The Dangerous Wisdom of Those We Know Well

Yesterday's reading for many in the church told the story of Jesus' less than positive reception among the home folks. After the obligatory head patting -- the nice young man who had been away, now returned amid exclamations about how much he had grown, questions about whether he always wears his hair like that and what exciting job he has managed to land -- Jesus offers a few reflections on their scheduled reading of the day. It didn't go well. The thoughts were not well received. They tried to throw him over a cliff. In the midst of it all, Jesus muses, "No prophet is accepted in the prophet's hometown."

What have we said about experts? A briefcase and an address at least 50 miles away. The mileage requirements may vary, but the conclusion is often sound: distance imputes credibility. Or as someone else has put it, "familiarity breeds contempt." It doesn't always happen this way -- how many organizations prefer to promote from within? -- but the wisdom of our own comes at a discount. At least twice in my ministry I have heard adults from one generation vent frustration over advocacies rebuffed by an older generation with the observation, "But you taught me to think this way. I sat in the Sunday School classes you taught and took to heart what you said. How is that now you oppose this?" Ah! Unruly children.

It all makes me wonder about the unnoticed wisdom lurking under my very nose -- from those I know the best or see most often -- and what it takes to seriously consider an opinion or view I am prone to reject. What does it take for me to recognize and honor a prophet -- home folk, or not?

The Enlarging Grace of Agitation

That Abraham Lincoln surrounded himself with his rivals is the very premise of Doris Kearns Goodwin's stunningly beautiful book, Team of Rivals. That he did it less as a shrewd political tactician than as an humble statesman seeking the best for his country is the more awe-striking lesson I retain as I finally turn the last page. Having populated his inner circle with those jealous for the job they, themselves, had coveted, he went about the even more strenuous task of listening to them, drawing honest counsel from them, and deferring to their particular expertise. It was, after all, the particulars of their expertise on which he believed the nation would depend. A few of the rivals became deep and abiding friends. Some simply became colleagues. One, at least, remained, to the end, a rival and was ultimately replaced for allowing his personal ambitions to supersede his public responsibility. Even then, however, Lincoln respected the considerable gifts and wisdom of this political mosquito whose incessant buzzing had created such distraction. When the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court died and Lincoln considered how to fill the vacancy, it was ultimately to this same rival that the President turned. It wasn't sentimentality that drove the selection, nor certainly affection. Lincoln later told a confidant that he "would rather have swallowed his buckhorn chair than to have nominated" this particular candidate, but he believed it was right for the country. Following Lincoln's death, another of those rivals-cum-colleague, William Seward, reflected on Lincoln's surprising Cabinet choices, concluding, "a Cabinet which should agree on every such question would be no better or safer than one counsellor (sic)" (p. 747).

It occurs to me that our culture must soon be chairless. If Lincoln opted to utilize the right people, regardless of their political fidelity and pedigree, rather than eat the chair he would have preferred, our practice by contrast has devolved into eating the furniture rather than risking the advice and counsel of those with whom we may not agree, and maybe not even like -- even at the expense of what is right or what is good. It's easy to point at politicians, where the promotion of political hacks and cronies is, sadly and tragically, assumed. But while employment and promotion are rarely my privilege, my practice of gathering wisdom is seldom more noble. I, too, tend to surround myself with echoes, rather than alternate voices. Thusly validated and seconded, I proceed on my merry, if impoverished, way, convinced of my sagacity and narrowed by my naivete.

If an intellect, like a rock, is polished by agitation, how dull my thinking must be. And how humbling.

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