Brownwood Benevolence

He had lived many years among his own in a constant blissful existence with no apparent purpose other than to exist and to share his existence with others of like appearance and thought. Having changed locations frequently due to external circumstances, he had put no roots down--having none anyway--nor had he any desire for permanency, preferring to live in an egalitarian world where all changed at whim but nothing in fact had ever changed. According to Emerson, "the more things change, the more they stay the same," and stay the same, he did, for although subject to quick change of venue, his mundane world remained mundane, trivial, and sadly purposeless. He had no name, no character, no history, no future, and no meaning for his life. He was a grain of sand, tiny and bland, and his purpose was to live devoid of purpose and simply react to external events such as wind, or earthquake, or the most exciting method, human interference.

As the rain progressed in the city of Brownwood, the fear of flooding grew rampant particularly among business and home owners with a history of flooding, but unlike other communities where individuals find themselves in a state of panic and unable to make any decisions to lead to a solution, the city of Brownwood made a large amount of sand available to its citizens. Which takes us back to our friend, the grain of sand.

Sitting among his other friends watching the people shovel sand in the bags, he realized that his life had meaning and if all went well, he would soon be on his way to fulfilling his purpose as a grain of sand, to help someone else, to be selfless, altruistic, and vital to prevention of a potential disaster. Soon his turn came, and he was placed among other grains of sand where they all gathered for their brief journey to a home or business. Although weak by himself, there was great strength in numbers, and his confidence grew quickly that they, working together, would be able to stop the excess water. He was placed quickly but gently in a location to serve his time as a block against the flooding.

His life journey and life purpose occupied his thoughts as he sat there reflecting on the recognition that the City of Brownwood had provided a remarkable tool for self-preservation, and he realized that, although it took some individual effort to fill up bags, many people working together could and did make a positive difference. Ironically, the floods never came, but the spirit of cooperation and compassion remained intact. The benevolence of Brownwood found fruition that day as a community came together for the good of the whole. As John Donne said:

No man is an island, entire of itself
every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main
if a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were,
as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were
any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind
and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls
it tolls for thee.

Our little grain of sand found meaning due to the wisdom and efforts of the people of Brownwood. We live in a community of great charity, benevolence, and kindness.

Clones in a Shallow Vein

After a rather difficult morning of dealing with difficult, but wonderful people and all with difficult, but not unusual problems, and all of them valued colleagues necessary to the success of the unit, I ate a quick lunch, returned to the office and saw my friend Sol-Fa, a 6 month old burgundy colored sofa with 2 matching pillows, sitting in the middle of the floor with a sweet smile on her inanimate self, asking for attention and a gentle moment of partnership, and with a book in hand by my favorite author Philip Roth, I sat down to escape my current state of stress and began to read. Several illustrious and thought-provoking sentences later, not unusual for the Pulitzer prize winning author, I reflected on how I wished the people around me saw things the way I see them. A funny thought for sure as I closed my eyes.

Awakening a few minutes later, I did not feel rested. Although I did not yet understand why since there was no real reason for my anxiety and nervousness, the brief nap had left me feeling anxious and frightened, a false emotion with no bearing on truth but nevertheless real to me. My agitated state increased with a sense of foreboding of what existed outside my office door.

With great timidity, I got up, left my office and saw myself down the hall. Not just one of me but many of me all dressed similarly but each one unique as well. Some of my selves were taller, some shorter, some with hair (I liked those!) and some without. Many were women, and many were children. Each one was dressed differently than my normal slacks, shirt, and tie, and in fact were dressed in pastel plastic, without seams, creases, buttons, and anything distinctive other than being plastic. Some were peach colored, others yellow or off-white, or light green or baby blue or any of the various light benign colors that exist. But the plastic appearance did not give pause and instead looked entirely normal. I looked normal to myself and quickly looked at my real self only to see the usual attire of tan pants, shirt with a tie, and sports coat.

I immediately wanted to be confused for it's not everyday one steps out of one's office and sees lots of himself dressed in plastic, but for whatever reason, it felt completely normal and even joyous, a welcome emotion from the earlier fear experienced only a moment before. To take it another step, I have rarely if ever felt the kind of complacent joy and peace that was overtaking me as I watched myself interact with myself in a false sense of euphoric happiness perhaps similar to a drug trip (although I have no knowledge of what that means), or heavy anesthesia before a surgery.

As I approach one of my many selves, I smiled warmly and asked how things were going, only to get a similar smile and a nod of acceptance. I then shouted playfully at all of the clones to talk and have fun, but each one simply nodded in agreement, remained silent, and kept walking that oddly quick paced, deliberate walk of mine. The walk, however, was aimless, almost in circles and strangely robotic but very similar to my own style without the goal-direction and purpose.

I began to talk more rapidly and more expressively as my initial fear returned in a flood of anxiety and concern, similar to a brewing storm, darkening clouds, or incessant repetitive sounds such as a pack of coyotes advancing to their kill. I began to scream contentious statements to try to get a response from the clones, even a raised eyebrow, or a downward turned mouth, or a tensing of the shoulders, anything that would signify anger rather than passiveness. The clones did not react to me at all, entirely oblivious to any external stimuli.

Walking faster and faster and finally running from clone to clone, I decided on force in the hopes of getting a reaction. I struck hard and then harder with all my human strength, but the clones remained in plastic with frozen smiles on their faces as they continued their purposeless pace. Soon the clones multiplied until there was very little space for me to move, and though I tried to escape, there were more and more of them and I realized I had become smaller with little to no significance or presence. I was disappearing rapidly among the horrible, smiling, shallow, but ever increasing plastic clones. It was like being smothered by mirrors on all sides as the clones continued to pullulate around me. I screamed in terror, kicking the evil reflections, but all in vain as my world threatened to implode.

Sweating, pulse rapid, and shaking, I woke up in shock wondering where I was and wondering if the world had ended. I slowly got up from my friend Sol-Fa, recognizing I had simply had a bad dream of some kind, and walked out of my office, down the hall hoping to see anything besides myself. Not surprising, the world was as it used to be and the people, thankfully, were once again themselves, some difficult, some pleasant, but each one unique and special.

I returned to my desk reflecting on my dream.

What a plastic, shallow, and frightening world it would be if everyone looked and thought like me!

Comic, Cream, or Cards

I just couldn't decide. My friend and I walked the mile down to the local store which was next door to the donut shop where they kept the ultimate in food pleasure, the cream puff, a pastry similar to a donut but much fluffier with a fancy design and filled with delicious cream. The walk was not necessarily dangerous but was an adventure for a 7 year old boy who had worked hard that very morning to earn the 50 cents from his Dad.

Every Saturday morning, Mom would wake us up early to help Dad with the latest project, yard work, cleaning the garage, washing the car, or maybe even pouring concrete for a little sidewalk, or putting up a basketball goal, or maybe cleaning out the duck pen (Yes, we owned 2 pet ducks that we eventually had to get rid of due to the incessant quacking. I recall one strange but true event where the ducks drowned, an unusual occurrence for many reasons not the least of which we were in El Paso, and Dad brought them back to life by resuscitating them and pumping the water out of their lungs), or fixing the broken sprinkler head. For our efforts, although meager at best, we would be given our weekly allowance of 50 cents.

So my friend, who lived around the corner and had also spent the morning helping his Dad, and I walked to the store trying to decide how to spend our 50 cents. It was a serious problem for me because I could only afford 2 things but wanted 3. I wanted a comic book, perhaps Spiderman or Superman, or the Green Lantern, or Captain America or maybe Richie Rich or even Archie, and I wanted some more baseball cards to add to my growing collection. I needed to complete the 1967 teams especially the San Francisco Giants with stars like Willie Mays, Willie McCovey, and Juan Marichal, and I was always hoping to get a better picture of Red Sox slugger Carl Yastrzemski. In addition to the baseball cards, which little to my knowledge would become worth thousands of dollars someday, except in my case they were all thrown out in 1972 to make way for my Charlie Rich, Ernie Ford, and Tom Jones records, there was the stick of gum. But, in spite of the excitement of the comic books and the baseball cards, there hovered over both of us the glorious taste of the cream puff.

So the choices were a comic book, baseball cards, or a cream puff. All the way to the store, we discussed what we were going to buy. Somewhere in the recesses of our young minds, we knew that the comic book had much more lasting value than did the baseball cards or the cream puff, but the comic book was falling in third in the battle to decide what to buy. We even considered the old "trade with your friend" concept and share the puff, but that was difficult for a 7 year old and besides who really wants to share a cream puff.

We arrived a little out of breath, our legs hurting from that walk-run that boys use everywhere they go, I suspect I still adopt that system today, and went directly to the store where the same old gentleman, he must have been at least 25, waited for us with a knowing smile on his face. We went immediately to the baseball card exhibit hoping to see a new package we had never seen, but unfortunately, nothing new had arrived during the week. We owned all the cards currently on display. Our momentary sadness was quickly replaced with boyful glee as we realized the difficult decision had been made for us and we didn't even know it!

We hurried to the comic book rack where I bought a new Spiderman comic book and my friend bought a new Richie Rich (incidentally he is now a multi-millionaire, and I still enjoy Spiderman). We paid for our treasures, hurried out of the store, (We were always in a hurry back then. Things have not changed), and ran next door to get a cream puff.

We sat down outside the store to eat and read and enjoy the moment. I looked up when I heard the sound of a car horn, knowing it would be my Dad as he drove by. Funny how he always drove down that road when we were outside eating and reading, and funny how he took care of his errands quickly enough to be home by the time we arrived. Full from a cream puff, full of comic literature, and mostly full of fun and enjoyment, we waved and headed home. Maybe we could get in a game of catch later on. We were able to save a nickel each that day which we realized could add up. Maybe one day we could buy all three--comics, cream puffs, and cards!

Today my choices are: buy a book, eat a steak dinner, or buy some more dollars on my Starbucks card! Have things really changed?

Competition v. Contentment

When the game was over, a mindless game with little to no skill or application of intellect, a game of luck devoid of strategy or planning, and the final scores were tabulated, and it was revealed that I had won the game by a small margin, I began my typical celebratory, symbolic victory dance of cheers and whoops in a way to bring attention to myself, which must be the primary reason for the excess emotionalism of victory yells, and laud my own magnificence at beating the other players. But in the midst of this inane display of immaturity and pettiness, as I looked around the table at the tolerant smiles of the losers, I saw one person sharing in my joy by clapping his hands, shouting with me, and responding genuinely to my excitement. He was equally happy that I had won, and did not demonstrate any anguish at his own loss. He was totally undaunted by the realization that my victory, a foolish word in light of the completely luck oriented game, was the cause of his and every-one's defeat.

Joel's autism has side benefits not found in those of us who are normal (there I go again, throwing in a word that could result in another blog entry filled full of philosophical meanderings and resulting in a plethora of comments in wild disagreement of my weak, albeit sincere definition of the word normal), with our "normal" and probably cliched human reactions to events such as being happy for being the winner in a silly competition. Joel does not have a competitive spirit the way one might expect. His winning is the act of playing, for to play is to win regardless of the outcome.

Autism carries with it a characteristic of emotionless objectivity, a quality of exactness and precision that is not to be tampered with nor to be concerned with another option. With this comes a refreshing honesty and behavioral prescription to follow the rules. The other day we elected to eat at a local pizza restaurant. As we got near the door to enter the establishment, I noticed another door that said "Take Out" on the front. Using my amazing deductive logic, I realized both doors took us to the same location and the "Take Out" door was actually closer to our goal. Seeing nobody else in line for the take out, I naturally used that door to enter the restaurant. Hearing a noise behind me, I turned to see Joel pointing at the other door. We looked at each other, shut the "wrong" door and used the correct door. We did not break the rules.

Joel does not experience an urge to get ahead or to win, those qualities that can serve a person well in this modern culture of success and acquisition; conversely, without the competitive urge to win, he does not suffer from a loss of self-esteem, a darkness and dolorous confusion that often goes with losing. But not only does Joel not know the sadness of losing, he also cannot fully empathize with this emotion in other people, resulting in a perplexed reaction to disgust, anger, or depression often displayed by the losers in a game. A game is simply a game, and it is the playing that provides the entertainment. Winning or losing is not something on which to dwell, it is merely what it is: somebody wins and somebody does not. Why waste any emotional effort on this fact?

Joel is contented to live life in the immediate rather than the future, and to live life satisfied (satisfied is not accurate since satisfaction is primarily an emotion drawn from current feelings) with the current state. He plays the game of life so as to enjoy the moment and to relish in the accuracy of the events as they present themselves, to reflect and represent the truth as it makes itself known rather than to manipulate or design events according to the goals presented. For most of us, the goal, as defined by our personal motives, is the goal and the aim is the aim (Philip Roth, American Pastoral), but for Joel the goal is the accurate portrayal of events in the game. His goal is to do it right not to win. If he does win, then that is the way it is.

He values the winner and the loser, and he does not expend energy dwelling on the mental state or personality or self-esteem of those in the game much less his own emotional reactions to the end. Joel's objectivity prevents perceived values from playing a role in his world-view, thereby resulting in an accurate appraisal of the events and an acceptance and equanimity of the conclusion. This in turn causes an unusual and non-threatening acknowledgment of the emotional reaction in the other person. When I was happy at my victory, Joel responded in kind, not sharing in my joy for being the best but simply enjoying my enjoyment. Had I lost and responded in tears of shame for being the worst, Joel would have been sad for my sadness without having an understanding of the deeper sense of loss of esteem. The facts are the facts, there is a winner and a loser and this fact is not deserving of emotion.

Yes, no doubt competition, from sports, academia, cognition, philosophy, defense, and aggression, has created our current world of skyscrapers, books, technology, restaurants, automobiles, and institutions. We thrive and improve due to our human competitive spirit and without the inherent desire to win, stagnation and mediocrity could invade our being.

And yet, there is something refreshing and even magical about playing the game to play the game, to accept the truth without manipulation and without the reaction, to live a life in contentment of result. Once again, I must say that if the world had more Joels, it would be a better place.

Violation or Appreciation? Your Choice.

Once again, the age old question has arisen: Does the end justify the means? If your intentions are noble and only good can result from your behavior, does that in and of itself give you the freedom to behave according to your own prescription? I suspect that most of us, in abject honesty, would say yes depending upon the circumstances. And yet, I have to wonder a little about this, for there is something suspicious about making our own ethical decisions, in deciding right from wrong and forcing others to share our view of virtue, in governing our own behavior based upon our own selfish, albeit honorable, concepts, and imprisoning our fellow man to see those concepts the way we do. So the question is more how do we determine right from wrong, moral from immoral, and is our mode of behavior a personal choice or should we consider a broader more collective view of ethical purity, and with this broad view, how do we then insure that others share in our perceived truth of values? At what point is your freedom another person's straitjacket? I will let you decide!

I received the jury duty notice, placed the date on my calendar, planned accordingly, gave some thought to my personal time schedule, and wondered somewhat idly who was on trial and for what purpose. The morning of my duty, I went through my usual routine of prayers, exercise, choosing clothing for the day (usually an easy decision), got in my truck, drove to the coffee shop, drank some coffee, and headed to the courthouse to fulfill my civic responsibility. I arrived on time and stood in an extended line of fellow prospective jurors, eventually entering the courtroom to await the arrival of the judge, who would begin the process of selecting a jury for the upcoming court case.

I was dismissed early in the process for a legitimate reason, made my way out of the courtroom, down the stairs, and out to the truck where I drove to my office as though the day had begun anew. I entered the building to my office, routinely put my hand in my right pocket to make sure the pen I had placed there earlier was still there, and was surprised to find an additional item in my pocket that had not been there before.

I pulled out a small booklet with a happy face on the cover. This booklet was tiny, pleasant in appearance, contained several pages of text, and seemed overall benign. Glancing through the pages, I quickly recognized several Biblical scriptures and some words of salvation and inspiration. I smiled, returned the book to the pocket, and went to my office, comforted by the knowledge that someone, most likely while standing in the line to enter the courtroom, cared enough about me to give me the booklet; someone wanted me to read these scriptures, and someone zealously and actively desired to spread the news about Jesus Christ.

But as the day continued, I began to wonder about the ethics of placing a book in the pocket of stranger. What if the book had contained anthrax or subversive language such as terrorist activity or pornography or a threat of some kind, or perhaps a statement of blackmail or a hostage situation or a tip of an impending crime? Or maybe the sweet little booklet may have contained some quotes from Aristotle or Goethe or Benjamin Franklin or maybe some heart warming stories about a dog or a pony, or perhaps the little book simply had blank pages for taking notes or giving one an opportunity for self-expression? Or perhaps the book with the happy face contained a small mirror for self-actualization and affirmation? Instead, the book contained words of religious inspiration with the intent of helping a person find Christ.

Please understand, I am not against evangelism and I do believe if more of the world believed in God and led a Christ-like life, this would be a better place, a place where more people would be contributing, positive citizens without the myriad immoral decisions made each day by so many. I believe that we need God and that we, as weak humans, often substitute God with addictions and poor behavior. Yet, somehow I resent the fact that a person I do not know felt free to slip something in my pocket without my knowledge, without any notification, and without knowing anything about me, my world-view, my value system, my personality, my profession, or even my name!

What gave said person the right to violate my privacy? Should I be upset or should I accept the honorable intentions? Although a part of me is happy to see a servant of God working hard to share the news of Christ, most of me would prefer that my personal space and private property be respected. Next time, please ask me. So back to the original question: Did the end justify the means? Should I react in appreciation or should I focus on the violation? Your turn to comment!

Canine Capers

After I became a father of three boys, I wanted to own a dog. A dog is one of those important pets that a boy can enjoy, play with, talk to, spend time with, do retrieve games, or fetch, or learn responsibility of feeding and care. A dog loves his owner and has a boundless optimism that can give a young man a lift. In short, a dog may indeed be man's best friend, but at the Tucker household, a dog is not a friend, he is not even an acquaintance!

Our first dog was named Johnny. We got him as a puppy and he was adorable in all respects. Energetic, cute, and demonstrated those warm characteristics associated with dogs. We played with him for an hour until it was time for the little guy to take a nap. We then loaded up the car with the boys and headed about a mile away to the store to get a little house, bowl, some food, and a couple of toys for the cute little thing. We picked out a green bowl, a charming little house, some puppy chow, and the kind of chewy toys that would provide hours of endless puppy pleasure. Driving home, we discussed responsibility and various dog behavior to expect, the jumping, chewing, waste management, food needs, and the necessary occasional hug; but the boys, although they listened to an extent, were mainly overcome with excitement of having a new dog. We arrived home about an hour after we left only to find no dog. He was gone. Perhaps stolen or escaped to another yard or whisked away to dog cyberspace, forcing us to spend the evening and part of the next day searching. But, no surprise, he was never to be found.

Several months later, it was time to try again. This time we elected to acquire a large dog, one that could not squeeze under a fence and one that would be easy to find if he were to escape. His name was Smokey and he was a friendly, lovable German Shepherd. The first week (yes, we kept this one more than an hour), was rewarding and fun as we got to know him. Jacob, who was 4 at the time did become concerned with Smokey's tendency to run in the house when we opened the door, and developed a method for keeping him outside. Jacob placed cough drops on the back patio, opened the back door which caused Smokey to rush in, but Jacob quickly threw some sand in his face which resulted in a coughing dog. Smokey then exited the house to find the cough drops. Although this method did not go entirely as planned, it certainly made sense to all of us!

But, alas, Smokey became unmanageable. After a couple of weeks, he began to jump on every person who entered the back yard. His sheer size was overwhelming and the boys were knocked over by the crazy dog. Soon it was my responsibility to feed him and care for him but my heart for doing so was not in the right place. A few days later, Smokey chewed through the air conditioner wires and nearly ruined our air conditioner, resulting in a repair bill of several hundred dollars. The shock he received from that experience could not have been as great as the shock to my wallet. I then, wisely, found another home for him.

About two years later, we acquired a small but full-grown cocker spaniel and enjoyed her company quite a bit at first. Her name was Dolly and she was adorable and pleasant to be around. We were told that she had most likely experienced some tough times in her first few months but she was now doing well. We loved and cared for her. My first inkling of a problem, problem may not be the best term since most problems have a solution, or least a plan, occurred one night when I heard constant and voluminous, a shocking fortissimo that in retrospect seemed remarkable considering her small size, barking that kept me up most of the night as I tried in vain to encourage her to keep her opinions to herself. After struggling several weeks, and trying different options, including a collar that makes a high, uncomfortable sound when the dog barks, and after receiving several complaints from neighbors, I finally realized Dolly, like Smokey, was nuts. We found another home for Dolly with some country friends.

We then enjoyed a brief spell with a one-eyed brown cocker spaniel who was undoubtedly the finest dog in my experience. We found her shivering on our driveway on July 5, apparently frightened from the fireworks of the previous evening, and named her Jessica. She was calm, friendly, quiet, cordial, didn't eat much, and stayed in the backyard, endearing herself to our family and to the boys who loved her. Unfortunately, three weeks later, I was reading through the newspaper and saw an ad from some people searching for a missing one-eyed brown cocker spaniel who answered to the name Lucy. I said the name Lucy to Jessica who responded the same as always, called the number, and waited for the original owners to come pick up their dog.

We are now on dog number five named Freddy. He was purchased to guard and herd our massive, okay not really massive but twelve goats is massive compared to one goat I suppose, goat herd and mostly to protect them from harm. Like a father who is firm but loving to his children, the expectation was for Freddy to guide, direct, and discipline the goats into goat excellence. But Freddy, and I wish our other dogs had this same quality, loves humans. He will not stay in the fenced area and therefore is not fulfilling his specially designed purpose. He is useless as a goat dog and useful as man's best friend. We do not have a yard for him,he is much too large for the house, nor do I want a best friend who is a dog. Freddy's days at Tuckerland are numbered. We found another family anxious and set up for a people dog.

So after five dogs, it may be time to give up. I do wonder if the world is going to the dogs! Their many capers are beyond my comprehension.

Academic Leadership

Having recently spent four days in a Baptist leadership conference, I feel compelled to discuss several issues related to Baptist institutions, as well as to extol the virtues of the conference, the material, the presenters, and the overall content of this first of its kind event, a gathering of young Baptist college administrators from schools across the state of Texas. From deans to department chairs, from program directors to future administrators, a committed group of Christian leaders joined together to learn, grow, examine, listen, and discuss the many ways we can help our Baptist schools not just today but for tomorrow and for another generation in the future.

Born out of the Center for Ministry Effectiveness and Educational Leadership located at Baylor University and lead by Provost Emeritus Donald Schmeltekopf, the conference was located at the beautiful University of Mary Hardin-Baylor campus in Belton and supported in part by the Baptist General Convention of Texas. The conference was a stellar opportunity to learn and grow from various experts in the fields of Christian education and institutional leadership, men and women who have struggled with difficult issues and arrived at positive conclusions, people who have published in these fields and are well-respected for their accomplishments, for their personal insights, and for their vast experience in Christian leadership.

We, the participants sat enraptured by the appropriate blend of practical suggestions, suggestions that can be applied to the daily challenges presented, and the highly sophisticated and academically robust philosophies that give us a greater reason for our activities and our practice. The conference included an examination of our personal leadership styles as well as personality profiling, and was intended to provide enough knowledge of ourselves to find success as we deal with people in our various disciplines. The thorough psychological and leadership examination included comments and assessment from our selected peers in a personal look at how we deal with and react to the challenges and situations that come our way in our leadership positions. I found this to be most revealing and enabled me to recognize my strengths and, perhaps most importantly, how to deal with my weaknesses and avoid the inevitable stress times.

This portion of our conference was enlightening, slightly frightening in an entertaining way, a little too revealing, and overall enjoyable as we studied ourselves and read how others view us. I am reminded of Longfellow when he said, "We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done." Our dreams of our own capabilities should remain in the forefront of our thinking but those dreams may need to be colored to an extent by the knowledge of how others see us. Would we truly want the gift to see ourselves the way others see us? I think not!

Several sessions ensued dealing with faith and learning in private institutions with conclusions being made that faith should be a natural inclusion in the curriculum and in the educational process. A private institution has a responsibility (a term that is often tossed around rather casually but in fact is a term with great power and meaning, a word that implies action and commitment, a word that represents both short and long term objectives and a goal-directed existence without wavering) and an obligation to define itself and set its own parameters as regards curriculum, personnel, clientele, purpose, and, most importantly, mission. The practice, in other words, the daily operations including hiring, curriculum, behavior, and events, should be a manifestation of the institution's overall mission.

When a flaw or a breakdown occurs, it is either the result of antithetical application of the mission, or the mission itself, leading to a thorough examination of the mission and its comprehensive intent. One must examine the mission statement of the institution and work diligently and relentlessly to apply the principles set forth in all situations or conversely to change the mission to fit the purpose, resulting in a marriage of philosophy and practice. Subsequently, it becomes equally valuable therefore to communicate the mission of the institution to the constituents involved in the overall process, purpose, and objectives that lead to a fulfillment of the mission.

As leaders charged to uphold the mission of the institution, we must also provide the kind of excellent academic environment that allows faculty and students to grow and develop within the established framework. With this in mind, leaders should encourage faculty development, keeping in mind that development can mean a wide variety of activities, and continual program review with regards to curriculum, advising, assignments, and committee work.

Equal to the careful yet expansive examination of institution leadership were the poignant, sensitive moments of spiritual advancement, moments that began each day, moments of reflection, and moments that gave positive Christ-like purpose to the rest of the day. The scripture and prayer, delivered by a particular participant of the conference, were apropos to the topics for the day, providing a sense of goal-direction and a pathway on which to direct our steps, a purposeful guiding light that while immediate also had an underlying long-term relevance for living.

Overall, the conference was vastly rewarding, enlightening, and posed a rare opportunity to combine philosophical, global thinking with pragmatic, personal application. It was a time to learn about ourselves, our strengths, our weaknesses, our abilities, and give us a decided framework of objectives to consider as we continue in the quest for academic and spiritual excellence in our selected leadership professions. In addition, a surprise I did not anticipate emerged from the conference: a new set of friends and acquaintances familiar with the joys and challenges of Baptist Institutional Leadership; people driven to academic excellence but retaining their love of life, Christian commitment, and dedication to the ideals and principles of Godly leadership.

The Nature of Art--Theater

Back to one of my favorite subjects--the human responses to the arts. Recall that we have worked to establish music as a human need based on the requirement to cleanse and to express the endless supply of emotions. This holds true for visual arts and for theater arts as well. One could argue that in theater we find the greatest potential for human expression, and that theater can occur in a moment in any kind of established locale. According to Shakespeare, "All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players..."--Best, Michael.

Shakespeare's Life and Times. Internet Shakespeare Editions, University of Victoria: Victoria, BC, 2001-2005. . Visited 6-8-07.

A theater is a building with a stage and seats for experiencing drama, but a theater can also be the drama of life, and the walls--there are always walls--represent the limits designed by the personal profile of the human psyche. Your theater was designed by you, for you, and your theater is your own personality, traits, ethos, and preferences. For example, my theater does not include professional wrestling, a popular sport that for me has no redeeming qualities and provides no personal satisfaction either as a viewer or a participant (okay, I'll admit that I suspect if I were a participant I would not last very long), and therefore does not play any kind of role in my theater. Wrestling exists outside the walls for me.

I have a friend who has a personal aversion to country music. When he hears a country western song on the radio, his pulse quickens, he becomes angry, and immediately responds in disgust as he changes the station. In a way, his abhorrence is funny and maybe quirky but in other ways it is real and most likely represents his own value system, world-view, priorities, and an establishment of his personal framework. The theater he has built that works for him is remarkably unique, as is everyone's, and is designed for him, by him, and the plots in his theater fit the nature of who he is. Country music is outside of the walls. Why? This is conjecture, but my friend is a committed time-keeper, a man who always knows direction, space, distance, and a man who lives with precision. He is not obsessive, does not display any characteristics of neurosis, is intelligent, a good conversationalist, a committed Christian, a hard-worker with a pleasant demeanor, a thinker, and has a warm, kind heart. He loves the arts and in particular music. So why this physical aversion to country music?

Most music, notice the qualifier, has a specific rhythm, melody, harmony, and system. Music on the radio, in particular, begins with a bass line, a background rhythm, a guitar or other instruments, followed by a singer. In country music, however, there is a random quality to the performance. The beat may be precise, but the freedom of performance of the rhythm gives it a flexibility that can be unsettling, inconsistent, and even discomfiting. This is then made worse by a singer who sings from his or her heart by adjusting the prescribed melody according to personal feelings and expression. For many people, this makes the music ideal and wonderfully earthy, but for others, it makes the music disturbing and imprecise. When a person seeks order in the arts, he will most likely find it in classical and even some rock music, but he probably will not find it in aleatoric music, jazz, or country western. Quality, of course, is not determined by order or by a system, but one's preference for order and discipline will not find fruition in some types of music. This means that my friend's theater does not include country western music. His preference is determined by his nature; to ask him to do otherwise is to deny him his own theater.

Yet, there is no doubt that art, and in particular theater, is not an exact science, the term science meaning "systematized knowledge in general." All our efforts as artists to avoid the randomness that we see around us each and every day still result in a certain flexibility, a freedom of expression, and a representation of the complexity of feelings that surround us each day. The arts are a manifestation of emotions, and emotions change often by the minute and certainly are subject to intrinsic and extrinsic experiences, including environment, history, fear, worry, joy, sorrow, anticipation, humor, and list of emotions is infinite.

Theater is one of the most complex of the art forms and probably the most inclusive of the arts, for in theater we often find music, visual arts, literature, and drama. It is in theater that we work diligently as performers to be precise and to apply scientific principles to our performance, to make each performance the same, and to be markedly disciplined as we seek perfection. But it seems that no matter how strenuous is the attempt to be precise, to have the exact tempo required, to have the delivery the same, to have the volume balanced, to place the feet in the same places for every performance, there is always a hint of the imperfect human struggling to systematize and order himself to do it the same way.

Ah, but in the end, regardless of how dedicated we are to objectivity, how much we work diligently for order, and how desperately we seek consistency and we always want to make our theater a science, and we desire to apply self-control to our art, ultimately, if truth can be found in the subjective, the arts are flexible and flexible they will remain. As has been pointed out many times, however, the journey, the personal theater, and the endless quest for perfection is the reward.

Zak--Oklahoma I

In a charming but telling story by Dr. Seuss, there are two Zaks each heading a different direction, one south and one north. Their trek takes them directly in each other’s path resulting in the need for one or both to step aside, thereby continuing their journey toward their unknown but certainly valuable destination. Perhaps they are returning to their loved ones, or toward a new career, or maybe to a restaurant for a bite to eat, or to an art museum, or to move mountains, build bridges, or merely to save the life of a pet. We do not know, nor do we ever find out for these two Zaks refuse to budge. In their stubbornness, the world grows around them and their personal goals are never attained. Why couldn't they just be friends?

In Oklahoma, the marvelous musical by Rodgers and Hammerstein, one of the most entertaining moments occurs in a light-hearted production time when the people sing about the Farmer and the Cowman. The resentment toward each other is cleverly masked by funny words, earthy dance movements, big smiles, couples finding love, and a melody with robust rhythm, wide energetic range, and country style fiddling in the orchestration. But no matter how red those roses may seem, there are painful thorns beneath them, or more specifically, the farmer and cowman may be having a good time but it did not happen without difficult compromise from each group.

Time and love may be the answers to the plethora of problems facing people unable to agree. In the odd case of the missing colony of Roanoke, a colony founded by Sir Walter Raleigh, scholars suspect that over a three year period the colonists bred with the Indians in a beautiful acceptance of differences and ultimately a melding of cultures through propagation and interbreeding. They simply formed friendships and relationships to the point of unification. The missing colony was not missing at all but rather became a part of an existing culture which may have, and probably did, take on its own special ethos.

In some ways, this may appear to be an extreme solution to contentiousness, but imagine our friends the Zaks who may have brought their children with them on their journey. The children grow up, fall in love and the parents recognize their own foolishness and begin to work together. In our song about the farmer and the cowman, the final statement says "Territory folks should stick together, Territory folks should all be pals. Cowboys dance with farmer's daughters, Farmers dance with the ranchers' gals."

I am not necessarily advocating such a lumpen and prolonged solution to disagreement, for the result could be a kind of figurative epicene of characteristics without strength of identity, a loss of the core culture that propels a community toward progress. The greater method is, of course, to find a way to work together. It is not always easy and it requires a bending of the will and a flexibility that most of us find difficult, a sacrificing of self for the greater good, with a perception of loss that in reality is a victory. Had the South going Zak simply taken one step to his left and continued toward his goal, both Zaks would no longer be stuck in the same spot glaring at each other. Would he have lost the fight, given a part of himself that he could not regain, relinquished his personal confidence? Or would the gain have been an injection of compassion and selfless altruism?

At what point do we lose the battle to win the war? Can the farmer and the cowman coexist? Are the Zaks still in the same spot? The victors in the battle are the territory folks who saw both entities cooperate in progress and unified development. Maybe there is a lesson in this song for everyone.

New Chapter of Conversation

In this new chapter, my wife has gone to pick up Joel and to spend a day and half with her mother. Suddenly I am alone in the house. I must keep the kitchen clean, do some laundry, feed the goats, cats, dog, empty the dishwasher, straighten the living room, sweep the back porch, check the mail, clean up the desk, vacuum the floor, and the multitude of other chores that seem to pervade the owning of a home. Don't misunderstand me entirely here, I do many of these things anyway, however, I must admit that most of them are at the encouragement of my wife. This probably means that were I to live alone, I would not be near as conscientious of these valuable needs, matters that make a house into a home, and details that may cause me some consternation and complaining but in fact provide stability and organization.

At the same time, I am somehow energized as I take care of these many things and anticipate settling down and reading another book by Philip Roth, who some consider the greatest living American novelist. I am not in conversation with myself, lest you fear I am no longer in touch with my personal faculties, but I am in conversation with my home, our animals (no, not at all like Dr. Doolittle, but rather in a solve some of their problems mode), and a book. Yet as I dwell on the many blessings and gifts of life and enjoy the quiet solitude of this moment as king of the castle, I also recognize that the castle means nothing without the people. The people give it warmth and give it meaning, and the people, with all their idiosyncracies, make it complete and make it a family.

Once again, I look forward to the return of my family to our humble domicile where peace is not found in silence but rather in love and compassion for each other. Each of us is a valued part of the whole with Joel and his smile, Jordan with his creativity and expression, Jacob with his objective pragmaticism, Clairissa with her domesticity and love of her family, and me with my...not sure what I offer but it must be something!

So I conclude this oddly personal conversation and will abruptly spin back to essays of philosophy for the future. Thanks for this brief opportunity to romanticize and embrace the Tucker family. My journey into Tuckerland has been short but rich in purpose. It is said that absence makes the heart grow fonder and in this case, the saying is so true.

Conversation

Things have been somewhat different lately for me and the Tucker household. For one thing, some of my closests friends have been laid up in surgery or traveling to all parts of the world including England! I enjoy bouncing thoughts and ideas off the people who know me and feel comfortable rolling their eyes in front of me, feel comfortable to say "that's crazy" or "ridiculous" or perhaps the occasional "maybe so"! Since the people who normally get to hear the multitude of ideas and opinions are gone, I have had to share thoughts with those who do not know me as well. This has caused many figurative scratching of heads and raised eyebrows at Rob's latest thoughts. In a way, this gives me many entertaining moments of seeking reactions but it also makes me slightly apprehensive to reveal too many new ideas.

Meanwhile, the three sons have gone to different locations--camp, work, and a few days at a family member's home. Suddenly, my wife and I are in the house without the boys, without the constant lovable interruptions, without the sound of piano, or computer, or the organ, or the frequency of questions about what to wear, or the sound of whoops when a team does well, or screams when the team is losing, and I haven't said to pick up the shoes and socks, or to put your dishes in the sink, or go feed the cats, check on the dog, and the list goes on and on. The strange thing is that we are able to finish a conversation.

At first we were unable to converse other than a typical discussion about the boys. But eventually we found ourselves in pleasant conversation about life, the house, careers, animals (real animals, not the boys), and other such fascinating subjects that couples often discuss. We then decided to head to the small, but charming town of Fredericksburg for shopping and dinner and further conversation. I did not take my computer (I thought I heard cries of sadness from this little machine), nor did I take a book for those lulls in the conversation, furthermore, when I encouraged her to take a book, she did not and said something about talking to each other. It was all rather new and exciting for us.

We spent the afternoon going through shops, trying some fudge (delicious, by the way), and looking at many items that we placed in the "one of these days" pile for future purchase. We then headed to a nice dinner of antelope (a first for both of us), quail, steak, potatoes, and triple chocolate cake with a layer of cheesecake. I had a few withdrawal tremors here and there wondering how my computer was doing, and we both missed the boys terribly, but at the same time it was a pleasant evening.

We love our family and each boy with all his uniqueness and special qualities is a treasure that we would not trade for anything in the world, and the times when the boys are all home with us are moments of the greatest joy, but at the same time, the day was both different and rewarding. It was nice to have a little time of quiet contemplation but we also cannot wait to have the boys back with us again. Perhaps it was a reminder to take a moment to finish a conversation occasionally!

Relentless

After watching the new Casino Royale for the 2nd time, I tried to decide why I enjoyed this particular film so much. I am no longer an avid movie fan, having become averse to much of the content that takes place in contemporary film including violence, sex humor, profanity, excessive special effects, and generally liberal themes. Yet, for some reason, I still occasionally find particular movies entertaining or especially rich in content or, in this instance, demonstrating a philosophy of which I find profound and imminently significant. You see, James Bond is relentless.

In the 2nd scene of the movie, Bond is completely committed to acquiring a cell phone that contains a phone number he needs to decipher who or what is behind the latest espionage situation, the latest potential world dominance, the bad guy doing bad things, the evil lurking in the in the foreground, the meaning and human behind the activity. Bond sets out to discover the truth, and he does so relentlessly and spares no part of himself in doing so, he appears willing to sacrifice his own life as he dedicates himself to the quest for the cell phone. By the same token, the antagonist is equally determined to prevent Bond from having the phone. What follows is a scene of cat and mouse that ends with the phone in the hands of James Bond.

In another scene, Bond again shows the same relentless determinacy to prevent a bomb from destroying a new state of the art airplane. Bond's ingenuity, intellect, and remarkable physical prowess is put to the limit as he runs, jumps, strikes, falls, and never hesitates to reach his goal of stopping the bomb. He may have had moments of insecurity or self-doubt but he did not let that deter his purpose nor did he allow his own human frailty to prevent him from doing what was right. He was intentional, proactive, and relentless in pursuing excellence, which, in this case, was preventing the explosion of the airplane.

But this essay is not about Casino Royale or even James Bond. It certainly is not a movie review and I do not consider myself any kind of film critic in any sense of the word. What we glean from James Bond is the value of being relentless in the quest for truth and for arriving at our stated objective. I once asked a choir director whose choirs were consistently precise, expressive, and known for their musical and emotional content, choirs that embodied excellence in every sense, choirs that made other choirs pale in comparison, how he achieved such magnificent musical results. He answered that he imagines hearing the finest choir on the planet and then teaches relentlessly to that goal. He allows nothing to stand in the way of that monumental dream.

When Beethoven composed his 5th symphony, he had trouble deciding how to end the 1st movement, and wrote three different ideas before settling on the one we hear today. Each ending was appropriate and each ending worked, but Beethoven could not settle for average, for passable, for unexceptional, or common, instead, he relentlessly sought the perfect ending to his remarkably powerful work.

In Hemingway's rich novel of human spirit and strength of will, The Old Man and the Sea, Santiago fights to land the Marlin amid overwhelming odds including his own weakening body in a strong testament of personal dedication to a difficult or seemingly impossible goal. In the book of Exodus, we find Moses, after resisting leadership, becoming committed to his God-ordained task of leading and delivering the Israelites to the promised land. Nothing will stop him as he encounters one challenge after another.

It is the attitude and practice of relentlessness that leads to excellence in achievement. In Plato's oddly nebulous but pointedly urbane allegory The Cave, we find a group of people whose concept of truth is the shadow upon the wall, people who are comfortable not knowing the cause of the shadow, and whose world-view is narrowly discerned from their limited experience. Sadly, they only know what they see and almost prefer the existence of the shadows with an acceptance of their delectation of life being based on their own myopic and falsely understood world, resulting in contentment to live in a state of mediocrity, ignorance, and darkness.

In returning to the James Bond example, his pursuit of justice was unmarred by his own personal restrictions, and he did not allow himself to be governed by those many self-imposed weaknesses that tend to affect all of us. It may be just a movie, and it may have little to nothing to do with reality, but there is hidden philosophy to which I wish to subscribe: to be relentless in pursuing excellence to the best of my ability and, unlike James Bond, I furthermore wish to honor God in all my efforts.

Learning

Learning,
there is always more to
learn, learn, learn, learn,

new information,
new things,
new ideas,
curious about it all, all,
wonder if
I
can learn it all, and
knowing
that I cannot, not, not,
but

I

pray

God
will allow
me
many, many, many, many
more years
to
try
try try try try try
to
learn
as much as possible
and,
more importantly
to
make
a
difference.

The Horn Player--Neurosis

We are all a little bit neurotic. This is partly or mostly due to the nature of the beast. You see, we are horn players. For this blog, I am going to use the nomenclature horn to designate what most people call a French horn since it is not really a "French" horn but in fact is an instrument with influence from several countries including Germany, England, France, and Italy. It is usually a flawed and sometimes dangerous practice to generalize personality traits or make judgments based on limited data and doing so can result in misunderstandings, but in this case, I am going to try. The life of a horn player playing his instrument is one of fear, joy, and occasionally sorrow.

The Horn is a difficult instrument requiring the courage of a lion and the sensitivity of a gentle lamb. The musical demands on the horn player are physically, emotionally, and musically exhausting. Yes, there are wonderfully exciting and exhilarating moments, moments to be loud, heroic, noble, commanding, strong, and muscular and these are balanced by the tender moments, those quiet, sensitive places that make the horn the most beautiful and touching of all the instruments. Its very diversity and magnitude make it treacherous for even the finest players, similar to walking a tightrope, or making that important and momentous move in a chess tournament, or hoping for your first kiss on a date, or awaiting your test results to pass your qualifying exams for your Ph.D., or skiing down the hardest slope, or eating a potentially poisonous piece of sushi, or making a speech to thousands, playing the horn is among the most stressful and rewarding experiences a person can have.

The rewards for excellence are numerous including accolades, frequent performances, recording contracts, specially composed works, and most of all the opportunity to play great music by the world's finest composers from solo to chamber to orchestral works. Even in my own mediocrity, I have been blessed to perform much of music's finest literature in many outstanding ensembles.

Equal to the rewards, however, comes the fear. The fear of the upcoming high, soft entrance. The fear of the look from the conductor. The racing of the heartbeat as a difficult solo gets nearer. The feeling whether real or perceived that the other players doubt your ability to play it well. The question of the possibility of letting the section or the orchestra or the conductor or even the audience down by playing something wrong. Or at another level, the fear of not being in tune or being too loud or too soft. The hours and years in the practice room will either find successful fruition or be recognized as a gross waste of time and effort. Which will it be?

That high note, just one note, not even all that important gets nearer and the measures move along steadily through various orchestrations and sonorities. It is only one note but it happens to be by itself. To hit it correctly is to win the game, right through the goalposts of musicball and become the champion, but to miss it is to wear a stigma on your forehead screaming loud and clear for all--LOSER. It is that last necessary free throw that will live forever in the minds of the players and the audience. It is the one opportunity for greatness, a life in the musical palace of excellence, or a life in the mudtown of substandard performance. You are mighty Casey and this is your last at bat. You will either become President of the horn success club or become Yertle the Turtle, king of nothing.

The note gets closer and closer and you wonder if you will survive. Your heart rate is fast and you begin to see lights spinning and feel weakness throughout your body. Shaking and quivering begins quickly to overtake your limbs and adrenaline threatens to implode your frail physiological self. The note is two measures away as you lift your horn for that treacherous moment. You place the horn on your face, breathe deeply, place your tongue carefully, hear the note in your mind, you know where it is and where it will be. Suddenly, almost shockingly, the orchestra drops out, the conductor glances your way, raises his baton, and signals the note...

After the concert, you get in the car, drive home, rest in the easy chair, and reflect on the evening. The note was played beautifully with precision, poise, sensitivity, and expression. Your palace is your home and the joy of the moment is past. You spend some time laughing at yourself and realize for the thousandth time in your career that horn players are neurotic for a good reason. Once again you wonder if it is all worth it...and you conclude without a doubt it is. As you turn in for the evening, you remind yourself to hide your neurosis from the rest world and attempt to be normal. But when you meet another horn player, there is no pretending. We are an odd but special breed. Such is the life of a horn player. Another day, another 50 cents!

Imagination--Pt. II

I had imagined my doctorate and had put the steps in place to make it happen, but I needed that extra spark, that electric charge, the dream that can become a reality, the mental elevator that moves easily to the top, the warp drive Scotty sets in motion to move the enterprise from one galaxy to another. I wanted to beam myself to the end but needed a transporter! That transporter came in the form of Dr. Scott Huston, my theory teacher at the University of Cincinnati, College-Conservatory of Music where I was working on my Master of Music.

As I was watching Star Trek, following Dr. Huston's stunning revelation that he had composed music for the show, I began to listen carefully. One show in particular had a beautiful, haunting musical theme, a theme of nostalgia and meditation, a gentle but poignant theme of purity. This particular music had that unusual quality of being personal yet collective in the way that magic seems to block out the rest of the world and resides in the mind of the observer. This theme was set in the phrygian mode, a mode often reserved for Spanish style music, but in fact, is a mode of pacifism and sweet beauty. A mode that is neither happy nor sad, nor powerful, nor weak, a mode that belongs in the hearts of the listener, a mode I memorized, a mode and a theme I can recreate even today. As I listened, I became convinced this was written by Dr. Huston.

The next day I ventured down the hallway where his office was located. Although the door was open, it was understood that a student did not go in unannounced. His office was unusually large with his desk near the back window and a grand piano occupying much of the space just inside the doorway. He sat at his desk working solemnly on grading papers and grunting harsh sounds probably intended for some poor unsuspecting student unaware of his disdain for poor work. I walked in softly, unlike Teddy Roosevelt I was without a big stick of any kind, and sat at the bench and began to play the theme I had heard the night before. As I played, Dr. Huston never looked up but he did stop writing. I finished the theme rather cautiously but also confident I was playing the notes correctly and Dr. Huston said, "Whoever that is, gets an A!" He then raised his head and asked me how I figured it out. I told him that I remembered his love of modes and how he had written for Star Trek.

We began an odd mentor-friend relationship that day that lasted until I moved from Cincinnati. We would stop each other in the halls and discuss perfect music, or the golden mean, or a new orchestration technique, or the worth of a particular composer. He was quite opinionated about music and felt free to criticize music he did not deem quality. At the same time, he would glow when talking about music that contained warmth, beauty, and expression. While he sometimes continued his irritating practice of meanness, which turned out to be a facade, I also knew he truly cared about me and wanted the best for all his students. He was a brilliant musician, intellectual, emotional, passionate, with a heart of gold for people.

As I finished my studies with Dr. Huston in that particular theory class, he gave me a gift that keeps on giving to the present time. He gave me a gift reserved for me. I know not whether I was one of many to receive the same gift or, as I like to think, the only one to ever receive it. In order to get our final test back, we had to give Dr. Huston a self-addressed stamped envelope. I went to his office and handed him my envelope. He looked at me and said, "NO" in that angry tone I had come to both dread and to love. It was a tone with a touch of humor, a roughness that could not mask the genuine compassion he felt. It was a tone of a gruff grandfather or of a father stopping the dangerous behavior of a child.

He said, "NO," gave it back to me and said, "Put Dr. in front of your name." I quickly disagreed stating that I had not even quite finished my Masters degree. He smiled, a smile of kindness, a smile of knowledge, a smile that spoke of wisdom and goodness, and looked at me directly in the eyes and said, "Put it on the envelope and one day it will be true." These few words spoken directly to me and for me entered my being and resided there, never to leave. These few words led to my placing Dr. in front of my name, and although at the time I may have questioned their validity, ultimately Dr. Huston's words became true.

I cannot complete this story without acknowledging my thanks to Dr. Huston. I feel the tears welling up in gratitude for the prophetic gift, a gift that kept on giving, and still gives today. To Dr. Huston I owe so much: for making me see music specifically and comprehensively, for teaching me to hear all that happens in music, for giving me tools in which to judge music, for helping me love music old and new, for showing me how to be demanding of myself and my students but at the same time to love them, and mostly for inspiring me to do my best and complete my task of getting my PhD. Thank you Dr. Huston for helping my imagination become a reality. Your music, your words, and your life continue to have a profound affect on thousands.

It's all in the Imagination--Pt. I

As I continue to examine goals, challenges, and results, I remain convinced that imagination is one of the most important characteristics that we need to invoke in our daily lives. Whether one is a laborer, plumber, educator, doctor, politician, city employee, or lawyer, imagination ultimately led to the profession in one form or another. Imagination is that creative mental and emotional application formed and fabricated purely in the mind with or without foundation in reality. The imagination can be visual and colorful, sad and frightening, entertaining and thrilling, or filled with the complexities found in everyday life.

Some people have an imagination worthy of a Dean Koontz novel or a Robert Jordan fantasy while others limit their imagination to attainable realities such as immediate or purposeful goals that can be set in motion through pragmatic application. The imagination comes before goals and the imagination defines parameters of excellence or acceptable judgments. It is the imagination that envisioned cities, buildings, highways, symphonies, sculptures, books, relationships, improvements, computers, shoes, clothes, institutions, philosophies, medicines, churches, movies, and restaurants. All of these and more began with a dream in someone's mind. It is the dreamers who make a difference, it is the dreamers who imagine a better world.

Yet even the dreamers often need a little help, a little prod, or a moment of encouragement, encouragement from a friend or a teacher or passing event, that moment that seems to relive frequently in the mind as an event worthy of a greater goal, a moment locked in time forever that reminds us to keep our imagination alive, a moment that transcends the challenges and walls found along our journey, a moment that is more than a moment and instead becomes foundational to success.

During the stress of pursuing my Doctor of Philosophy degree, I often wanted to give up and emphasize something else. While the Ph.D. had been a long time dream and I often imagined being Dr. Tucker, the time away from my family was difficult, the workload excessive, the environment, though stimulating, not always to my liking, and the financial hardship became burdensome and unfair. Fighting mild depression, loneliness, and self-doubt were normal mental activities that melded with the exciting intellectual and musical pursuits. Yet, the many encouraging words from friends and family members took a back seat to a striking memory of an event that happened many years before.

In a theory class in Cincinnati, Ohio at the College-Conservatory of Music, there taught a professor whose demeanor was equal to his reputation. He was mean or so I thought at the time. He had little to no patience with "dumb" questions, which he felt free to express the quality of the question in class, and he had little regard for those who did not understand or those who did not see or hear music in the correct way. He was often unkempt, rough in language, passionate in delivery, and aggressive in criticism, while maintaining a seemingly dispassionate aloofness and antipathy toward all his students. He had no interest in our names, our backgrounds, our abilities, or our situations. He was only interested in imparting the information regardless of the results, regardless of our feelings, and regardless of our reactions to that information. The end, that is knowledge, was superior to the means, that is the process. He was easy to hate, and I discovered years later, easy to love.

I was partially afraid of him, fear I would be called upon, and fear I might not know what was expected, but also found myself entranced by his ability, his musical instincts, his earthy yet lofty philosophy of learning and of life, his bold unapproachable brilliance, and mostly the mysterious, edgy aura that surrounded him. One memorable day, Dr. Huston sat at the piano yelling at us to learn our modes, that each mode has significance, and each mode sounds unique, that each mode sets a tone of emotion. While most of the class, a graduate class devoid of opinions and only concerned with how to get an A in the class, intensely wrote all he was saying, I was busy trying to interpret exactly how each mode altered the emotions of the music. While he was playing, singing (his singing was strangely harsh, tuneful but unpleasant, accurate but similar to an amplified mosquito on its way to attack some poor soul), and yelling, I heard a casual reference that he had composed some music for the television show Star Trek.

I was shocked and amazed and found myself curious about this man who seemed to love music but hate people. A profound musician who had composed music for a television show. Perhaps I was wrong, perhaps he had both a deeper, and lighter side we had not seen yet. My quest for the truth and partly for his affirmation had begun.

It's a God Thing

The other day, as I lined up for commencement, I was concerned about being placed on the left side of the procession rather than the right so as to be near the choir. Since I was playing my horn with the choir, this would provide fewer distractions and quick access to my designated performance spot. I went to the person in charge to look at the line up and she pointed out with excitement that indeed I was on the left side and even near the choir. I said, “Thank you, that worked out well.” Nearby I heard someone say, “It must be a God thing.”

I have heard that phrase frequently the last few weeks and have decided to address it. As my readers know, I do believe in angels and I also lean on the Calvinistic side of predestination. I have formed a type of hybrid philosophy that melds Arminianism with Calvinism, a blending of free will to act out our daily lives, God governed control over major events and ultimate destiny. With this, I believe God gives us freedom to make mistakes and conversely freedom to honor and serve him with acts of goodness and in worship. I sometimes wish for less freedom but in the end I am comforted to know that to an extent I control my own daily life.

Yet, there is no doubt that sometimes things just plain old happen over which we have no control. While God certainly has the right and the ability to manipulate, plan, and implement the events we read about each day, He also has the right and ability to allow humans to make their own mistakes. It also seems that sometimes things go well and sometimes they don’t. At what point do we claim that God is the author and illustrator of every event that happens? As I sit in this coffee shop writing this blog, I wonder if God decided where I would park, what I would drink, what I would think, write, whom I would see, and what events would happen today.

While there is no doubt that God could have planned that my location in the procession would easily allow me access to the choir, I wonder if He really did. Is God really concerned about these mundane events? Could it have been simply a nice coincidence? What if, hypothetically speaking, I had been placed at the end of the procession on the wrong side? Would this also have been a God thing at an effort to learn humility? What if, as we were processing down the long aisle, I looked down and saw a $1000 bill (which might cover our quickly growing gasoline bill). Would this be a God thing? What if my fortune at being placed near the choir resulted in sitting in a broken chair where I fell and bruised my lip and did not get to play my horn? Would this be a God thing?

Is there a time where we simply admit that things go wrong or things go right? Or do we look around and see the raging battle between God and Satan as they work to make small differences in the minute events that accompany us each day? But is it really fair to God to attribute His hand in things like lining up for a procession or getting a good parking spot at Walmart? Conversely, should we blame Satan for a stomachache or a flat tire or for running out of toothpaste?

As you can see, I have more questions than answers on this issue, but I also have to wonder if we are overusing that expression to an extent. Yet, whether or not that is true, there is no doubt that each of us finds comfort in knowing God is looking out for our well-being. While I might be a touch cynical about His involvement in our daily activities, I have little doubt that He wraps his arms around us and guides us through our life, lifts us out of the mire, and fills us with His abiding and steadfast love. Is he the orchestrator of every little event that occurs minute by minute? Maybe. Is He the guiding light and does His word give us a system of truth for our own decisions? Absolutely.

Censorship of the Arts in Private Institutions

I was recently asked my position on censorship in the arts and decided to write a series on this major issue. There are several complex levels that affect this issue including public perception, perceived Christian values, personal impressions, creative license, societal decency, personal expression, and financial support for the arts. As a college administrator in the arts it often comes to my attention and even my decision to allow or disallow questionable language, events, scenes, or images. Fortunately, in the traditional music curriculum, censorship rarely rears its ugly head, but at the same time, we as musicians need to be aware of the higher implications of censorship as we continue to progress in quality and creativity. This issue does, however, directly affect visual and theater arts.

How do I (we) make these decisions? Are there specific criteria that help us determine right from wrong or offensive from acceptable? Do we often find ourselves in the Supreme Court decision that says, “I cannot define it, but I know it when I see it.”? It is easy as a Christian to rely on scripture for our definition of cultural morality, but unfortunately scripture does not always give us a recipe for goodness. God has apparently given us a free will to an extent to make our own decisions and determine our daily moral behavior. In reality we have two external documents that give us guidance as we make these decisions—one is the Bible and the other is the law. In many instances, the rules are the same. For example, scripture says do not kill and so does the law. But scripture does not say do not paint nudes. The law does not say do not paint nudes. Yet, as Christians we are uncomfortable in the presence of art that emphasizes nudity. So our decision is based partly on societal norms and partly on our own prescription and definition of right and wrong. This then makes the decision wildly subjective and reliant on assumptions, feelings, and reactions.

Having read several articles on the ratings system in Hollywood, I remain convinced that it is very difficult to apply objective mandates on what is ultimately human reaction. For me, personally, I am generally more offended by violent images than I am relationship themes or language, although I do sometimes find undue emphasis being placed on sexuality in the arts. I also wonder if we have become somewhat desensitized to the use of profanity in films. I do expect always to be offended by profanity in one form or another. On the other hand, as a parent, I enjoy protecting my children from all worldly content whenever possible, but as an academic dean, I want to be true to the discipline of the arts and honor the creative license of the artist. In truth, I have yet to meet someone entirely consistent on this issue. Each of us approaches morality in slightly different ways and each person draws the line in the sand so to speak in a different spot. I would refer you to: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MPAA_film_rating_system.

As a musical artist myself, I want the rights to interpret music according to my own training, knowledge, and personal expression. Furthermore, as a composer, I enjoy composing music that is in my heart and in my thoughts. It is my opportunity to create without having to answer to anyone or without the typical restrictions imposed by leaders. Writing music is my chance to create that which is within me. An artist should have a right to create the art that exists in his imagination without fear of reprisal. Yet if an artist's rights interfere with another person's right not to experience or see the work, then rights have been violated. In this respect, it is the reaction of other person which determines the objectionable content.

Since there seems to be no clear cut solution to the issue of what is acceptable and what is not, it stands to reasons to look to a council comprised of people seeking truth. If in fact there are difficult decisions to be made, I believe the wisdom of many can often determine objectionable content in a sort of representational way similar to how our government ideally operates (a frightening thought for sure!). According to Emmanuel Kant, the combined opinions of experts in a particular field provide enough evidence to support a particular view. To that end, I am first going to seek scriptural support for any censoring of artistic materials, secondly, look to the law for governance, and finally build consensus through the council of several. It is my goal to create, honor, and support the arts in a wide variety of media, but it is also my goal never to offend anyone as we continue to expound and express the powerful emotions that surround all the arts. Is this too lofty of an expectation? Perhaps, but is it also worth the effort? A resounding yes!

Medea Today

I just had the pleasure and the pain of experiencing a Greek drama--the tragedy known as Medea. This ancient story is of a deep, profound love that produced two beautiful children; but alas, the man betrayed the woman and married someone else. In her anger, she murders the man's new bride, the bride's father, and then her own children. Her hatred and her selfishness grew greater than her love for her children. Her desire for revenge overruled her compassion. In the end, she could not love with as much passion as she could hate, and her hatred infested her soul, seeping out of her pores in a wicked display of contentiousness and unbridled evil.

The hurt in her heart tortured her veins with pain and manifested itself in a hate so engrossing and so complete as to destroy any and all humanity that resided within her. She was captive to her own self execration and malediction. Although there were moments of hope of forgiveness and tenderness particularly as regards her own children, she did not allow those emotions to govern her actions, instead she squelched the good and exacerbated the negative which in turn transformed her into a hate monger with desire to inflict pain on those around her. She acquired a mental disease that infested her.

How often do we allow this to happen? Are we ruled by hatred or by love? What can we do to end the hatred in ourselves and others and replace it with love and gentleness? What are the causes of abhorrence, self-loathing, and violence? Is it possible to end the hate and emphasize the love individually and collectively?

When Medea murdered her children in order to exact revenge upon her scandalous husband she murdered a major portion of herself. When we hate, we are destroying our own soul and we decide whether to love or to hate, to forgive or to seek revenge, to eradicate circumspection, or to practice apostasy. Medea teetered on the brink of insanity, and historically may have crossed the line earlier, but in her lucidity and compassion she nearly conquered her hatred:

And you will nevermore your mother see,

Nor live as ye have done beneath her eye.

Alas, my sons, why do you gaze on me,

Why smile upon your mother that last smile?

Ah me! What shall I do? My purpose melts

Beneath the bright looks of my little ones.

I cannot do it. Farewell, my resolve,

I will bear off my children from this land.Why

should I seek to wring their father's heart,

When that same act will doubly wring my own?

I will not do it. Farewell, my resolve.

Yet, in the end she was unable to keep her self-respect and her dignity by avoiding the ultimate destruction of herself and the ones she loved. She uncontrollably resolved to extinguish all love and in a sense all humanity.

Fortunately, Medea does not represent "Everyman" but she does represent the potential for evil that may lie within us. While she may have relinquished her hold on her powerful evil emotions, we do not have to do so. We, the collective we, do not have to fall into barbarism and selfishness. "Moral action is never automatic; it presupposes intention, free choice. And intention inevitably either begins or must pass through the mind."--Jacob Needleman in Why Can't We Be Good. We can choose to be evil or choose to be good.

It is the preponderance of love in our hearts that prevents the events of Medea. Perhaps God's greatest gift is love. As God loves us, so also should we love others, applying love unequivocally and unconditionally. Art, theater, visual, or music, can teach, train, and guide our behavior both positively and negatively, but in the case of Medea, we learn how not to act and how not to resign ourselves to evil. We gain from the mistakes of others. I hope we apply the lessons well.

Why Teach Music?

Why should we teach music and why should music be included in the curriculum? Related to this question is a general discussion on the role of the arts in education and in culture at large. I believe it is time to consider an integration of the arts in a multitude of dramatic, intellectual, and appealing ways. The old model of separation of the arts into basic disciplines may no longer have the market value of reaching people myopically. Our eclectic world is beginning to demand a creative blend of artistic elements. Those willing to take the step into arts integration are the ones who will make the difference.

Meanwhile, the education of music continues with a myriad of methods, priorities, and results. We teach music because there is a demand to do so. People want to know more about it. We do not teach music simply to provide entertainment at games, events, or movies. We do not teach music because it makes us feel good or meets some kind of emotional need. We do not teach music because we are called to be musicians and we do not know what else to do nor do we teach music because we have a selfish agenda to mold others into our own criterion of musical excellence.

We teach music because we are demanded by culture to do so and because we love it and sense that it makes a difference in people's lives. We teach music because humans need it, respond to it, and those with the knowledge and skills have an obligation to teach it. While there is no question that aptitude in music exists and that talent, to an extent, is innate and difficult to understand, there is also no doubt that music and music making can be educated and can grow through knowledge and effort.

We can all name those who seem to be born with musical gifts and conversely we can all name those who do not seem to have "it." How often have I heard the comment, "I can only play the radio and cannot do that very well." Or "I do not have a musical bone in my body" or "You don't want me in the choir, I would ruin it" or my personal favorite, "I can hardly blow my nose, much less a musical instrument!" Yet, I do not subscribe nor accept any of these views (keep in mind, that I often find myself in the age-old dilemma of respecting the rights of all people to express themselves even though I often disagree with their assessment).

As Shinichi Suzuki says, "Talent can be educated." Music skills can be taught and with knowledge, love of music grows. In college curriculum for music, we teach music theory, music history, performance styles, ensemble experience, and various performance media. We work to encourage the frequent practice of the skills, seek to develop further skills, and impart specific and general knowledge about music to our students. Ultimately we, as teachers, hope to see musical independence with regard to performance and musical communication.

While we tend to teach a narrow concept of music and music literature in the college curriculum, we also desire that the skills gained can be used to communicate a wide variety of music to a wide variety of people. We recognize that all types of music have a place in the human experience but we choose to use the fundamental knowledge of music to lead us to a pathway of excellence in performance and music literature (I realize I just opened Pandora's box with my weak rationalization for why we prefer certain types of music! But let's wait until another day to discuss that one).

Music exists dramatically in culture both globally and individually. Its collective benefits are what makes music universal, social, and vastly communicative. For the individual, however, music takes on a personal design that reaches inside the soul and finds those unspoken emotions and feelings that round out our personal makeup. The human spirit requests music for greater sensitivity to beauty, to experience depth of thought and emotions, and to seek more compassion, gentleness, and gain a greater appreciation of life. In short music improves us and helps us be better people.

Although I hesitate to turn music making into a commodity, in a way it is that very thing for it is traded, sold, and processed as an invaluable tool for all of us. We teach it because we need it and we teach it because we owe it to ourselves and to music itself to be the best musicians we can be. Let us treat it well and let us continue to gain from music as it washes us thoroughly in its magic and its goodness.