Thursday, December 09, 2010

The Talk On a Cereal Box

Years ago, I wrote an article called "The Death of Smart" about authority and postmodern culture. The idea was that the framework for credentials is changing. We used to trust leaders and news sources who were educated and official, who were in print or on the air because, we assumed, they must have done the hard work to get there and become wise and learned in their field. But today's American no longer makes those assumptions. We assume instead (and rightly so) that anyone can be corrupt or fake. When I wrote "The Death of Smart" I said that the highest virtue of postmodern culture is tolerance and the second, following closely, was genuineness. Now, I think genuineness has overtaken tolerance. To be respected and trusted in our society, you no longer have to be smart or wise. You no longer need integrity or discipline. You can neglect faithfulness and substance. But you'd better be honest and sincere. We hate fakes.

My assumption in that article was that this new paradigm of virtue would undermine journalism and any organization with centralized communication. As we get more cynical, our circle of trust draws in. We check sources instead of trusting that others have done so. We are more likely to trust our friend's Facebook post to deliver the goods than a news story on ABC.com. I assumed that authority would line up in inverse proportion to prominence, and so authoritarian sources would go the way of the print newspaper. If you're broadcasting to a lot of people, I probably don't trust you. If you're my golf buddy, I probably do.

But I was wrong. In fact, I've noticed a shift in the opposite direction. I'm reading successful writers who speak not in postmodern disclaimers and excuses ("This may not be true of everyone but," "From my perspective," "In my humble opinion.") but rather as real sages with real answers. I follow Seth Godin and Michael Hyatt. I just read some Steven Pressfield. These are men who do more than muse. They teach. They correct as if they have a standard by which to perceive error. This is not postmodern, relative truth, mamby-pambyism.

So what's the difference? How have these writers have found a way to speak with authority in a postmodern culture? What does the "new authority" look like?

1. They speak from their own experience. They aren't researchers with data or pundits with opinions. They haven't arrived at their conclusions through careful observation. They're become someone new through trial and failure. They have a story. And that's what they write out. They don't pretend to know things they don't. They don't write or speak about things they haven't learned from experience. They know the difference, and if they don't know a topic from experience, they say so and decline to comment further.

2. They speak their convictions. The postmodern leader (in fact, a good leader fro any era) doesn't look back to count followers. He isn't checking to see how many Facebook fans or Twitter followers he has. He has chosen his work and his path. He's going to do his work. He's going the way he's going. His face is set toward the future. And if someone wants to follow along, they're welcome. This, I believe, will be the biggest difference in cultural leadership in the next decade. I think Americans are realizing that the people we thought were leaders (politicians, especially) are followers.

All of this brings us back to "The Death of Smart" and a corresponding rise in philosophy. It makes sense. We value what is scarce. Knowledge (or at least access to it) is no longer scarce. Honesty and experience are. If you have a story, we want to hear it. If you have polling data, we turn the channel.

When the Apostle Paul visited Athens, in the first century, the Book of Acts tell us that his crowd shared our American viewpoint.

"All the Athenians and the foreigners who lived there spent their time doing nothing but talking about and listening to the latest ideas." — Acts 17:21

In Athens, philosophy reigned. And though we don't call it philosophy often (we have more subtle names like "my approach to life," "the way I see things") we too are a nation of philosophies. Three hundred million of them. Philosophy is religion without research. It's the "it seems to me" view supported by anecdotes. And it's all we have left. Because if there is no absolute truth to research (we handled that in the 90s) and there is no scarcity of information (we took care of that in the 00s), then our sages are thinkers, not builders or learners.

Monday, December 06, 2010

Broken Hearts & Broken Planet

Concepts from John Eldredge's book Epic and Andy McQuitty's sermon "Until Nowhere Becomes Somewhere" have rattled in my head for a couple of days. Here's what's coming out.

Philosophers have said that the greatest enemy of man is man. Maybe it's Satan but if so, man is Satan's most efficient weapon against man. Consider: the death count from all of the earthquakes, mudslides and hurricanes of history don't hold a candle to the millions killed by armies, tyrants, terrorists, despots and assassins. More than we have been battered by the storms and calamities of a broken planet, we have been tortured and killed by men with broken hearts. It makes sense. After all, the human heart is central, valuable and powerful. The heavens and earth testify to the glory of God, but the human heart bears it like an inheritance. We are God's workmanship, the highest expression of his valiant beauty and risky grace. Created in his image. Created to reflect him.

Something endowed with that kind of promise has potential for radical destruction. Made in the image of God, nothing on earth has the power to destroy like broken hearts. As much as the human spirit can inspire and lift us to our better selves, we know from our battered past that it can just as quickly drag us to numb cruelty. It is no small thing to be created in the image of the Almighty. It is glorious weight that we have struggled for centuries to carry well with little success.

And above our struggle to deal with our own dignity, there rages another level of struggle pitched on even higher stakes. Good battles evil. Light invades darkness. Hope, joy, courage and love trade furious blows with hate, cowardice, fear and despair. And the object of that struggle is the image of God. The human heart. Because nothing bears the image of God like the human heart, nothing is hated by Satan as much as we are. Sure, Satan loves to defile all of God's creation, from molecules to mountains, stars to stamen. But he reserves his darkest thoughts, his craftiest schemes for us. Our hearts are the crux, the ring that Frodo carries, the message for Private Ryan, Magua's captives, and Princess Leah's plans.

Nothing in the universe is in greater peril or under more harsh attack by the enemy. And nothing in the universe is more in need of redemption. As much as the Earth groans for renewal, and as much as God intends to restore it, hearts are more important. Nothing is higher on God's priority list for restoration.