Doing Good Work

goodworkFrom Purdy’s For Common Things:

One thing that a culture does is give people ways of thinking about what they are doing. They can see the connections among their work, their talents and the needs of the world. They perceive their work as belonging to a whole, some of whose possibilities are good, which they help to sustain.

In other words, a rich culture helps people to say what their work is for, what its purposes are. This means an architect can understand how her work serves the purpose of creating heartening places for people to live and work, a journalist the aim of informing people of their community’s business and the world’s, a doctor making possible healthy lives, or a farmer feeding people and maintaining fertile land . . .

Work that can be good in these elemental ways can also, necessarily, be bad. It can fail. There are ruined fields, unintelligible essays, and displeasing buildings. Just as good work gives a measure of sense and dignity to a person’s activity, bad work is degrading. A job or an industry that does not offer the possibility of good work, that is manifestly unnecessary, that develops no talents, that achieves no excellences, is a species of tragedy, or of insult.

On one level, Purdy’s first book is an interesting parallel to Steve Garber’s Fabric of Faithfulness or Visions of Vocation.  Like the Purdy quote above, Garber seems to understand the intrinsic value of good work.  Good work and good culture go hand in hand.  And the same can be said for bad work and unhealthy culture.

My own vocational experience has taken some interesting turns over the last couple of years.  I love my job, even on its most frustrating and tiring days.  And as it has changed, has moved beyond the classroom, I have had to reorient what that “good work” looks like and how it fits into the bigger scheme of things.

We don’t talk about work well, which is funny when you think about how much we all talk about work.  What does the culture around us say about work?  How does that affect our approach to the work we have all been called (or have chosen)?  Those are good questions worth asking.

(image from advancedcabinetscorp.com)

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“Stable, Certain, Solid Things”

One of the things that is clear from the outset of reading For Common Things is that Purdy is a man shaped by a time (perhaps both personal and historic) that has really established his thinking in a fundamental way.  His parents raised their family in West Virginia, in what sounds primarily (but not solely, as he adds in an afterword) a real “living off the land” situation.  Consider:

Maybe because so much of our talk had to do with [these] stable, certain, solid things, West Virginia was not an ironic place. There was not much talk of trust, hope, or reliance; but there was a great deal of each of those, so thoroughly present that there was no need to name them. They were bound up in the things we did name.

My upbringing was a blend of centuries, with strands of old American idyll and always elements of whatever year the calendar announced. Since leaving that time between times, I have never left behind a sense of betwixtness, of being from somewhere else— another place and, in some measure, another perdiod, another way of living. Wherever I found myself, I came as a visitor, often a willing participant, but never exactly a member. Something in me is always native to another place. But the more I am of these new places and populations, the more imperfectly I am of that anomalous and mainly irretrievable Appalachian childhood.

It is good, I believe, to live in a place where irony is outpaced by “trust, hope, and reliance.”  Such a life probably isn’t an easy life, but I believe it must in some deep way be good.

I especially like what he said about always being “native to another place.”  As someone who has moved west (and then even more west), I feel that.  And that’s as much about location as it is disposition.  I am often surprised when I find out idealogical moves in the 90s that I had no awareness of until a decade and an ocean stood between us.

I do not think this part of For Common Things is some unnecessary appeal to tradition, especially taken with thoughts from the book that I’ll get to later in the week.  I do think, though, that it is a reminder of the possible dignity of place and of people who know the work of “stable, certain, and solid things.”  I can’t help but think that something about that is key to thriving in the next bit of the 21st century.

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The Contemporary Question of the Self

who-am-i-640-360One of the basic questions every worldview tries to answer (thank you, James Sire) concerns the nature of humanity.  In class we often talk about whether man is good or evil by nature, how much choice we actually have in the decisions we make.  And yet there is more to the discussion that that, really.

One of the terms that Jedidiah Purdy uses in For Common Things, almost as an aside, really, is the quantum self.  It only shows up a couple of times by name, yet one gets the feeling that it is also key to understanding the contemporary situation (perhaps more now than we Purdy was writing in 1999).  Purdy contrasts the quantum self with the self that is a soul.  A souled self seems to be one whose identity is in some way fixed or declared by a source beyond the self.  The quantum self is changeable, extremely malleable, ready to recreate itself at a whim.  It’s very much an American idea, this rootless self.

I’m near the end of G. K. Chesterton’s What’s Wrong with the World, which is a fascinating point/counter-point to For Common Things.  While they may be a century apart, they have much in common.  Both realize (and I’ll get to GKC sometime soon) that how we understand and see the self has real implications for the way the world works (good and bad).  It’s a version of the question “what is the chief end of man,” as if man had a purpose, an end-design from the mind of God.  Just how quantum are we, really?

(image from godlife.com)

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Answering in the Affirmative

Friday morning, the first song in the morning’s shuffle was Toad the Wet Sprocket’s “Is It for Me.”  As I walked around my classroom rearranging tables to prepare for student presentations and thought about the lyrics’ hope that odd things were true and that the sunrise was something of personal significance, I was reminded of something I said the evening before at dinner with some friends.  I had affirmed my belief that somehow, some way, God is always reaching out to us.  Through the Bible, the created world, through our fellow creatures, He is always making Himself known, pointing us to Jesus.

The song isn’t particularly religious, though it is hopeful in its question: is it for me?  Maybe, yes, perhaps, it is.  For you and us all.

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Speaking Upward

One of the trickiest parts of organizational or institutional life is knowing how to communicate well on different levels or to different audiences.  This is especially true when you realize you have strong opinions about the way things “ought to be.”  To speak can earn you looks of scorn.  Not to speak, though, may have an even heftier cost.

I was glad to see that Patrick Lencioni touches on it in connection with The Advantage, in particular with the idea of “speaking upward.”  Check out the video below to see what he says about what to do “when you’re not the CEO.”

This is probably my last post on The Advantage.  It’s a good book with some real gems of leadership wisdom.  One of these days I’ll have to check out some of his other books.

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Questioning the Need for Alarm

alarm.jpgSeth Godin recently had something interesting to say about organizations and the “need for alarm.”  Turns out there are things organizations can and should be mindful of.  From Godin:

Alarm is overrated.

People say, “there’s no need for alarm,” as if that rule only applies right now, as if sometimes, there is a need for alarm.

It turns out that there’s never a need for alarm, because alarm doesn’t do us any good. Alertness, awareness, action… there’s a need for this. But alarm?

Alertness and awareness are definitely important ingredients for organizations to be mindful of.  We may not all be as certain as Godin, but we don’t have to be clueless.

You can read more from Godin each day here.

(image from safeguardresponse.co.uk)

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When Irony Killed the World

fury roadPerhaps the most important question posed by Mad Max: Fury Road was found scrawled on a couple of walls in the movie’s bleak landscape: who killed the world?  And while it’s obvious in the movie that man and his greed did the deed, there are other possibilities for the world that we know.  Based on Jedidiah Purdy’s For Common Things, irony could be a likely culprit.  Consider:

Irony has become the marker of worldliness and maturity. The ironic individual practices a style of speech and behavior that avoids all appearance of naivety— of naive devotion, belief, or hope.

What has so exhausted the world for us? For one, we are all exquisitely self-aware. Around us, commercials mock the very idea of commercials, situation comedies make being a sitcom their running joke, and image consultants detail the techniques of designing and marketing a personality as a product. We can have no intimate moment, no private words of affection, empathy, or rebuke that we have not seen pronounced on a thirty-foot screen before an audience of hundreds. We cannot speak of atonement or apology without knowing how those words have been put to cynical, almost morally pornographic use by politicians. Even in solitary encounters with nature, bicycling on a country road or hiking on a mountain path, we reluctant ironists realize that our pleasure in these place has been anticipated by a thousand L. L. Bean catalogues, Ansel Adams calendars, and advertisements promising a portion of the rugged or bucolic life. So we sense an unreal quality in our own words and even in our own thoughts. They are superficial, they belong to other people and other purposes; they are not ours, and it may be that nothing is properly ours. It is this awareness, and the wish not to rest the weight of our hopes on someone else’s stage set, that the ironic attitude expresses.

Purdy wrote this at the end of the ’90s, when shows like Seinfeld epitomized our ironic, self-aware culture.  Since then, we’ve settled into a kind of wink-wink, nod-nod relationship with our ironic reality.  Maybe we embraced it and came out the other side mostly undamaged.  Mostly undamaged, perhaps, but definitely not stronger.  We live with the hope that a well-documented life will result in a meaningful one.  We’ve taken pictures of our moments and sold them to more accessible versions of L. L. Bean and Ansel Adams.  The world is no longer a stage for our devotion, belief, or hope.  Now it is an endless photo-op, a planet-sized photo booth with all of the ancient props we can handle.

Purdy has a lot more to say about irony and its effects on public life and civil discourse.  He will also contrast the way of irony with the way of real and solid things, the kind of “common things” worth our attention.

(image from youtube.com)

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On Paying Attention

newsroomAt the end of the final season of The Newsroom, Jedidiah Purdy and For Common Things get name-dropped.  Being a fan of show-runner Aaron Sorkin, I decided to give the book a try.  I ordered it from Amazon, only to have it get lost or misdirected for a week or so.  When it finally arrived, I jumped right in and was pleasantly surprised and appropriately challenged.  I thought I’d take a few posts over the next couple of weeks and talk through some of my favorite quotes from the book.

The first thing I liked about Purdy’s first book wasn’t even about Purdy’s writing.  It was a quote by Czeslaw Milosz: What is unpronounced tends to nonexistence.  It lays the foundation for much of what Purdy tries to articulate (or in this case, pronounce) throughout the book. It is both seeing and saying.  It is a twist on something I heard a few years ago: things that “go without saying” are often the things that most need to be said.  From the preface:

. . . this book is a plea for the value of declaring hopes that we know to be fragile.  It is an argument that those hopes are no less necessary for their fragility, and that permitting ourselves to neglect them is both reckless and impoverishing.  My purpose in writing is to take our inhibition seriously and to ask what would be required to overcome it, to speak earnestly of uncertain hopes.

The book serves as a great call to attention of the basic things too easily taken for granted in our modern society.  And attention is important.  From later in the book:

Attentiveness helps us to see what can and what cannot support our hope, and so it may be our best stay against despair.

Hope and despair are big words for me, words with personal, communal, and spiritual weight.  And while much of what Purdy argues in the book doesn’t make much of spiritual reality, it definitely takes up the cause in connection to the personal and communal.

* * *

So we should ask: what things “go without saying” but need to be said?  What foundational things do we rely on and potentially take for granted?  What basic, day-to-day things demand our attention, not so much to fix them but to keep them from needing repair in the first place?

(image from tv.com)

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Let There Be Light, Love, and Music

One of the songs Andrew Peterson played (and that he had the audience join in with) at his Hawaii concert last month was “Let There Be Light.”  It wasn’t a song that I had listened to much (if at all) until that evening, but I’m glad it’s in my musical rotation now.  The folks at Laity Lodge just posted a video of the song from 2014, with Peterson joined by Andy Gullahorn, Buddy Greene, and Jeff Taylor.  Check it out below.

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Origins of the Outlaws

A few weeks ago, I mentioned the forthcoming book from N. D. Wilson, Outlaws of Time.  Wilson recently posted some backstory to the new endeavor, setting it in the context of his attempt to embrace more of the “myth of America.”  For this novel, he turns his pen to the Southwest:

As I set out to write a superhero origin story—a genre with deep Jewish roots in the Old Testament judges and prophets, the same roots that power classic “lonely lawdog” westerns—I knew this wouldn’t be a story on the prairie (I’ve done Kansas, after all). I wanted to introduce the atmosphere of a mythical and legendary Southwest to the imaginations of contemporary kids around the world. Trains and outlaws and San Fran and Tombstone and Earps and Navajo and empty cliff cities to remind us all of civilizations and histories that predate the white faces.

You can read more about Wilson’s “origin story” thoughts here.  And here’s the “book trailer” for Outlaws of Time:

Outlaws of Time drops April 19.

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