A Pilgrim’s Digression

As a parent, one sometimes observes intellectual growth in a child over a long period of time, and sometimes growth occurs in a sudden spurt. At some point during the past year of Kindergarten, Brendan learned to read.

I noticed it happening, but it did not seem so dramatic, until recently. For one thing, suddenly Lynn and I can no longer spell out words we don’t want him to hear. Used to be, we’d entertain–or confuse–each other by spelling whole sentences. We don’t curse much, but still, no more exclaiming, “Oh, s-h-i-t!” Last time Lynn did that, Brendan said, “Mom, you said shit. That’s a very bad word.”

Can’t fool him anymore.

Yesterday, I took Brendan out to breakfast. We do this once a week, just me and him. Sometimes we go to the Waffle House, sometimes to another local diner-style restaurant. Like his Dad, Brendan loves diners, loves sitting at a bar and eating breakfast amongst a group of other solitary paper-readers and coffee-drinkers.

Yesterday, Waffle House being too crowded (why don’t they build those places bigger? It’s a popular restaurant!), we went to the local, privately-owned diner. In the car on the way to the restaurant, Brendan picked up a book from the seat and began reading the title. It is a book Lynn and I have been reading for Sunday School.

“If…you…want…to walk…on water…you’ve got to…get out…of the…Dad, what’s that word?”

“Boat.”

The letter “A” in boat was the prow of a boat.

“Why is the A like that?” Brendan asked.

“I guess the publisher just wanted to be cute.”

“That’s a long title.”

“Yes it is,” I said. “Do you know what it refers to?”

“No.”

I told him the story of Peter and Jesus walking on water, ending by emphasizing what I saw as the point of the story: “…and although there were 12 friends of Jesus in the boat, only one got out, Peter.”

“Why didn’t the others get out?” Brendan asked.

“There was a huge storm, and the wind was blowing, lightning was flashing; the waves were high. Would you have got out of the boat?” I asked in return.

“No, I can’t swim very well,” Brendan said. “Would you have got out of the boat, Dad?”

“No,” I said. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t.”

Although I was internally disdainful when we began reading this book, If You Want to Walk On Water, I now think it has turned out to be the right book for me at exactly the right time.

I thought it would be the usual platitudinous clap trap sold in Christian bookstores. Instead it has turned out to be uncomfortable for me to read, and I suppose that in itself means that it is effective, as ministry. I don’t feel entertained by it; I don’t feel self-satisfied, reading it. As we discuss it in class, I cross my arms over my body defensively, and I don’t participate in discussion.

I am a boat person, in all respects.

Today, we discussed chapter two, which applies the lesson of the Parable of the Talents to the story of Jesus and Peter walking on water. Every point hit home. Using one’s talent wisely means getting beyond our comfort zone, risking everything–even our life–to express that talent. It means having the faith to get out of the boat.

[Those who remained in the boat] understood the cost of getting out of the boat. They were very much aware of the pain of potential failure, embarrassment, inadequacy, criticism, and perhaps even loss of life. But what they were not so aware of was another price–the cost of staying in the boat.

Ortberg draws a pretty grim picture of the life led by the kind of person given a talent who never uses it, who never gets out of the boat. One such image is of a middle-aged man, once fired by dreams of making his mark on the world, but who instead passes his evenings sitting in front of the TV, watching whatever sports he can find on to dull his mind.

Ortberg also says that one of the primary reasons people hide their talent, like the unfaithful servant in the parable, is that they compare themselves unsympathetically to other people. The servant seems to have compared his one talent to the five and two of the other two servants, and decided that his was so miniscule that he should bury it, instead of trying to make the most use of it.

Some people even refuse to recognize that their talent is worth anything.

Lynn said to me the other day, “I don’t think you realize how unique your gift for writing and communicating really is.”

I don’t. I don’t think it is unique. I meet people every day with the same gift for writing. It seems to me a small thing, something I have consistently over-valued. There are people who make a success at writing, like the current governor of Virginia, who happens to be a successful novelist, and then there are the thousands of others like me, who will never achieve anything of note.

What am I to do with this talent? Was it even given to me by God?

I heard a woman today remark that “Such-and-such a team won their game last night, Praise the Lord.”

Is God really so preoccupied with the minutest detail of life that He determines what team will win a sports event?

I have never thought so. Who am I that God would notice me or value me?

Is there a purpose to my life? Am I living the life God wants me to live? Or am I one of those people Ortberg speaks of, who hide themselves away and never realize their potential out of fear?

I can intellectually understand that I don’t write, not from lack of imagination, but from fear: fear that I won’t finish what I start, fear that it won’t be any good, fear of ridicule, fear of criticism, fear that it will be the last thing I write. Fear that my talent is finite, and once used up, it is gone. The latter fear is a big one. I have always been afraid that it is not much of a talent, and by using it, I will find out just how paltry it is.

The parable says that the Master gave to each servant talents according to his ability. One got five talents, and one got only one. He who received only one apparently viewed his talent as so paltry that he didn’t utilize it. Afraid of risk, or afraid of his Master’s wrath if he should use it, he buried it. He hid it away.

The price he paid was that he had nothing more to show for it when the Master returned, except a dusty talent. And the Master was no pleased.

Later, at the restaurant, Brendan and I continued chatting as we ate breakfast. At one point, out of the blue, Brendan said, “Can I have a napkin please?”

I gave him a napkin, completely shocked. He wiped his mouth.

Such a small act. First of all, politely asking for a napkin, but more important, wiping his mouth with it. Anyone with a five year old knows that their usual napkin is their sleeve.

“That was incredible, Brendan,” i said. “You just asked me for a napkin to wipe your mouth. I am so proud.”

He grinned broadly. He may even remember to do it again, next time.

Sometimes we learn about our children, and ourselves, gradually over time. Sometimes it happens all in one blow. However it happens, it is hard to go back to complacent ignorance, after the shock of knowledge.