Becoming Unimpressed
Right Things
“Why would anybody want to pay money to watch someone smash pumpkins?”
I remember it like yesterday when my grandmother asked the question with complete sincerity.
She spent her later career as the head of ticket sales for Music Maker Productions at Mississippi State University. Her days were spent meticulously tracking tickets in the days before the conglomerate clearinghouses and helping people attend concerts. Even with such close proximity to world famous musicians, celebrity never seemed to impress her very much.
When I asked her for front row seats so I could see the Smashing Pumpkins she lovingly obliged. But her question stuck with me because she wasn’t making a joke. She literally thought smashing pumpkins was their act.
“Why would anybody want to pay money to watch someone smash pumpkins?”
That was my Meme. She spent years working around concerts without becoming impressed by the people on the stage regardless of how familiar their names.
Years later, I realized I had slowly become unimpressed too.
For me, it didn’t happen all at once. Rather, it unfolded through a series of encounters with people the rest of the world seemed determined to idolize.
It would be years before I realized how much I had learned from her.
During seminary, I began meeting people whose names carried weight in academic circles. Professors whose books prepared generations of pastors and theologians. Preachers whose sermons instructed and inspired. Scholars whose presence arrived well before they ever walked into the classroom.
And then they started talking.
Some were every bit as wise and much more gracious than I had imagined. Others were dripping with brilliance but were at the same time surprisingly ordinary. A few seemed to have bought into their own reputations. The longer I was in their presence, the more I noticed that their titles told me very little about the person standing in front of me.
It was my first lesson that influence and character are not the same thing.
The seminary lesson stayed with me, but it wasn’t fully tested until I deployed to Kuwait in 2009.
One afternoon, Arnold Schwarzenegger arrived at my airfield while waiting to fly into Iraq on a USO tour. He had long been one of the most recognizable people on the planet. Soldiers, Marines, Sailors, and Airmen all knew exactly who he was. Heads turned. Conversations stopped. People suddenly found reasons to be nearby.
My job wasn’t to be impressed. It was to take care of a guest—and to make sure he made it on the right plane to take him forward to the troops in harm’s way.
We found a place to wait. We talked for a while. He smoked a cigar and passed the time in the customs area. I remember quietly hoping he wouldn’t light another match since we were so close to the aircraft.
Somewhere in the middle of that ordinary conversation, Arnold Schwarzenegger stopped being Arnold Schwarzenegger. Somewhere in the midst of a visit on a random flight line in the Kingdom of Kuwait, he became simply another human being waiting on a flight, passing the time like everyone else.
During that deployment, and in future assignments, that experience would repeat itself.
A few years later, I was assigned as the Chaplain of Camp David.
For most people, Camp David is a place wrapped in mystery. For those of us who were blessed to work there, it was simply where we went to work every morning.
Presidents arrived. Vice Presidents followed. Kings and monarchs, cabinet secretaries, members of Congress, generals, admirals, foreign leaders, entertainers, athletes, and business executives came through those fortified gates.
After a while, the titles faded into the background. And I found myself paying attention to something else entirely.
One cold February morning, a young Marine stood beside the chapel bell waiting for the Vice President to arrive for Sunday worship. Snow covered the ground and the chill in the air cut through any layers we were fortunate to be able to wear in uniform.
As the Vice President approached, the Marine came to attention, rendered a salute, and said, “Good morning, Mr. Vice President.”
The Vice President returned the salute, reached out to shake the Marine’s hand, and gave a gentle tug toward the chapel.
“Son, come inside. It’s too cold for you to be out here.”
The Marine did as he was told.
But almost immediately, and likely because the First Sergeant was lurking in the bushes, he returned to the bell to complete his assignment and stand his post. Orders were orders.
Without hesitation, the Vice President stepped back outside.
“Hey, Marine. I told you to come inside.”
Not every encounter unfolded that way.
I stopped paying much attention to the position each visitor held, and I became far more interested in how they treated the people no one else noticed.
A random staff member.
The steward.
The gate guard.
The Marine standing in the cold.
Those encounters told me far more about a person’s character than any title, office, or reputation ever could.
On another occasion, a senior government official was present for a visit.
After a meeting concluded, he erupted over something that most people would never have noticed. The target of his frustration was not another elected official, a senior officer, or a member of his own staff. It was a young sailor whose only mistake was being the nearest person in uniform.
During one of my grandmother’s visits to Washington, we had lunch in the White House Navy Mess.
In the middle of our meal, several senior officials, including the President and the Vice President, walked past the dining room on their way to the Situation Room.
My grandmother stopped eating and watched them disappear down the hallway.
She never expected lunch at the White House, and she certainly never expected the President to walk by.
The person who left the deepest impression on me wasn’t a president, a vice president, a king, or a celebrity.
He was a young Marine named Kyle.
Kyle was the kind of Marine everyone hoped would stand their watch. Quiet. Dependable. The sort of person who did the right thing because it was the right thing to do, even when no one was watching. More importantly, Kyle was the kind of guy every other Marine hoped to call a friend.
One day, while driving back toward Camp David, Kyle saw a stranded motorist alongside the road. It was pouring down rain. He pulled over to help.
As he stood outside his vehicle assisting someone he had never met, another car struck him and then fled the scene.
Kyle died doing something no title could ever make a person do.
He loved his neighbor enough to stop.
A few days later, I buried Kyle in North Carolina.
I found myself impressed by quiet acts of kindness, humility, and sacrifice. The people who changed me most were seldom the ones whose names appeared in newspapers. They weren’t the ones occupying concert stages. They were the ones who quietly loved their neighbors.
I’m grateful my grandmother taught me that lesson before I realized she was teaching it.