Probably the worst accusation my father could level at anyone was to be deemed a “phony.” And this from someone who almost always kept his criticisms to himself.
“Just make sure you’re alright,” he would repeatedly caution his four children, an obvious appeal to modesty and circumspection.
Foremost, he was a humble man. My mother frequently would urge him to take more credit for his achievements, which were many. She chalked up his reticence to a case of low self-esteem, though I personally never saw it that way. For me, he was just genuinely humble.
His favorite relative, according to my mother, was his maternal grandfather, a pastor who by all accounts was quiet, studious, and gentle.
And moral. As the story goes, after retiring from the ministry, he got interested in investing and eventually took a position on the board of directors at a local bank.
At one point, Portland Cement decided to build a big plant in Bethlehem, PA (where he lived). Reading the tea leaves, he bought a plot of land to be developed for worker housing.
But here’s the kicker: when he went to resell the property, the buyer offered him a large sum of money. He refused it, telling the stunned buyer that the amount was too high. They agreed on a lesser value!
In 1960, my father received a Cleo (his first of three), the highest award in the advertising world. He never said a word to us. I only found out a few years ago from my mother.
He occasionally would go on business trips and stay at the homes of famous people, but again, we never heard a thing about it. Nothing. I suspect he didn’t want us to be impressed, in part because he himself wasn’t all that impressed. He was a pastor’s kid. You do your job with honesty and integrity, you do the best job you know how, and that, simply put, is its own reward.
Years ago, one of my brothers started performing with well-known musicians, at one point appearing on Saturday Night Live. We all thought it was great. My father, however, though no doubt proud of his son, remained largely impassive. He viewed show business for what it is, a bit eccentric and not all it’s cracked up to be. He’d witnessed his fair share of its mythos up close and personal and came away impervious to its charms.
There were, after all, other things that gave his life far more meaning – church, family, work, as well as the things of the mind. These were what mattered to him.
The day he retired, looking back over his long working life, he told my mother that he was most proud of the fact that he had never “cheated anyone.” And this from someone who worked in a high-pressure environment where outsized egos and the rampant stealing of ideas was the norm. He kept his head down and did his job.
I’m reminded of a former church member who also worked in the advertising business, only in Boston. One day, near the end of his life, as we sat in his living room looking out over the vast expanse of Nantucket Sound, he reflected on his life. He confided that over the years he’d had occasion to attend a lot of fancy parties and dine at any number of swanky restaurants. And yet, as if imparting the wisdom of the ages, he said he was never as happy as when he was at a simple potluck supper at our church. Somehow, I think my father would approve.
One thing that continually amazes me, in contradistinction, is how many of my fellow pastors seem full of themselves. This is, to state the obvious, a tad ironic. I’ve never understood why any pastor would consider him or herself worthy of such self-adulation.
Again, maybe it has something to do with my father’s modesty, combined with the fact that I grew up in a town where there were all kinds of wealthy, successful people who were tops in their field. Some of them, of course, were regular, down-to-earth people who had worked hard and achieved success. But then there were always those who held themselves in unreasonably high regard (and wanted everyone to know about it)!
Along with worldly success comes its often-unremarked shadow side. There were a lot of kids my age whose parents simply had more money than sense. They bought off their kids with cars and money when all they really wanted, deep down, was their parents’ love and attention.
My mother once told me back in the 60s that there were over 60 chapters of Alcoholics Anonymous in our one town alone! Her numbers were probably pretty accurate. Trouble in paradise, if you will.
A fellow student in divinity school once asked me where I was from. After I told her, she remarked on what a beautiful town it is. I responded by saying that in some ways it was like living in a commercial. On the surface everything looks perfect. Underneath it all, not so much.
Having seen that worldly success doesn’t always translate into happiness only underscores my father’s values. He wasn’t impressed with such things and for good reason. I’m grateful he had the wisdom and foresight to avoid its assorted traps.
So, when I see fellow pastors strutting around and acting important, I recoil. Who do they think they are? I know it’s tempting to accept uncritically the deference often shown to us pastors in churches. Being a recognized leader with the task of inviting and guiding people into the sacred mysteries of the gospel, I suppose, can be heady stuff. But that very same gospel, suffice it to say, beckons us all to something else altogether, modesty being but one aspect.
And not false modesty, either. After all, humility is a natural outgrowth of the Christian life. If you take Jesus’ life and teachings seriously, it’s hard to come away puffed up and full of yourself. It really is.
Humility is a gospel affect, and, as I say, not a feigned one. It’s born of awe for God’s holy perfection combined with an earnest recognition that all human beings are sinners who necessarily fall short of the glory of God. We all have clay feet. And we must look to God alone for forgiveness and unearned grace.
Last week I attended a memorial service for a former church member who died at the age of 99. During the service, one of her sons, in the course of paying tribute to his mother, shared a comment she often would make while they were growing up.
“Remember,” he said, quoting her, “you’re no better than anyone else.” Then she’d add, perspicaciously, “But also remember, they’re no better than you are either.”