Bad to the Bone, Part 2

Recently I was talking on the phone with my dad, one of those habitual "bad to the bone" storytellers. He's nearly 87 years old now, and while his body is slowly failing him, he exercises a pretty clear mind and has plenty of time to ponder his next topic of conversation with us. In a vulnerable and unusually insightful moment recently, my dad told me that he is experiencing a lot of regrets about his life. There's not much he can do with those thoughts at this point, he realized, except to depend on the grace and forgiveness of God. And then he said, "I spent far too much of my adult life trying to convince people that I was valuable. And I recognized it at the time."

Wow. If you know my dad, you know that is an uncharacteristic admission.

But I think he nailed it for what drives most of us in telling our "bad to the bone" anecdotes. To quote my friend, Jayne, "Doesn't this behavior simply boil down to people wanting recognition that they matter and have significance?... it screams, 'Look at me! I'm a brave risk taker and I matter, by golly!'"

I matter. I don't fit the mold, and that proves that I matter.

"I didn't have very good role models," my dad told me by way of explaining his lifelong search to convince others of his value. "My dad was a welder who came home and didn't interact much, and my mother was a gossip in our neighborhood." Wow again. Consider this simple, uneducated couple living in a typical city neighborhood in the Netherlands during the 1930's and 1940's, and then look at what their son did: going to college, getting a medical degree, working as a missionary, doing thirty major surgeries a month in addition to being chief administrator of a 140-bed hospital, saving lives, building hospitals, ... and all the time trying to convince people that he was valuable.

What is this deep wound that we humans try to assuage by telling our "bad to the bone" stories (some of which are about simple mischief, by the way, and later used as "bad to the bone" story fodder)? Why is it that for many of us, it never heals?

My husband and I recently attended two funerals. At both of those funerals, which were for very different men, stories were told of how these men crossed the boundaries.

One of them had crossed boundaries in fun ways in his work with young people and as a school principal, but later crossed a less forgivable boundary and spent several years in jail for molesting a nephew. Obviously his life took a turn from which he was unable to recover, professionally. He died a month ago from the effects of early onset Pick's Disease (frontotemporal dementia). Over recent years he had become ever more detached and childlike. About 150 family members, coworkers and students who had loved and appreciated him at various stages of his life were gathered at his funeral.

The other man had been a college president, a church leader, a senior pastor of the largest church in his denomination. The boundaries he had crossed were those policies and values in the system that make life work for a group of believers who call themselves a "church," boundaries that created both positive and negative aspects of culture for the people he served. Some loved and admired him; others disagreed with him or greatly disliked him, and were hurt by his choices to operate outside the lines. But... he was widely known and had 1500 people at his funeral, and more watching by streaming video.

The "bad to the bone" stories of both men, I believe, quietly highlighted that although they did much good, they also indulged times when they refused to see the bigger picture, neglected opportunities to live from a deeper principle, and indulged their narcissistic tendencies. I suspect that both men were driven by a need to establish or reassure themselves of their own value, their own reason for existing in this world. And as I write this, I wince in recognition that those same drivers are present in my own life. And then I smile because I think this is common to all of us, is part of our human condition.

I wonder if there is a way to break out of our "bad to the bone" stories. Can a person survive simply being ordinary? Is it such a great tragedy if we live within the lines? Must we stand out from the crowd for our lives to have mattered? Is it okay to leave a "vanilla legacy" that doesn't sound very remarkable among the colorful stories everyone else tells about themselves in this world?

How comfortable are you with the thought of your funeral being one where people say, "She was pretty ordinary. She got up in the morning, put one foot in front of the other, met the challenges of her day as best she could, walked through the doors that opened in front of her and turned aside from those that didn't open. She was unremarkable, did her part, enjoyed her friends and hobbies, and blended in with the community."

While I'll admit I'd have to try hard to be okay with such a legacy at my funeral (I am, after all, my father's daughter, given to efforts to establish my own value), I must say this: I like my friends who are creating a vanilla legacy. They are safe, dependable, companionable, comforting as a fleecy blanket, a good place to land when life dishes up drama. And they are much loved by those around them. In quiet ways, they may just accomplish far more than the people who are busy breaking rules.

There's something mighty powerful and effective about not having to live life "bad to the bone."

Post script: I believe in prophets who are called disturb the status quo. I also believe that a great number more human beings believe themselves to be prophets, than actually are called to do the job.