Biblical Wisdom: Debt-Free Living

Some things are so deeply ingrained in my worldview, that I scarce can read about the way others handle things without a deep sense of puzzlement. That which seems to be common sense is so consistently and assiduously avoided by many of my contemporaries that sometimes I genuinely wonder whether people even rationally ponder the decisions they make. Today, as I was reading Talleyrand's post on Fairy Gold, I was struck with exactly such a feeling. Talleyrand discusses that which offers illusory temporary wealth at the expense of long-term happiness and financial well-being, and his post hits the nail right on the head. He writes:

Higher education is a form of fairy gold. When student loans started becoming the rage decades ago, the idea was to make higher education “accessible to everyone."

Another example of fairy gold is our governments deficit spending and the deficit spending of the American public, with credit cards and home loans and car loans, all making them feel wealthy on the belief that more money would always come.

While I am always subconsciously aware of the fact that numerous Americans do have large student loans and readily spend beyond their means, whenever I stop to actually think about the implications of such choices, it truly baffles me. Why would any intelligent person take on any personal debt, outside of a mortgage or a business venture? Yet, I know countless people who are overwhelmingly laden with debt. Student loan, in particular, seem to be a ridiculously unwise and burdensome choice, given that one is exchanging a significant part of one's future for an increasingly valueless piece of paper.

However, in thinking about it further, I realize that it is truly a blessing that I have such a strong aversion to debt. Quite obviously, not everyone has been blessed with a similar outlook. My father is to credit for my views on the subject. When I was growing up, in our daily Bible Time, we often would read through the book of Proverbs. As we would read through the chapter of the day, my father would often highlight certain verses and offer his own commentary or stories relating to them. One of the topics that he discussed frequently during our times in Proverbs was the topic of debt. There are plenty of verses on finances in the Bible, and a good number of them are in Proverbs.

Proverbs 22:7 - The rich rules over the poor, and the borrower is servant to the lender.

Proverbs 22:26-27 - Do not be one of those who shakes hands in a pledge, one of those who is surety for debts; if you have nothing with which to pay, why should he take away your bed from under you?

Proverbs 28:22 - A man with an evil eye hastens after riches, and does not consider that poverty will come upon him.

Proverbs 23:5 - Will you set your eyes on that which is not? For riches certainly make themselves wings; they fly away like an eagle toward heaven.

My father had many stories to tell regarding how people handled their finances and how things did or did not work out for them. His stance on debt was not merely a theoretical one, or one that was merely adopted because of a few verses. Instead, he had extensive practical experience, and had conscientiously avoided debt throughtout his life. His teaching on financial matters, which he based on Biblical principles, has been very influential in my life by helping me to ponder how to manage my own finances as an adult.

Today, many people have large quantities of fairy gold. The wealth they think they have is merely illusory. For those who don't have a healthy opposition to debt, what they have had to exchange for that fairy gold is often more costly than they realize. Talleyrand describes the process and its end result:

Now here’s where to people have made a bargain they really haven’t realized they have made.

When they signed up for student loans, they were giving up their children. That was what they were really selling.

And, on a national scale, regarding people living beyond their means:

What was sold for all that debt? America will no longer be a superpower, the standard of living for people in this country is going to drop 30-50%.

Now that the time to pay the piper has come, many people will find that their fairy gold isn't as golden as it seemed. All this could be avoided by exercising a little Biblical wisdom, avoiding debt, working hard, and not pursuing the various get-rich schemes of today. Yet, we are a nation that has forsaken God, forsaken the clear teachings of the Bible, and forsaken wisdom. The only ones we harm by rejecting truth and wisdom are ourselves. God is not mocked. Though it initially puzzles me why people behave the way they do, it ultimately makes sense. My father wisely follows and teaches the Biblical principles pertaining to finances. In a nation of folly, a little wisdom goes a long way. I am greatly blessed to have received wise Biblical instruction in this area of life.

Thoughts About Valentine's Day

Ever since I was a child, I have always had a certain fondness for Valentine's Day. My sentiments don't seem much shared by modern people. In fact, as a nation, we underappreciate nearly all of our holidays. Some are too trivial. Some carry no personal significance. Some are too religious. Some are too sappy and whimsical. I think that modern attitudes about our holidays are a more accurate reflection of us as a people than a proper critique of the holidays themselves. Presently, we are a people who lack appreciation for what ought to be appreciated. We do not see the magic of our world, and therefore we do not see what is worth celebrating. There is a similar sentiment oft expressed concerning Valentine's day. Some disdainfully refer to it as "singles awareness day," while others complain that it is the prime example of a "hallmark holiday." While holidays are set aside as days of celebration for the rejoicing in that which is most human, some refuse to see anything but the negative side of things. If they take joy and pleasure in the drudgery of celebration, then I will do nothing to interfere with their upside-down days of gloomy rejoicing, but I also shall take part in such a pitiable perspective.

Personally, I think that if anything is to be done, it ought to be done out of joy with a childlike jubilee. Especially holidays! Valentine's Day, while not presently my favorite holiday, is definitely one that I greatly appreciate and thoroughly enjoy. I have enjoyed it when I've been single, and I have enjoyed it when I haven't been. It's a holiday that is about much more than just oneself. It is a celebration of love, closeness, connection, relationships and the glorious and surprising differences between men and women. It is a celebration of that which most matters in life, and of that which is capable of bringing some of the highest human pleasures. While it certainly is about no less than romantic relationships and love affairs, it is definitely not limited to the sphere of romance.

Ironically, Valentine's gifts I've received from girls or activities I've done with girls don't come close in comparison with what has made me feel the most loved on Valentine's day. The most meaningful and satisfying Valentine's days have been ones where my father gave candy to my siblings and me. I've written in the past about my favorite memories of my father. This is another memory that I very much treasure and value. For the most part, my father is not a very expressive man. He rarely talks about his emotions or feelings and he rarely shares his heart with people. During my teenage years, however, every Valentine's day for several consecutive years, my father would always surprise us with a box of delicious chocolate-covered cherry coridals. He never said more than "Happy Valentine's Day," but the very fact the he went out of his way to do anything at all spoke volumes more than his words or even his gifts could convey. They say that it's the thought that counts most, behind a gift. Never have I found a truer and more practical example of that little epigram than in the gifts my father gave us on Valentine's day. Those gifts showed me that he does have a deep fondness for me, despite his general lack of expression concerning such affection. His gifts were sincere, genuine, meaningful and unpretentious.

Indeed, I think that the best way to celebrate Valentine's day, if it is to be celebrated at all, is exactly in that sort of manner. Whatever is done or given should be sincere, genuine, meaningful and unpretentious. Rather than doing something cliché and stereotypical out of duty, if there are to be any expressions of love and appreciation they should be done from the heart. As an artist, I have always thought that buying any sort of store-bought card is quite impersonal. Such a card takes a negligible amount of thought and creativity, and expresses very little of personal significance. When I do give cards for Valentines day, I always prefer to create them myself, either by hand or digitally, depending on my present mood and the complexity of my idea. In such manner, when I do give a card, it is something that is heartfelt and specifically crafted for its recipient. Poems and letters also have a personal touch and significance that far outweigh flowers or chocolates. Simple things are often more meaningful than elaborate gestures, since they always have a purity about them that overblown efforts more frequently lack.

Yet, the most important thing on Valentine's day is never what is done or given, but the specific person or relationship being celebrated. It is easy to lose sight of this in our materialistic age, and it is easy to allow expectations to prevent a person (giver or receiver) from fully enjoying the day. When one sets expectations for what is to be done or given, the emphasis is no longer on what truly matters (love, the person, and the relationship), but instead is on the token of expression. A giver who buys flowers and chocolates out of duty is worse than one who does nothing, because he misses the whole point of the day. Similarly, a receiver who expects to receive certain things also misses the point of the whole day and arbitrarily limits their enjoyment and delight. Chesterton offers a brilliant insight into the blissfulness that accompanies having no expectations:

The man who said, "Blessed is he that expecteth nothing, for he shall not be disappointed," put the eulogy quite inadequately and even falsely. The truth is, "Blessed is he that expecteth nothing, for he shall be gloriously surprised."

Because I enjoy celebrating that which is joyous and wonderful, and because I thoroughly embrace everything that Valentine's day represents and stands for, I am quite excited about the upcoming holiday. I am quite glad that personality exists, that personal relationships are real, that romance is not merely a fantasy, and that love is one of the truest and greatest parts of life! I am completely delighted by the shocking fact that there are two very different sexes, each glorious in its own way! I am extremely thankful for the wonderful people in my life, and especially for those who are the closest to me: my family, my best friend, and my girlfriend! Why should I hesitate to express myself in a way that is slightly more tangible than ordinary expression, when I express myself in so many ways in the ordinary course of things? Valentine's day is gift from God, and I shall rejoice in His love, which is the deepest of all, and in expressing my own love for others.

Of course, that isn't the only reason I celebrate--for some deep and mysterious reason, I have always found these surprisingly delicious and delightful:

Thoughts About My Father - Part 2

Continued from Thoughts About My Father - Part 1...

My other favorite memory of my father is from my early adulthood. My father was the sort of person that you felt like you fully knew and yet didn't know at all. He's the kind of person that, while you might know who he is, you never felt that you knew who he used to be. His life, as a story, was one that was largely untold. That is the reason why this is a memory that I cherish greatly.

When I was 17, I graduated from high school. Now that I was finally entering adulthood, I was beginning the journey of figuring out who I was, what I wanted to do, and who I wanted to be. After completing high school, I decided to go on a mission trip to Romania for about three months. My experience in Romania is a vast story of its own, but, in short, it was one of the most painful and lonely periods of my life, while simultaneously being one of the best periods of growth in my life. I hated it, and yet the whole experience strengthened me far more than I could have imagined that it would. Upon returning from Romania in early December, I spent a couple of months at home with my family. Not long after my return, I distinctly remember my father telling me that he wanted to spend some time with me. Being such a rare occurence, I was delighted to have the chance to spend some time with my father. We planned to go and take a hike together on Saturday morning. I wasn't sure quite what to expect. I figured that mostly he would want to hear about my trip to Romania. In any case, I was excited that my father wanted to spend time with me.

When Saturday morning came, we drove to a spot that I knew of in some hills nearby. Neither of us had hiked at this particular park before, so we figured it would be a fun adventure. The weather was neither especially ideal nor particularly foreboding. Light grey clouds covered the sky uniformly and the air felt refreshingly cool. My father and I donned our sweaters after parking the car and began our hike by heading off in a randomly-chosen direction. He was curious about my trip to Romania, and so I recounted my European adventure to him in vivid detail. Then, he began to tell me about a trip he took to Europe in his young adulthood. At one point he had become fed up with life and decided to travel across Europe to see if he could find himself and find any meaning to life. As we hiked, he told me all about the many experiences that he had on his trip, about all the train rides, about all the places he stayed, about all the people he met, and about all the adventures he had. But, it didn't stop there. Not only did he tell me what he did, he shared a bit about what he was thinking, what he was looking for and what he found. His trip across Europe was more of an existential quest for purpose, meaning and answers than it was a mere vacation. What he was looking for wasn't something geographical. In one of the countries he visited, he met some young people, stayed with them in a youth hostel and, through them, found that Jesus Christ was the answer that he was looking for. That part of the story I had heard before, but in hearing more about his journey and the despair he felt, the conclusion of his quest made much more sense to me than it ever had before.

By this point, the clouds were getting a bit darker and looming closer to earth. We had hiked to the end of the park in one direction, and were following some other paths across the tops of various hills. But, my mind was hardly on where we were going. Instead, I was enjoying getting to know my father. As we walked on, he shared more about his life as a teenage and as a young adult. Since I was starting to learn to play guitar, he told me about the time he played keyboard in a rock band when he was young. That was part of his life that I knew very little about, especially since by the time I was born, both my mother and father were convinced that rock music was demonic. As a beginning musician, it was fascinating to hear him share tales of his own musical days, what led him to pursue music, and what his experience of being in a rock band was. We had a rational, adult discussion over whether rock music is truly something that is innately evil, or whether it is something that can be used for either good or evil. He also told me about his dating experiences before he met my mother, and how he had approached relationships. His lack of success with women in his early adult years was something that contributed to the sense of disconnectedness and despair that led him to go to Europe in search of himself. He told me about his own father, and how little his father interacted with him, when he was young. We talked as we hiked, and the hours flew by. Next thing I knew, we were returning to the car and heading somewhere for lunch.

The entire morning was a beautiful blur. For the first time in my life, I actually felt that I had began to understand my father. Prior to the point, I had always seen him as distant, detached, busy and impersonal. Up until that Saturday morning hike, I never felt that I really knew my father. But, that morning, I felt that he really had opened up to me and shared parts of himself with me. Just hearing his stories and experiences helped me to connect with him in a whole new way. After our hike, when I looked over at my father, I didn't just see my father. I saw another human being. I saw someone that I could relate to. I saw someone who was real, who was imperfect, who wrestled with real issues, and who had found some answers. That was the first day that I began to really see him as a father. Even as I write this, I cannot help but feel that our connection that morning went far beyond a mere intellectual exchange of information. That was how we normally communicated. Most of our conversations were very businesslike. But, during that morning hike, we connected not only intellectually, but also emotionally and spiritually.

My father is still an imperfect person. However, this memory was a huge milestone in our relationship, and it is one of my most treasured memories of any time I ever spent with my father. For those few hours, I felt valued, I felt important, I felt that I mattered to him. During the course of those few hours, I connected with him more than I had in the previous 17 years combined. He opened himself up to me and shared his heart with me. I treasure that. I love my father--not because he's perfect, nor because he's a great example. Instead, I love my father, because he is a real person, and because he is a good person. Beneath his tough exterior, there is a man who is real, who feels, who wrestles, who seeks and who hurts. Though he is relationally clueless, he has a good heart. He loves truly. He lives a life of conviction. He loves his family. That day, I felt, in some small measure, that he actually loved me. That day, I finally caught a glimpse of who my father was. I will never forget that morning hike.

Thoughts About My Father - Part 1

Last night, I went to bed a little bit on the early side, but I wasn't feeling sleepy yet. Somehow, while lying there, I started thinking about masculinity, and about how I've grown as a man in the past two years of my life. After thinking about the various ways I've growed and matured, I suddenly felt an urge to read a chapter of The Way of the Wild Heart, a brilliant book on masculinity, written by John Eldredge. Three years ago was the first time that I read both Wild at Heart and The Way of the Wild Heart. While I didn't fully grasp the entirety of what John Eldredge was trying to convey, I certainly knew that what he wrote resonated deeply with me. He writes a lot about masculinity, about the masculine journey, about how a boy becomes a man and about how a man comes to know deep down that he is a man. He writes about the plight of modern America due to the lack of strong fathers who lead their sons and teach them how to be men. His words resonated with me then, even though what he wrote about seemed new and unfamiliar to me.

As I picked up the book and began to read, this section really stood out to me:

A boy has a lot to learn in his journey to become a man, and he becomes a man only through the active intervention of his father and the fellowship of men. It cannot happen any other way. To become a man--and to know that he has become a man--a boy must have a guide, a father who will show him how to fix a bike and cast a fishing rod and call a girl and land the job and all the many things a boy will encounter in his journey to become a man. This we must understand: masculinity is bestowed. A boy learns who he is and what he's made of from men (or a company of men). This can't be learned from the world of women...

When I was young, my father would take me fishing early on a Saturday morning. We'd spend hours together out there, on a lake or a river, trying to catch fish. But the fish were never really the issue. What I longed for was his presence, his attention, and his delight in me. I longed for him to teach me how, show me the way. This is where to drop that line. This is how you set the hook. If you can get a group of men talking about their fathers, you'll hear this core longing of a man's heart. "My father used to take me with him out in the field." "My father taught me how to play hockey, out in the street." "I learned to frame a house from my dad." Whatever the deatils might be, when a man speaks of the greatest gift his father gave him--if his father gave him anything at all worth remembering--it is always the passing on of masculinity.

Reading that passage got me thinking about my father. What memories do I have of him, that I really cherish? What were the most meaningful times I spent with him? In what ways did my father teach me how to be a man? I pondered this question a bit, and had quite a few thoughts. The truth is, my father is not a very good father. By that, I don't mean that he's bad or evil--I just mean that he is very bad at being a father. He had no idea how to lead well, how to connect well with his wife and his children, and how to teach us about life. He was, and still is, an unfinished man, who never fully grew up into being a man. While he is very competent in several areas of life, he lacks the strength and confidence that he needs to be a fully relational man. Because of that, I have very few significant memories of my father at all. Probably all of the most defining moments I had with my father, positive and negative, number less than ten. Yet, there are at least two memories that I have of my father that really instill me with respect for him.

The first memory isn't a single memory--it is a series of memories. I don't remember precisely when it began. I know that at least from 1994 onwards, there was something my father did almost every morning.

During the week, he would come into our bedrooms just a little bit before 6 every morning, and rouse us from our sleep. Only half-awake, my younger siblings and I would grab our comforters, climb out of our bunk beds and slowly shuffle down our long hallway towards the "Big Room." In the Big Room, we had an old upright piano, two couches, one loveseat and a long, dark-brown coffee table in the middle of the room. Seating was available on a first-come, first-serve basis and so whoever actually arrived in the Big Room could always take the most desirable seat. This always mattered somewhat, since there were a good number of us (I have ten siblings). But in the winter, this was a much more pertinent fact, since we had a centralized furnace, which had two floor vents that pumped warm air into the room. As nice it feels to sit on a couch with a comforter, it feels even more amazing to sit right next to the heater vent and enjoy fifteen minutes of wondrous warmth. Since there were only two of them, in the winter it almost became a race to get the furnace seating. The instant father woke any of us up, we would leap out of bed and fly down the hallway in hopes of getting one of the two furnace seats on the floor. While in the winter people would come quite swiftly, it wasn't always like that the rest of the year. Sometimes it would take up to fifteen minutes for my father to get us all awake enough to actually arrive in the Big Room. Often there would be one or two stragglers who had fallen back to sleep or who were having troubles bringing their blankets down the long hallway.

After all of us were situated in the Big Room, father would pass around a stack of Bibles and then sit down on one of the couches with his own Bible. The Bible that he had was larger than any of ours, and it had a well-worn black cover, with his name engraved on it. My father would say a word of prayer, and then open up God's Word and read whatever chapter we were currently up to. Typically, we would systematically read through a book of the Bible. Whenever we finished reading any book of the Bible, my father would choose a new one for us to read. His favorite book to read was Proverbs. He liked it because it had precisely 31 chapters, and because it was filled with practical wisdom. He always read slowly, clearly and deliberately. Every few verses, he would stop to ask a question or two. His purpose in asking questions was twofold. First of all, he wanted us to be actively listening and actually learning from whatever passage he was reading. Secondly, asking questions was a great way to help keep us from falling asleep. When it's 6 in the morning and you're sitting on a comfortable couch with a warm blanket, it's quite easy to drift off to sleep. Sometimes, rather than ask a question, he would stop reading and explain a little historical background on whatever verse we had just read. With the Proverbs, he would sometimes stop and share a short personal story or anecdote to illustrate the usefulness of a particular proverb. I especially remember how vividly he warned us about surety and debt. This morning ritual we always referred to as "Bible Time." It was a family tradition for years.

For some reason, that is one of the memories of my father that I most treasure. There are several things that I really appreciated about having Bible Time every morning. First, father always wanted to read the Bible to us because it was something that he himself loved. I never had the feeling that this was just for our good. He awoke us every morning to read the Bible with him because he enjoyed reading the Bible, and he wanted to share something that he loved with all of his children. He never did it out of duty, because he had to. He just wanted to. He loved reading the Bible, and he loved reading it to us. I felt included in his life for those 30-45 minutes every morning. Second, I really enjoyed it whenever he would stop reading a passage and explain to us what made those verses so important or meaningful. Whenever he shared a personal story, it not only helped the passage to make more sense, but it also gave us a brief glimpse of what sort of person he was. Third, not only was Bible Time one of the few times when I felt that I was part of my father's world, but Bible Time also was one of the main ways he provided direction and guidance for us. He read the Bible to us not just because he enjoyed it, but also because he wanted us to learn God's ways and to live in accordance with the teachings of the Bible. Regardless of how much direction he directly provided to us through other interactions, we always knew that he wanted us to follow God. He showed us the path that we should walk in.

That is one of my most cherished memories of my father from my childhood. I really admire him because he shared that part of himself with us, his children. I respect his dedication to teaching us truth, and showing us the path that we should walk in.