We’ve lived in our house twenty-five years now, the longest place either one of us has ever lived, so this past summer we decided to freshen up the homestead, starting with the most important room, yet also the most humble, that place where the most pleasant and enduring memories are made. Of course, I’m speaking of the garage. Thanks to Rita Goss’s labeling machine, there is now a place for everything, and everything is in its place.
With the garage done, we moved on to our bathrooms. The faucet company Delta makes a line of faucets they say anyone can install, so I went to Lowe’s and bought four of them and discovered Delta lies. I ended up having to ask my plumber friend Bill Eddy for help. If you don’t have a friend who’s a plumber, you really should find one.
As the Bible reminds us, for everything there is a season and a time for every matter under heaven. A time to do the plumbing yourself and a time to have your plumber friend help you. So Bill came over to do what I could not do, a lesson I’m taking to heart in this season of change, that in times of change, you do what you can, not what you can’t. That’s what we’ve been talking about, do’s and don’ts in a time of change. So this is one of them. In times of change, you do what you can, not what you can’t.
I had two interesting experiences recently involving friends of mine and their reaction to our nation’s challenges. One of my friends is withdrawing from the world, becoming almost turtle-like, drawing up into a hardened shell. He has vowed not to read a newspaper, listen to the news, or go on the Internet for the next four years. Total withdrawal. Going off all media cold turkey.
Another friend is doing just the opposite. He is determined to single-handedly save America, and then the world. He has it all planned out. First, he wants to run for the Indiana legislature, then he’ll become the governor of Indiana, and from there he’ll become the president. He’s on a 12-year time frame. In addition to all of that, he is going to eradicate Christian Nationalism and do something about Vladimir Putin. He asked what I’ll be doing to change the world, and I told him I was going to write and speak about important matters, and be the best husband, father, grandfather, friend, and pastor I can be. He told me that wasn’t enough, that I needed to do more, and I felt like such a slacker, like a huge, slimy slug of a failure. That night I was lying in bed thinking, and it occurred to me that saving the world is just like plumbing. You do what you can, not what you can’t. My turtle friend is making a mistake. Checking out is not an option. I mean, obviously checking out is an option and many people do it, but it’s not a healthy option. But my friend who is committed to doing everything, fixing everything, changing everything, singlehandedly saving the world, is also mistaken. No one person can do it all.
There’s a well-known term in psychiatry, given to people who think they’re in charge of everything, that everything depends upon their functioning. That term is Messiah Complex, also known as savior complex, or white knight syndrome. While it’s not an officially accepted medical diagnosis, it’s nevertheless a very real thing when people feel they are destined or called to save the world. That friend of yours who got religion and won’t shut up about it, that’s the messiah complex at work. Its more formal name is pathological altruism, and while at first glance it seems noble, it is eventually toxic since no one person can save the world.
Pathological altruism is especially prevalent in times of change, when social anxiety is high, and we are inclined to jump into the fray to do anything and everything we can. But that is also when it is most dangerous, because we not only do everything we can, we also attempt to do what we can’t. Consequently, people with pathological altruism often end up clinically depressed, burnt out, with broken relationships, suffering poor physical and mental health. It messes you up. While we have called that syndrome the Messiah Complex, it is important to remember that the first thing the actual Messiah, Jesus, did, was ask twelve friends to help. Keep that in mind. No one person can do it all, so do what you can, not what you can’t. But, but, remember this too, we can always do more than we think. We are powerful in ways we don’t always appreciate. Don’t sell yourself short. Don’t underestimate the power of sincere and simple acts.
I’ve told you before about the first Black man I ever met, Mr. Virgil Foster. We called him Doc, but now I am inclined to call him what I should have called him as a child, Mr. Foster. In 1920, there were a dab over 100 Black people in our town of 2,000. Then on June 7, 1923, the Ku Klux Klan held a rally on the north side of our town square. Twelve thousand racists from all the state gathered in our town, resulting in a mass exodus of Black people from Danville, so that when the 1930 census was done, only three Black people remained, Mr. Virgil Foster and his parents.
Mr. Foster was born in Danville in 1897, so was 15 years old when construction was started on the Hendricks County courthouse in 1912. Mr. Foster was hired to carry mortar to the masons. He spent most of his life within a mile of the courthouse he’d helped build as a youth. There’s a rocking chair in the office of The Republican newspaper where Mr. Foster would sit when he visited, and if you visit the newspaper today and sit in the Foster rocker without permission, Betty, the editor, gives you the stink eye. Betty’s the one who told me about Mr. Foster carrying the mortar for the courthouse and once said, “You know, if you take out the work Doc did, the courthouse would collapse.” When the courthouse was dedicated in 1915, the architect was there, along with the governor and every dignitary within fifty miles. I’ve seen the pictures. Mr. Foster was there too. In the back row, where carriers of mortar always seem to end up standing.
VIPs up front, mortar carriers in the back. It’s always been that way. We know who gave the Gettysburg Address, but can’t name one gravedigger at Gettysburg. So it is with courthouses and mortar carriers. But just you try doing without them. The courthouse collapses.
Do what you can, not what you can’t. What mortar are you going to carry? What essential work are you being called to do in this time of change? What will you contribute to keep the structures of decency strong and steady? The mortar you carry might be writing a letter to the editor supporting the rights of immigrants. The mortar you carry might be reaching out to a young person struggling with their sexual orientation and doing all you can to protect them. The mortar you carry might be inviting the immigrant family down the street to your house for Thanksgiving dinner. The mortar you carry might be inviting a lonely person with no community to take part in this community. Look for the mortar you can carry.
We cannot ignore the world, as tempting as that might be, nor can we, by ourselves, save it. But we can, in sincere and simple acts, carry the mortar that will bind our nation together. And we can always, always, do more than we think.