagree

    by Michael Jinkins | Nov 30, 2010

    I am told on good authority that people today increasingly read only people with whom they already agree. If this is true, I think it is both pointless and sad. And it may be one of the factors contributing to the increasingly uncivil tone of our disagreements.

    Some of my fondest youthful memories revolve around reading William F. Buckley Jr., a person with whom I often disagreed. I recall something Buckley wrote asserting that the Jeffersonian notion that “all men are created equal” is a metaphysical affirmation that has only tenuous political application. I think Buckley was probably wrong, but I’ve been chewing on his remark for more than thirty years. His insight was penetrating and worth the thought. His insights often were. I also confess that I love Buckley’s brilliance and wit. When asked, for example, what was the first thing he would do after the election (he once ran for mayor of New York) if he won, he answered, “Demand a recount!” Who but William F. Buckley would have said that?

    My life would be much poorer if I ignored the thought of a thoughtful writer simply because our views differed. Why, in fact, ought we to read at all if not to encounter difference?

    Another case in point is Philip Larkin. While his poetry is unparalleled, I often have disagreed with Larkin’s musing on life and music. Larkin could not stand Charlie Parker or the progressive jazz developments exemplified by Parker and Miles Davis. Larkin said of this movement’s use of the chromatic (instead of the diatonic) scale: “The diatonic scale is what you use if you want to write a national anthem, or a love song, or a lullaby. The chromatic scale is what you use to give the effect of drinking a quinine martini and having an enema simultaneously.” How could you not enjoy someone with such wit, even if he utterly misses the genius and beauty of the music produced by Parker and Davis?

    An even deeper value of reading people with whom we disagree is illustrated in Larkin’s comments on children. He once wrote that “the first sharp waning of my Christian sympathies” occurred when he heard the verse, “The kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these [little children]” (Mk. 10:14). Larkin said that if heaven is populated by children he would be miserable there. Children, according to Larkin, are noisy, nasty, cruel, and silly. Perhaps Larkin was bullied as a child, or not chosen for childhood games. Or, maybe, he was just inoculated against the sentimentality with which many people view childhood. Personally, I think Larkin is wrong about children. I tend to side with Kenneth Graham in believing that children are the only completely real human beings among us. But Larkin makes me stop and think about a biblical text I have taken for granted.

    Good writers stimulate our thinking. They set the conditions in which we are encouraged to see things anew, because they refuse to be ruled by intellectual clichés. Writers should, I think, be judged as bad, not if we disagree with them, but if they leave us where they found us, unmoved, unchallenged, and unchanged. I would hope we would hold writers with whom we agree to this standard too. I would hope that we would enjoy writers large enough to encourage disagreement and agreement, people who think expansively enough that we cannot predict where they will land on a given issue.

    Arthur Schlesinger Jr., for example, is a writer with whom I have generally shared a similar worldview. But one reason I appreciate him so much is because he thought so expansively, and about so many things than there are subjects, that in certain cases, I simply cannot agree with him. His brilliant essay, The Disuniting of America: Reflections on a Multicultural Society (1992), for instance, argues for an America in which “ethnic differences” must melt away, or else (he believed) we are threatened by “Balkanization,” the violent opposition of different groups against one another. I disagree strongly with Schlesinger on this point. Balkanization is not the inevitable consequence of ethnic, tribal, or religious differences, but the result of one group (which believes it alone has the claim to truth and the privilege to exist) attempting to enforce homogeneity at the end of a gun. However, because I respect the thoughtfulness with which Schlesinger engaged this and other subjects, he makes a winsome and worthwhile debating partner. I could say the same thing about so many other writers with whom I usually (though not always) agree, including Barbara Brown Taylor and Daniel Patrick Moynihan, Annie Dillard and Will D. Campbell.

    My point is this: The uncivil discourse that dominates the airwaves and coffee-counters of our country could be moderated, at least somewhat, if (1) we demanded more thoughtfulness of those with whom we agree and (2) if we were more willing to listen to those with whom we disagree. The interminable shout-fest that has become the norm in our society—whether the subject is politics, religion, or culture—will only be displaced if we demand better. And I think the first step toward demanding better is to listen to thoughtful people with whom we disagree (and, yes, I would differentiate this category of writers from mere demagogues and partisan hacks).

    Would you agree?

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  • Gratitude Is the Meaning of Life

    by Michael Jinkins | Nov 23, 2010

    A few years ago, I participated in a luncheon to honor a wonderful man, the late Ed Vickery, an attorney and banker, whose generosity to theological education was legendary. Several members of his family spoke, including his daughter, Ann. She related something that had happened that very morning as they were driving to the luncheon.

    Having forgotten to check how much gas they had in the tank before leaving Houston, they ran out on a lonely stretch of road halfway to their destination. A phone call later, a young man from a gas station at the next town arrived. He put enough gas in the tank to get them to his station, where he filled up the car and they were ready to resume the trip. After the bill was settled, Ed handed his daughter two fifty-dollar bills to give to the young man. She said, “Daddy, I’m sure he would be more than happy with one of those.” To which Ed responded, “I don’t want him to be happy. I want him to be ecstatic!”

    Generosity is the consequence of gratitude. Whether we are expressing our gratitude toward someone who has helped us out of a jam, or whether we are helping someone in desperate need; whether we are extending care to an individual we know, or developing social structures of economic support to make the world more just; whenever we act generously, in big ways and small, we are reflecting gratitude to the Giving God. We are also reflecting the character of this God who throws lavish parties for prodigals and pays ridiculously high wages for embarrassingly short hours.

    Perhaps this sounds strange, but I think the meaning of life is stewardship, which is just another way of saying that the meaning of life can only be expressed in words like gratitude and generosity.

    The poet W. B. Yeats ends his poem, “A Dialogue of Self and Soul,” with the words, “We are blest by everything,/ Everything we look upon is blest.” Yeats is close to Genesis at this point. You will, no doubt, remember God’s statement to Abraham, telling him that he was “blessed to be a blessing.” So are we all, “blessed to be a blessing.”

    We are not meant to understand Christian faith as some sort of inquisition into the faults and failings of our neighbors, nor the gospel of Jesus Christ as a conditional contract intended to exclude others, nor to see the way of God as an imperial victory march over the backs of those who differ from us. We’re meant to see the gospel as a lifelong expression of gratitude toward God. And that gratitude takes the form of generosity to others.

    Even the libertine antihero of Les Liaisons Dangereuses (which was reduced to a movie as “Dangerous Liaisons”), who acts charitably just to try to impress and seduce a beautiful and virtuous woman – and, in turn, is himself ultimately seduced by God into virtue and self-sacrifice – bears testimony to the power of generosity. “I was astonished,” he says, after engaging in acts of charity and kindness, “at the pleasure to be derived from doing good, and I am now tempted to think that what we call virtuous people have less claim to merit than we are led to believe.” The joy derived from generosity is only strange if we assume that virtue must inevitably accompany mournful piety. But if goodness and joy come from the same divine root, doesn’t it make sense that a joyful life and a self-giving life are synonymous?

    Of course, there’s another good reason to be grateful – everyday and not just on Thanksgiving Day. To be grateful is just about the least we can do in the face of the life God has given us. And to be ungrateful is not only a sin, it’s just plain tacky.

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  • The Ministerial Credibility Gap

    by Michael Jinkins | Nov 16, 2010
    Prepare yourself for more bad news.

    According to a survey conducted by Scientific American and reported in its October issue, “religious authorities” rank at the bottom of eight categories of persons the respondents would trust “to provide accurate information about important issues in society.” On a 1 (strongly distrust) to 5 (strongly trust) scale, clergy (at 1.55) ranked below “elected officials” (1.76), “companies” (1.78), “journalists” (2.57), and “citizen groups” (2.69).[i]

    I want to reiterate this point, just so we don’t miss it. In this study, ministers rank below politicians in believability and trustworthiness.

    At a time when a lot of us are wondering why many people find it more inspiring to have a second cup of coffee on a Sunday morning and a leisurely read through the Sunday paper, maybe we have one piece of the puzzle why folks are not beating a path to the doors of the church. Please note also that the question wasn’t who you trust to provide good “scientific” information, as one might expect of the Scientific American—and by the way, scientists came out at the top of the reliability scale at 3.98, above “friends or family” (at 3.09), which tied with “nongovernmental organizations.”

    Granted, the population polled by this study is scientifically-minded and may be more skeptical than the general population. They may be more inclined to trust empirical evidence, and their lack of confidence in clergy may just say that they don’t trust the reliability of the data on which ministers make decisions.

    Nevertheless, this study still disturbs me and leaves me wondering about other possible reasons why those polled distrust ministers. The results of the survey may be influenced by the actions of pastors on the angry fringe (at least I hope it is the fringe), like the one in Florida who advocates the burning of the holy book of another religious tradition. The results may also be influenced by the actions of an outrageous congregation in Topeka, Kansas, that seems to hate everyone else in the name of God. Or the results may be influenced by the endless culture wars and worship wars and ideological wars that continue to rock mainline denominations. Or the results may simply be influenced by the anti-institutionalism that is so much a part of our society. I don’t know. But the results are disturbing to me, because faith and trustworthiness go hand-in-hand. And I would like to think, as a minister, that an engineer or a biologist or a physicist would be able to trust what I have to say.

    I also want to believe that a well-educated clergy (i.e., ministers with the deep knowledge and critical judgment that come from careful study of complex issues in light of many factors including their religious tradition) could provide some bulwark against this erosion of trust. But there are very smart and well-educated people who have proven untrustworthy.

    A few days ago I invited a few members of our staff at Louisville Seminary to reflect with me on the results of this survey. They stated their surprise, especially since, as one staff member said, “Ministry is all about relationships, and that is the basis of trust.”

    Could it be that she has the answer? Have we, in ministry, in our quest for all sorts of relevance and effectiveness, forgotten ministry’s core competency: relational trustworthiness?

    A close friend, who serves as the senior pastor of a large congregation, confessed to me that in his first year or so after coming to his church, he was so busy, so pressed by the enormous challenges facing his church in the midst of the largest economic downturn in living memory, that he simply forgot to forge those relational bonds with his people that make everything else possible. He forgot, as he said, “just to love on ‘em.” He told me this as a warning as I began my tenure as president of Louisville Seminary.

    Reading the results of the Scientific American survey, his words came back to me, as do the results of a study the faculty of Austin Seminary conducted while I was their Dean. In that study, we found that one of the most important qualities lay persons wanted in their pastors was “humility.” They said it in lots of different ways. They wanted a pastor who listens more than he or she talks, a pastor whose leadership builds confidence among the people, a pastor who can take advice, who is not arrogant, who (often this was the word chosen) is “humble.”

    I would venture to guess that there’s something about the entire empirical approach that tends to undergird the trustworthiness of scientists. You might call it “humility in the face of empirical evidence.” The public probably assumes that scientists are just a little less likely to have an axe to grind or an agenda (hidden or otherwise) to pursue. Maybe there’s something we can learn from them. But the second most trustworthy group, “friends and family” are not empirical scientists, and I dare say there was a time that ministers were seen at least as trustworthy as this group. Our trust in “friends and family” is not built on professional standards, but bonds of affection, mutuality, reciprocity, and love.

    Clearly, those of us who are in ministry have some fences to mend. Or, to reach back to the jargon of the sixties when the phrase was first coined, we have a “credibility gap” that needs to be bridged. The only way to gain trust is to earn it.

     

    [i]In Science We TrustScientific American, October 2010, Volume 303, Number 4, p. 56.

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  • Reports from the Field #1: Elementary Education for the New President

    by Michael Jinkins | Nov 09, 2010

    The first goal I set after becoming president of Louisville Seminary was to visit with every current board member and every faculty member, all of our staff, and as many current students as are available, as well as many past members of the Board, alums, pastors, other church leaders, and friends of our school, within the first year of my presidency. I am eight weeks into the project, and we are well on our way.

    We might call this “elementary education for the new president.” I want to tell you a little about what I’m learning. But to do that, I need to frame this learning by telling you what I’m unlearning.

    A couple of years ago, a faculty colleague in another seminary wrote an essay in which he starkly contrasted seminary board members to seminary faculty members. His argument was that board members are driven by fairly uniform “business” or “consumer” models that put profits and efficiency first and faith last, while seminary faculty members are motivated more by faith and the ideals of justice. I told him, at the time, that I thought his essay was inaccurate and simplistic and that it didn’t reflect my own experience with board members as an academic dean. I found most board members to be persons of deep faith who speak from a different perspective than faculty, certainly, but who share similar hopes.

    What I have discovered already in my listening tour leads me to go even further. The persons I have encountered around the country include physicians and attorneys, business leaders, pastors, teachers, and directors of non-profit organizations that provide mentoring to inner-city children and a variety of social services for the neediest members of our society. I have met active church members so concerned about the hatred and intolerance in our culture that they have built interfaith networks on their own in their communities and have brought in some of the leading comparative religion scholars in the country to facilitate their groups. I have met board members and Seminary friends who are placing their lives, their reputations, and their treasure on the line daily to address injustice and violence, not only in their communities but around the globe.

    Sitting at breakfast with one couple, I was inspired by the imagination of a business man who is concerned about the depletion of drinkable water in arid regions. Across the table from another couple over lunch, I was challenged to make sure the Seminary’s investment policy does not unintentionally finance injustice. At dinner with a group of friends of our Seminary, I was moved by stories of a surgeon’s attempts to put the lives of children back together after debilitating accidents.

    In case after case, I have found Seminary board members and friends who simply do not fit the so-called “corporate” stereotypes, people who quietly live the reign of God, who serve the common good and transform some corner of our world, though, frankly, none of them would use these lofty terms. They are just doing what they can where they are.

    You know, stereotyping and caricaturing has never really served anyone well. I’ve known very few faculty members in my experience who dwell in fabled “ivory towers.” Most faculty I’ve known in seminaries are dedicated teachers who work hard every day to help students learn what they need to know to lead congregations and preach, to work for justice in their communities, and to counsel persons in need. And most faculty members I’ve known are as dedicated outside the classroom as they are in it—in hundreds of different ways—making a difference in the world, following the call of the Gospel, extending the neighborhood of Jesus Christ. Certainly, faculty members are well-schooled in critical reflection, and they can turn their critical facilities on all sorts of questions, but just as impressive are their extracurricular commitments.

    We have faculty members who for years have faithfully and quietly taught Sunday school in their local congregations. Other faculty colleagues devote enormous amounts of energy and time engaging in mission trips and relief work, organizing teams for AIDS walks, and pouring their lives into ministries dedicated to serving those persons Jesus called, simply, “the least of these.” And (surprise of surprises!), we even have faculty members who serve on the Boards of other nonprofit organizations.

    Perspectives are different depending on differences of vocation and social location, certainly, but our focus is shared. And we could go on observing the different perspectives of administrators, staff, students, and other friends of the Seminary, all of whom bring their commitments and interests to bear on our mission. Together we are dedicated to the education of the next generations of women and men for ministry in the name of God in this world God loves.

    I can hardly wait for the next class in the education of this president to begin. In fact, I’m on my way to the airport now. Another learning opportunity awaits me this evening. I wonder what we’ll learn next.

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  • The Irony of Leadership

    by Michael Jinkins | Nov 01, 2010

    Within a week of one another, two of my favorite columnists, David Brooks and Thomas Friedman, both of the New York Times, wrote on the subject of the kind of leadership our country needs today. I highly commend to you both essays: “The Responsibility Deficit” (Brooks, September 23, 2010) and “The Tea Kettle Movement” (Friedman, September 28, 2010). They are important for what they say about leadership, but perhaps even more about followership.

    The irony of leadership, you see, is that the quality of leadership ultimately depends to a large degree on the quality of followership.

    David Brooks predicts that in the short term our divided nation is likely to only get angrier while our politicians are likely to grow more partisan. “The rhetoric will fly. Childishness will mount. Public nausea will hit an all-time high.” But, Brooks adds, with that characteristic hopefulness that separates him from so many commentators: “Somewhere in the country, though, there is a politician who is going to try to lead us out of this logjam.” If that person is going to be successful as a leader, Brooks argues, he is going to “notice the public anger doesn’t quite match the political class anger. The political class is angry about ideological things: bloated government or the predatory rich. The public seems to be angry about values.” Now, this is the point we need to hear from Brooks’ essay: “The heart of any moral system is the connection between action and consequences. Today’s public anger rises from the belief that this connection has been severed in one realm after another.”

    Hold those thoughts.

    Friedman observes two Tea Party movements in America. One grabs all the headlines and may in the short term affect the midterm election. This “amorphous, self-generated protest against the growth in government and the deficit” should be called, according to Friedman, the “Tea Kettle Movement” (as in tempest in a teakettle) “because all it’s doing is letting off steam.” This movement, he continues, “can’t have a positive impact on the country because it has both misdiagnosed America’s main problem and hasn’t even offered a credible solution for the problem it has identified.” A leading republican governor was reported by The Economist to have asked of this movement: “Don’t these people know anger is not a strategy?” There is another Tea Party movement Friedman detects, however, and it stretches across party lines and includes a large swath of what we often call moderates or centrists. They are looking, Friedman says, for a leader who (1) places the country’s interests above his or her party’s; (2) has a real strategy for making “America successful, thriving, and respected again;” and (3) is able “to lead in the face of uncertainty and not simply whine about how tough things are—a leader who believes his job is not to read the polls but to change the polls.”

    Both Brooks and Friedman have something really important to say about leadership. And anyone in leadership should listen to them carefully. People need to be inspired. But inspiration is not an end in itself. People need to be moved in a direction that will inevitably require things of them that they would not find the courage to face if left to themselves.

    This is where the challenge of leadership meets the irony of leadership. As another Friedman, this time Edwin Friedman, the rabbi and family systems expert, once observed: “Insight alone does not change unmotivated people.” He might have added, in the spirit of Thomas Friedman, “and it doesn’t do any good for leaders to whine about this fact.”

    Good leaders call forth better behavior in followers. They listen and seek to understand the makings of a vision that can capture the peoples’ imaginations. They tap into deep streams of tradition and character and commitment that lie within a people. And they articulate memorably and movingly the vision that makes a people who they are, so that the people can imagine themselves anew, adapting, changing, to meet the challenges before them. A leader who doesn’t reflect the deep values of a people will not remain their leader for long. A leader who doesn’t articulate these deep values will not move a people at all. But a leader cannot just understand and speak. He or she must be able to translate values into actions. That requires political skill and will.

    Whereas, Brooks and Friedman are speaking to national political leadership, their insights apply also to religious communities and society at large. Anyone who leads a Christian congregation will feel the parallels.

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  • Today’s Reinhold Niebuhrs

    by Michael Jinkins | Oct 26, 2010

    A couple of weeks ago, the faculty of Louisville Seminary extended to me the privilege of speaking at our annual fall convocation, the event that welcomes students, staff, and faculty back to school and signals the beginning of our academic term.

    In that address (Read or Listen | 2010 Fall Convocation Address) I discussed the priority we have historically placed on “the life of the mind in the service of God,” to use Calvin’s phrase. One only has to turn on the television or surf the internet for a few minutes to be reminded how much our age needs the gifts of a thinking faith and a more civil discourse to counteract the corrosive effects of hateful speech. We need Christian faith secure enough to risk conversation with persons of other faiths (or no faith at all). We need public intellectuals of the stature of a Reinhold Niebuhr who are at ease reflecting on politics, culture, and economics from the perspective of faith.

    At the close of the convocation address, I asked the Seminary community to share with me their nominees for today’s Reinhold Niebuhr. I offered three nominees of my own: Cornel West, whose books, like Race Matters, bring a thoughtful and lively faith to bear on core issues of our society; Marilynne Robinson, whose novel, Gilead, and non-fiction essays, plumb the depths of the mysteries of humanity and God; and Stephen Prothero, who reminds us that respect for differences of faith is consistent with reverence for God. I cheated a little too and offered other possible nominees: Serene Jones, Kathryn Tanner and Charles Taylor, for example, just to prime the pump.

    I’ve already begun to receive nominees for today’s Reinhold Niebuhr from the Seminary community. And, today, I want to invite you to offer yours.

    Please post your own nominees here or email me at PresidentListening@lpts.edu. I look forward to hearing from you.

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