Here We Go, Again!

Is it really only arrogance that allows Western people to dismiss the philosophies and traditions of their Eastern neighbors as foolishness? Certainly, our Scriptures do not inform us with regard to such alleged phenomena as reincarnation or kismet. Is that because they don’t exist or because it wouldn’t matter to our relationships with our Maker if they did? While it may well be true that we pass this way but once, we do so in a circuitous fashion that often resembles an auto racetrack.

The Upanishads, an ancient volume of Indian wisdom, say that lives take on many forms. They say that a person may be a grasshopper in one iteration, a goat in another, and a woman in yet another. Their message is not so much that all life is interconnected as it is that life is about success. [Eh? How’s that? I’m going to grow up to be a hellgrammite? Doesn’t sound much like a success story to me! No wonder that lot worships sacred cows! Old Bossy might be Aunt Matilda with a new dress on! I knew her boobs were drifting south but that’s udderly ridiculous.]

Spiritual success, according to the Hindi, is to be found in “getting it right”. That is, by discovering our true and proper relationship to the rest of creation and living it out. Isn’t that pretty much what we Christians consider to be the point of life? Are we really that different in our beliefs?

This past weekend, I began to experience what can only be described as a déjà vu encounter. Once again, I was a student teacher receiving instruction in pedagogy. I was learning, as though for the first time, how to let kids be themselves and discover for themselves the experiences that I had arranged for them beforehand. I was learning how to protect them—and myself—from the color of suspicion that seemingly forever ended my work with children two decades before. As the ancient Hindi put it, I was “living this life over and over again until [I got] it right”.

Will I finally get it right this time? Will I finally manage to set aside my indignation, having realized that all (myself included) have sinned and fall short of God’s glory? Or will my hurt at being considered a potential abuser of children—and hence as much in need of the Youth Protection Guidelines as anyone else—once again lie down in my path to trip me up? I’ve got all summer (well, seven weeks of it, anyway) to find out. Just between you and me, this traffic circle is getting a bit old. I’m ready for a change. Maybe this will be the year that I finally break free and break through. I hope so.

When I went to Mataguay Scout Ranch in Santa Ysabel, California to volunteer my services as an arboreal assistant, it was simply to support my son’s troop. He had candidated as a Counselor in Training (CiT) and was required to participate in ranchcraft activities. I went along because he needed a ride to the ranch and participated because, I figured, it beat sitting in the car for seven hours. Impressed with my strong work ethic, the Directors offered me a summer job. Having been out of work for over a year, I jumped at the chance to be employed again.

Having wanted to serve as an Outdoor Education teacher at a sixth-grade camp when I was younger, I asked about doing that. The Directors told me that those jobs were pretty much filled already. What they were looking for were some responsible, older people—like myself—who could help run the camp. Specifically, they needed a Business Manager, a Shooting Sports Director, a Project Ranger and an Outdoor Skills Director. Asked for my first, second and third choices, I then asked what each was responsible for. I decided to make Project Ranger my first choice, Business Manager my second, and anything else they had my third.

At my interview they made it clear that they didn’t really want me to be a Project Ranger since someone younger could really do that job. I sensed that these two men were Agents of God, pushing me out of my Comfort Zone! I began to panic. I hedged a bit, saying that I am really not much of a businessman, having failed in business twice. Then I let on that my only experience with firearms was in the military and that I’d never even handled a shotgun. It didn’t seem to faze them; they cared much more about my maturity and character, they said. I nearly broke down crying as I told them that I’d been a total failure as a human being and that my only apparent vindication was my son, who was due to receive his Star Scout ranking. However, everything I said—that I thought should have persuaded them that I was unsuitable for any but the most menial job—only seemed to convince them that much more solidly that I was precisely the right man for the Business Manager job.

I thought for sure that I would be hired for that—so sure was I that I told some of the fellows at my son’s troop meeting that I was the new Business Manager. When I reported for the first Staff Weekend, I found out otherwise: another, more experienced candidate had been hired. However, they were committed to placing me on staff for the summer. Again, I began to panic. Not only had I failed twice in business, I had failed as a teacher. No, I had failed miserably as a teacher! God, I thought, where are you? Why aren’t you letting me stay in my Comfort Zone, at least until I get my confidence up a little? His answer was swift and clear: “I want you confident in Me, not in yourself.”

Another thing I told them during that interview is that I wasn’t trying to talk my way out of a job. I just didn’t want them to expect more than I could deliver. I told them about when I had been a student teacher and had told my master teachers to grade me as they truly thought that I had deserved. They had been prepared to give me top marks in all areas; I asked for their honest opinions—then I got less-than-sterling marks. What I probably should have borne in mind is that most master teachers give their cadets top marks unless they really screw up. Actually, I’d been an exemplary cadet in many respects. However, I had a discomforting image in my mind.

Years before, I had seen an episode of The Flintstones in which Betty and Wilma had concocted an amalgam of their respective husbands, Barney and Fred, into a sort of larger-than-life superhero. They had done that in order to enter a breakfast-cereal contest for a trip for two to Hollyrock, USA—the prehistoric version of Hollywood, CA (forgetting for the time (then) being that the USA wouldn’t be founded for another ten thousand or so years). When Fred arrived on the set, they went down the list of feats that Betty and Wilma had said he could perform in their letter and made him perform them! I reasoned that, if the Directors were anything like the director of that cereal commercial, they’d figure out that I was a fake, a flake, and a failure. I just wanted them to know, for real, what they were—and weren’t—getting in me. That way, while they may not be completely satisfied, at least they couldn’t claim that I’d sold them a bill of goods that didn’t materialize on delivery.

Ever since I discovered that the Directors had selected me for a teaching position, I’ve been boning up on my technical know-how. I’ve done pretty much everything that the boys under my tutelage will have to master but I did them ages ago. My sister, who is not a believer, made what I think is a very profound statement: “It’s the people skills and not the technical ones that will bring you success in this kind of job.” I believe she’s right, which probably explains why the Directors were so anxious to hire me in the first place. Now, if I can only “get it right this time around”, maybe I can finally graduate from this job-preparation merry-go-round and awaken in a real career.