Israelite-Nathanael gets an invitation to meet Nazarene-Jesus and responds rather snarkily:
Can anything good come out of Nazareth?
This exchange, recorded early in the Gospel of John, intrigues me and, as a result, I’ve always loved the person and name Nathanael.
He questioned, appeared playful and unintimidated.
On meeting, Jesus greets Nathanael by name, interprets his name, tells Nathanael He had seen him before Nathanael was aware of being seen by Jesus.
In modern parlance Jesus saw through the Israelite, welcomed everything about him, called him into a life-changing journey and Nathanael readily responded
Nothing takes the Son of Man by surprise: Jesus saw Nathanael coming and New Testament Nate more than met his match.
Jesus saw my Indianapolis-born son coming, too.
I didn’t. I had to decide blind.
Privacy laws permitted limited information – African American Male, Date of Birth, Full Term – was all I could know.
Pondering names for my son, whom I was yet to meet, the no guile or nothing false in Jesus’ description of Israelite-Nathanael wrapped it up for me.
Enroute from the courthouse to the hospital, custody papers in hand, with a stop at the K-Mart on Lafayette Road to pick up a few baby-essentials, I named a baby and formed a living link with a favorite character from the New Testament.
“Thula, Thula” I’d sing, following the maid around the house as she sang the prayerful lullabye. I could be on her back, tied with a blanket, listening to the Thula Thula song. The song was about a child urged not cry because the father will soon return from work on the gold mine. The song soothed and reached deeply into me, especially while tied to a maid’s back. There was not safer realm. Theres was no place warmer or more comfortable.
At 10 or 11 years old I learned from teenage boys and men named Thulani who came regularly into our dad’s tea-room the name means peace and stillness, to be quiet and comforted.
Temba means hope.
It is the name my adult Zulu friends called me once I reached adulthood and tried to unlearn so many things of childhood.
Although no one said it or taught it, I learned not to reveal excessive interest in the lives of the young men who came daily to the shop but rather to proffer indifference. I knew I was not to walk to the street corner too often in the evenings where they played lively music on guitars, hand made from wood attached to emptied cooking oil containers. No-one had to tell me of the barriers that came with my whiteness. I knew I was not to enjoy watching the young men dance and smoke the loose cigarettes – purchased from me at the tea-room, 2 cents each for unfiltered Lexingtons and 3 cents for filters – and laugh and rough-house bare foot on white suburban corners. The kitchen-boys’ or garden boys’ uniforms, white coarse red or blue trim v-neck shirts marked them legitimate workers in white suburbs even until late at night or at least until dad’s shop closed at 9.
They’d drift off to a concrete block room at the farthest corner of the yard of the property where they worked. The young men washed their master’s car and weeded the master’s yard, helped The Girl in the kitchen. I learned, although no one taught it or said it, to hide my interest. I wanted to join in and enjoy the lively music and playful antics and raucous laughter and the loud conversations which I could not understand.
But, I learned, although no one said it, to turn my desire to belong into a supervisory stance or glare which carried censure of the noise made by African young men in our white neighborhood where they were fortunate we allowed such antics.
Thulani and Temba were embedded into me by women who were our maids and who most certainly but unknowingly provided complete comfort, peace, solace for the living load tightly strapped to her body, riding her back and, everything I ever wanted for my infant son was provided unintentionally for me some 40-something years earlier when they sang his name.
“Choose something easier. Something American,” said a friend, “no one will remember it.”
After landing from Washington DC we — a packed A300 — left Brussels for Bujumbura almost on time.
Under an hour from the capital of Burundi, the captain suspended food service, the last go-round of coffee or tea and soggy bread rolls of the nine hour flight.
The plane had rocked a little here and there, but apparently seeing something only visible on the flight deck, the captain told the flight attendants to take their seats. A few weightless moments followed which got the passengers a little unsettled – think roller-coaster at Kings Island – but when the plane jolted and an overhead bin or two opened and some guy heading from the restroom lost balance and fell into a row of seated passengers as we swayed side-to-side and dipped here and there the spread of anxiety was palpable.
It was soon over and really wasn’t too intense of a storm. I’d already given the turbulence 4 out 10, maybe 5, on my turbulence scale and so I was quite surprised when the pilot announced we’d be ditching – my word not his – our scheduled landing in Bujumbura (my destination) and head for Entebbe, Uganda, to get a minor repair to the damage the aircraft’s systems was reporting.
“Flight attendants prepare for landing,” he said next, and we almost did.
I am unsure if the wheels touched ground or not but when the captain or someone in the tower changed our plans and the Airbus accelerated and expedited a sharp upwards turn the force pushing us into our seats was jolly impressive. The dignified long-haul people-carrier showed off a little, more than flexed a muscle.
“The change in plans to land had nothing to do with the storm damage,” the captain said, “it was cross winds. We are going to another runway. Different angle. We will be on the ground in a few minutes.”
It’s quite common in many parts of the word for passengers to applaud when a plane touches ground.
This time it was thunderous.
The nick on the windshield, I later heard about what was damaged, grounded the Brussels-bound outgoing flight and so we were all ferried with our baggage to The Imperial Beach Resort.
This is my second night in this gorgeous Ugandan resort.
Dad owned the tearoom near the top of Blackburn Road next to the Dutch Reformed Church up the road from Park Hill Soccer Club.
You may or not have known him by name but you may have been a woman in need of milk for her baby. He would have given it to you “under the counter” as if defying the boss which, of course, was himself. When you tried to pay he may have whispered “take the milk, my dear. No baby should go without food. Keep your money for something else the baby needs.”
Or, you may have wandered into the shop and said you had no place to stay for a while and he may have said “we have plenty of room here” and given you a bed for a week, a month, even longer.
Perhaps you knew him because you faced addiction to alcohol and he was your Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor and he said “just for today” to you and told you he’d decided he’d no longer drink “just for today” until his pledge spanned decades of sobriety.
Did you know my dad?
You may not have known him by name but perhaps you went to his tearoom where he served bread, milk, kindness and good humor and wrapped the goods with the feeling that you were known, you belonged, you were important.
I shall strive to speak and teach as one who has indeed much to learn.
In every classroom we are all learners.
I shall strive to listen to people in the class (and out of it) as if I were listening to the mountains.
Mountains reveal their real beauty to the dedicated observer, beauty that’s easily missed by those who offer casual hurried glances or who are themselves caught up in how they look or are dressed or what the student may think of them.
Can there be a greater privilege than jetting to Penang to teach Family Systems?
Most people welcome it from a friend or a family member.
“Let us…..spend some time together.”
“Let’s call each other, often.”
“Let us take a walk.”
“Let’s build a community of trust and mutual support.”
“Let’s build a business together.”
“I can do so many things alone but I’d much rather do things with somebody, really, I’d rather do it with you.”
“Why don’t we…..” is also an encouraging and beautiful thing to hear.
“Why don’t we go to lunch, get tea in the park, pack a sandwich or two and head to the beach.”
“Why don’t we just sit together for a few hours?”
“I miss you. I think about you. I wish you lived nearer.”
“I want to see you” – are powerful words that can feed a soul and confirm the idea that it is the thought that counts.
“I want to be with you in what you are facing. I want with-ness with you. I am lonely without you. It’s not that I don’t have people around me or time with people I love, it is time with you that I want.”
May we not hold back on expressing our love to those whom we love.
Real leaders, authentic leaders, as opposed to those who are in it for the illusion of power, love of money or the mirage of status will face multiple paradoxes and do so constantly.
Yes – daily.
It comes with the role – the “role” and not position. Leading is what leaders do.
It’s a function.
I have known “leaders” whose names are boldly declared on a suite’s entry – or the headmaster’s office, or the pastor’s study – but the leader is an under-appreciated someone somewhere whose name is upon nothing, and definitely not on a fat cheque.
Leaders lead, but must also follow.
It’s an art.
Leaders go first, but must also hold back, and know when to go last.
It’s a dance.
Leaders know that leaders are servers, first.
Leaders try to understand those whom they lead, yet cannot let their desire to understand, desire for empathy, derail decisions that are best for the whole, the calling, the gravitas, the goodness of the organization they lead.
Real leaders are aware that if they cannot lead themselves, monitor themselves, hold-onto themselves, they can lead anyone anywhere worth going.
Leaders are self-aware, self-assured, not selfish or self-less.
It’s an inner-tango, often the limbo, seldom a waltz.
And, here’s the kicker – it’s a solitary dance no matter what the music.
“Now what would Jesus do?” asked the woman glancing at her WWJD bracelet.
“Grape nuts,” replied the companion, as if he’d served Jesus breakfast that morning. I slipped away pondering how the will and the ways of the greatest political, religious and social reformer of all time got reduced to a formula for grocery shopping.
What Would Jesus Do is a great question to ask, but wearing it on a wrist somehow suggests that the answer is easily accessible. It suggests that if you and I will simply stop and think a little, having eyed the bracelet, we’ll get the answer. Then, as we act on our newfound knowledge, predicaments will be resolved, we will have better lives, and conditions in the world will improve all around for everybody.
Quite the contrary: Answering the question and doing what Jesus would do in any situation is neither easily established nor executed. Finding the answer itself would take a lot of work, like tunneling back though a couple of thousand years, researching culture, geography and weather conditions and the varying political and religious climates. Then we’d have to identify, and then decipher, metaphor, understand and interpret tone and intent, humor, and immerse ourselves in at least a few ancient languages. Besides all this, we’d need a working knowledge of the subcultures and the prejudices that existed within those subcultures. Then, with all this done, we might be able to decide what Jesus might think, might say, might do, given a few, but not all, situations we face.
The next challenge, once we’ve established the answer, would be to have the courage to do what Jesus would do. WWJD is not about “doing the right thing.” Jesus did not always do the “right” thing. If that were so, no cross would have awaited him. Doing the “right thing” would have endeared him to those who mattered and would not have required him to buck Rome and the Temple authority.
Essentially Jesus laid a platform for his followers to live differently, in ways that set both the religious establishment and Rome against Jesus and those who followed him – embracing Samaritans, making a Samaritan the hero of a parable, illustrates this. That alone was enough to put a target on his back. It doesn’t take too deep an analysis of the Gospels to see that he despised pretentiousness and empty religious “performance” and was particularly vocal wherever he found religious zeal devoid of inner transformation. Jesus despised abusive systems and was a particular critic of those who ripped others off. So now, where will you bank, shop, invest, give, worship? How will you vote? How will our practices change were we to take WWJD seriously?
I do not think Jesus cares what cereal you buy, what dress or suit you wear or how your hair is or is not cut or if you wear a hat to church or not. But. I do believe he cares about what kind of people you and I are and whether we love mercy, humility, truth and justice. I believe he cares that we challenge systems where these qualities are absent. I do think Jesus cares about what motivates you and me. I do think he cares about how we treat the poor, the homeless, the disenfranchised. When we (you and I) elevate the rich and show contempt for the poor we get his goat.
It is apparently forgotten that Jesus was hardly a nice guy. Today he’d be a threat to our political order and might not be able to find a church he’d attend, let alone one that would permit him to preach! Consequently, doing what Jesus would do could significantly reduce our popularity rating.
The real question, by the way, is not “What Would Jesus Do” but rather what will you, what will I do, in response to what he has done?
It’s not grape nuts or cheerios, but love, mercy, humility and justice that may bring us, yes, you and me, all a little closer to reflecting who and what Jesus was and is. But be careful, you might shed the WWJD bracelet and exchange it for a cross – and it won’t be hanging around your neck.
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* When published in The Indianapolis Star, this column certainly got me some fans – and enemies. The morning it appeared my email was as hot! I was called brilliant, I was called stupid. One reader said that finally he’d read something by an intelligent Christian about a really stupid gimmick. Another said he’d be praying for my salvation even though he was convinced I was a lost cause.
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Unrelated image…. Meditating a moment in an Havana Art School
There are no blue-birds of happiness seeking nests.
It will not take us by surprise, arrive unannounced, and it won’t be ours because we read FaceBook memes or read anything inspirational or challenging anywhere, even the Bible.
And, no Podcast will do it – not even that.
Happiness has no victims. Happiness is an inside job, it is an internal state and it requires our willingness, our cooperation, and hard work.
Our happiness will be a direct result of what you and I do with our days.
Do we serve others?
Are we generous?
Do we accept and embrace and enjoy people who are different from us?
Do we look for beauty that is all around us and within everybody?
[If you think there is no beauty around you and there is no beauty in all people, well, you’ve already unearthed a major happiness blockage.]
Answering these questions with our lives will hold a few of many codes to unlock happiness and let it into our lives. And, this is a big one, our levels of happiness are never, not ever, up to others, no matter how much we may love or not love others. Happiness is not something another can provide for you at least for enduring lengths of time. Neither you nor I will be happier, or less happy, based on who or what we love or who or what we reject.
While I concede having money does make life just a little easier, our happiness levels are totally unrelated to money.
Some of the wealthiest people on the planet are clearly some of the most unhappy people.
Jesus of Nazareth said what comes out of people’s mouths reveals the state of people’s hearts or inner-beings.
Is there a millionaire or billionaire you’ve heard on TV with whom you’d want to share your daily life?
Happiness requires action and appears to play hard-to-get with those who persistently whine, “I just want to be happy.” It appears to play hard-to-get with complainers and those who seem entitled. Happiness and Laziness are not buddies. Laziness repels of Happiness. Happiness and Blamingness – I just made a new word – are not friends and, as far as I can tell, cannot co-exist in the same brain.
Finding a useful cause, a cause larger than oneself, and engaging in it with others who have the same or similar causes, and offering it zeal will quite often spark some thrill-for-life aka happiness.
While you and I are influenced even a tidbit by what others think of us (or what we think others think of us) we dead-bolt access to happinesses.
How and what we think and say of others is far more important than concerning ourselves with what “they” think and say of us.
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