My father's respect

I have just returned from a quick trip to the town where my parents live. I went there to speak at the church my father attends. This has become an annual task for me, during the month when the regular minister takes her vacation.

Only a few years ago, I was still trying to earn my father's respect. I'm glad to say I've finally gotten there.

Act One

The struggle began when I was a teenager. (No surprises there.) Hard work is one of Dad's fundamental values. But, as a teenager, I didn't see any reason to hurry to join the ranks of the gainfully employed.

One of the best summers of my life was spent staying up every night, until 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning, listening to music outdoors. We had a pit for a campfire in the yard. I would run an extension cord out there, set up my turntable and speakers, kindle a fire, and watch it burn while Pete Townshend delivered some power chords.

I wasn't drinking or smoking pot, and I didn't keep anyone awake. (We had no neighbours and my parents' bedroom was on the other side of the house.) But I did sleep in until noon every day. And Dad found the whole scenario galling.

To illustrate the contrast in our lifestyles, I'll describe my father today. He is in his mid-seventies, and he's still only semi-retired. He owns an upholstery business, and he puts in some hours in "the shop" every day. Yes, he supervises the staff. But he isn't above sweeping the floors or brewing the coffee or cleaning the toilets. It doesn't matter who's the boss; it only matters that a job needs to be done. Why shouldn't he be the one to do it?

As you might imagine, the clash in our lifestyles when I was a teenager drove him nuts. Some nights, my turntable would suddenly lose momentum; Bachman Turner Overdrive would spin slower and slower, then the amplifier would cut out. My dad had awakened in the night and pulled the plug.

Bedtime! (I always complied with the unspoken demand.)

Act Two

Then a strange thing happened; it should have earned me Dad's grudging respect, but it didn't. In my last year or so of high school, I got interested in theatre. I even got a summer job as a technician with a local professional company. Suddenly I was working as many as sixteen hours a day, six or seven days per week. And being paid … not much. I was working for the love of the theatre, not for material gain.

Strangely, Dad still didn't approve. He told a family friend, "He finally got a job, and he's earning 16¢ an hour." I don't think the problem was the wages, really; he just didn't respect the work I was doing. Theatre? — hah! What useful thing does it contribute to society?

Act Three

After high school, I struggled for a couple of years, followed by a dramatic conversion to evangelical Christianity. As I had done with theatre, I threw myself into religion with abandon. I completed a Bachelor of Theology degree and became a clergyman only four years after my conversion.

Dad is a deeply religious man. (One of his sayings is, "Life consists of a series of small miracles.") My religious awakening might have elevated me in Dad's esteem, but I still had it wrong, as far as he was concerned. I was ordained in an obscure fundamentalist denomination. And I was making about two thirds the wage I had made in the theatre.

Dad didn't approve of any of it:  not my education, not my choice of a church, not my theology, not my inadequate income. He belongs to a mainstream, liberal denomination. In that denomination, ministers are required to complete an undergraduate degree before they begin their theological training. He said to me, "We believe you should know something before you begin to study the Bible."

Act Four

Fifteen years later, I went through both a spiritual crisis and a marital crisis. (It came to a head in 1997.) This time, I couldn't argue the point:  my life was a mess.

Around that time, there was a family gathering and Dad (as is his wont) decided to make a little motivational speech. He went round the room, finding something praiseworthy in each individual, with one exception. When he came to me, he could only manage something to the effect of, "Maybe some day he'll get his shit together." Not an exact quote, but it captures the substance of the remark.

Act Five

A great deal has changed since then. I went back to school and completed an Honours B.A. in Law. I changed careers; I have a steady job that pays considerably better than anything I have done previously. I'm in a second marriage (without the formality of a wedding) and I'm a homeowner for the first time in my life.

Sorting out the spiritual crisis has been a slow and painful process. I'm somewhat amazed to find, now that the dust has settled, that I continue to have faith. I think of it as a Hebrews 12:27 phenomenon:  what could be shaken has been removed from me; what remains is unshakeable.

Once a year, I speak at my father's church. This is a big deal for him. He is part of the team that is responsible for organizing the service, and he worries over it for six weeks before the big day.

We've now carried out this task together six or seven times. Dad is confident that I will do my part, reliably and effectively. Yesterday he was quick to praise the content of my message.

Somewhere around age 40, I finally earned my father's respect. These are the things we appreciate most in life:  the things we struggle hardest to achieve.