The Wisdom of Our Elders

We have heard with our ears, O God, our forebears have told us, the deeds you did in their days, in the days of old. Psalm 44

I grew up in Ballard, a Scandinavian community in Seattle, just north of the Ship Canal and sitting between Phinney Ridge and Puget Sound’s Shilshole Bay. Our extended family lived within minutes of each other, some within walking distance and the rest within ten minutes driving time. Although one would never consider people of Scandinavian stock gregarious (especially when compared to folks from around the Mediterranean), nevertheless, when our families got together for birthdays and holidays, we had fun.

One of the things I truly enjoyed about our family get-togethers was listening to the stories the larger family shared. Conversations ranged far and wide from what was happening now, what was happening around the world or the country, and what life was like growing up during the Great Depression or the two world wars. Our families weren’t particularly religious or church-going, so we never talked or argued about religion, but our political positions varied enough to have sparked lively debate on those matters. Remarkably, no one ever got mad during those discussions. No one ever left the house or table in a huff. No one ever questioned another’s integrity or sense of loyalty to flag or country. In fact, if anything, loyalty to flag and country were almost defined by the capacity to have reasoned conversations, differences of opinion, and respect for what the others brought to the table.

I grew up admiring the people among whom I lived. We certainly weren’t perfect. Over the years I learned we had things we didn’t talk about. There were skeletons in our closets, there were elephants stumbling around our living rooms. There were ghosts and goblins knocking things about while we tried to keep up appearances or make things work. But a child doesn’t always see or hear those things, although children often absorb them in ways that give lie to the idea that we don’t learn things by osmosis. We most certainly do.

What mattered, though, is that we all had our stories; I feel sorry for those who don’t have the grizzled veterans in life to share their stories with them. I remember sitting for hours, watching my grandmother, with those big, gnarled, arthritic knuckles working on quilts. She’d have been about five-foot-three, but curvature of the spine dropped her down about a foot. She never allowed her infirmities to slow her down, but you could see her wince from pain every now and then as she cut and sewed and talked away our time together.

Although she didn’t teach me anything specific about God, I learned things about God from her. Part of my love of history and biography is a consequence of learning history from one who lived through those “ancient” times, and biographies from others who had actually met historical characters like Charles Lindburg or Carl Sandburg. I have been able to apply those two loves to my love of the Bible, the stories of the “heroes of faith,” and developing an appreciation for a God who primarily calls, blesses, supports, and heals. While a moment of misbehavior could result in an admonishment from my grandmother, she never, ever, withheld her love or affection, and that’s how I have learned to see and experience God in my own life.

Grandma wasn’t religious (at least not in the years I knew her), but she knew her Bible. She knew the Golden Rule (Do unto others how you would have others do unto you). She valued (and demanded) honesty, respect, and dependability, and she passed and impressed those values and characteristics onto her family. If humans were created in the image of God, those godly attributes shone most brightly through her!

She was a woman who was matter-of-fact and straight-to-the point. Facts mattered, and she had no trouble sorting out the chaff of opinion from the wheat of facts (a skill sadly missing from so many people today). “Facts are the engine;” she said, “opinions are the caboose. Never let the caboose push the train.” 

Those are words to live by, for they are the wisdom of our elders. I pray they live on here in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

Which Tribe is the Dia-Tribe?

Our heads are round so our thoughts can change direction. Francis Picabia

Thinking is hard. It’s actually harder to think than most of us realize. Part of the reason for that difficulty is that we’re accustomed to starting with our conclusions because that’s where we’re at. I mean, I already know what I think about most things, so anyone who comes up to challenge my opinion on something is already starting off on the wrong foot.

When I was in Junior High, I remember science classes where we were learning about “the scientific method.” I don’t remember much about it now, of course, but I do remember that we would start with an observation, ask a question, then develop a hypothesis to explore the matter, and then we’d do some experiments to prove or disprove the hypothesis. Well, believe it or not, I wasn’t very good at crafting hypotheses, so I would do my experiments first, then go back and craft a hypothesis that fit the facts as they developed. That meant I was never wrong; my conclusions always fit my hypotheses, but I really didn’t engage in “the scientific method,” did I?

Why not? Because thinking is hard. Admitting I didn’t know something from the get-go was embarrassing. I knew my ignorance, of course, because I knew I was taking shortcuts. I don’t know if my science teachers ever caught on to what I was doing, but they didn’t need to. I knew the truth – something from which I couldn’t hide.

I wonder if some of the violent rhetoric we find flying around these days on social media, letters to the editor, and such whatnot isn’t the result of people taking shortcuts on matters under consideration. 

We know what we know, but do we really know what we know? Those who have had military training know the importance of depersonalizing the enemy, because it is really hard to kill someone if you think about their parents, siblings, friends, lovers, and children. The enemy isn’t a person – not a part of “my” tribe – but an object to be scorned and killed before “it” kills you. Sociopaths and psychopaths are able to commit their atrocities because they don’t see their victims as people, as equals, or as peers.

I may not be a psychopath or sociopath exactly, but I know how easy it is to act like one. My heart fills with violence when someone says or does something I find unconscionable. If I think, however (which is hard to do), I realize they may well be thinking similar thoughts about me. This attitude is exactly what led Cain to slay his brother Abel, and the religious and secular authorities to torture and kill Jesus. How can I claim to be better than them when the same illness resides in my heart, in my soul?

I can’t. That’s the truth of the matter. I can’t, unless I’m willing to do that which is very hard: think. People can look at the same facts and reach different conclusions. We can agree that oysters are edible, but we don’t have to agree about whether or not they are delicious. Oysters are oysters and there is a lot we can learn about them by studying them, but taste is subjective and it is also a fact that not everyone will appreciate an oyster except for its pearls.

How about issues that are more important to our lives than oysters? Well, I would say we need to remember that God gave us two ears and one mouth. I believe Jesus calls us to listen to one another. I believe he calls us to think first, and speak second. He definitely calls us to honor one another and treat one another with kindness, including those who would abuse us and mistreat us. Like thinking, that’s hard to do and, like thinking, it is something we hope Jesus was just kidding about when he said it.

That’s fine if your goal is to fight, but Jesus calls us to learn. The word he uses is “disciple,” the root of which is discipline. That doesn’t mean punishment, by the way; it means thinking. And that’s what I want to do here in this, our valley – always, even if it’s hard.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)