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Making
things happen - with integrity. A weekly CyberMemo designed to keep you on task. Monday November 13, 2000 Volume II Number 46 |
FOCUS - The Moon Gate
I call it a statistical impossibility.
Yes, more voters than ever showed up at the polls. Yes, it was a hotly contested campaign. Yes, the media are more pervasive than our forebears could have imagined. Yes, the country is divided philosophically. Yes, much of the rhetoric on both sides has been exaggerated, and sloganized, and in many cases misleading.
And they said it would be close. But this close? Gore’s current lead in the popular vote is 0.1917612%. Less than two tenths of one percent. Bush’s lead over Gore is 0.00561849% in Florida. That’s less that one one-hundredth of a percentage point. And there are several other states just as close.
And as of this writing, we still do not know who our next President will be.
* * * * * *
I went to bed on election night, that would the morning after election night, thinking, Kemp, you are a hopeless, hapless, pathetic political junky. It was nearly two in the morning. I was talking to myself. (Thankfully, my time zone is Pacific Standard. If I lived anywhere eastward, it well would have been even deeper into the morning.) As I dropped into bed, exhausted, spent, confused, I laid awake, staring at the ceiling, not quite believing the drama I had just witnessed via satellite transmission to my TV.
“Ken, you could have read about it in the morning for crying out loud,” I said to myself. Audibly. Carolyn was too soundly asleep to notice.
As we left the house after supper earlier that night, off to teach a small group at Paradise Mountain, we thought we knew the outcome. All the networks agreed; Florida, Michigan and then Pennsylvania, all, early on, before the West Coast polls closed, were projected for Gore. These were key battleground states that would be key indicators of the ultimate outcome, we were told. The Gore camp was pictured in a state of euphoric celebration in Nashville, screaming and shouting and waving banners and pointing “Number One!” fingers to the sky and as we snapped off the television set, and jumped in the car… we believed we knew who would be the next President of the United States.
The first thing I said to my small group was, “OK, tonight, we are going to clear the deck of all political talk. We’re here to explore a Bible passage, and to encourage and support each other. We’ll leave our political preferences at the door, and enjoy the next hour and a half as a break from the national obsession with the fate of Social Security and the inclusion of prescription drugs as a benefit of Medicare.”
Everyone seemed relieved.
When we got home about nine-thirty, I thought I’d switch on the TV, get confirmation of the Gore victory, and head off to bed. Maybe check in on the race to control the House and the Senate. Oh yeah, one more thing… the New York Senatorial race. I had to know.
As the bright color picture came into view, the banner at the bottom of the screen startled me. How can it be? The electoral count between the two candidates stood as a dead heat, two hundred forty apiece. With the three battleground states in the Gore column, how could Bush’s count be so high?
And within seconds, it became clear. The networks, just a few minutes earlier, removed Florida from the Gore side, and labeled it “Too Close to Call.” I was stunned.
I was also hooked.
So I found that over-stuffed chair, and made myself comfortable, and stared, like the zombie we all hope our children will never be, at the flickering screen and the talking heads and the animated computer graphics spinning in front of me. I was in a media stupor. Wondering, what does this mean?
And with each new posting, Bush’s count increased. And Gore’s lead diminished. And as we waited for the crucial Florida count, enough other states were branded with projected winners to make it abundantly clear – the winner of the popular vote in the State of Florida, by Constitutional design, would be the next President of the United States.
Carolyn looked over at her husband (me) sitting there comatose, surrounded by pillows and handheld remotes in an easy chair, in a trance, unaware of anything or anyone else in the room. She wondered how her Prince Charming had been reduced to this paralyzed automaton, hanging on Tom Brokaw’s every word. She prayed, “why me, Lord?”
By now it was after eleven o’clock. Bush pulled ahead in the Florida vote, as Brian Williams put a hand over his earpiece and announced, “we have a projection… yes… we are ready to call it… The State of Florida. When all the votes are counted, NBC News has projected the winner to be the Republican candidate, George W. Bush.”
A brightly colored graphic flashed on the screen. It was a flattering photograph of Bush smiling broadly and standing before the Presidential Seal and the words, in formal typeface, proclaiming “George W. Bush, 43rd President of the United States.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Willams turned formal, “let me introduce to you the next President.”
There are three or four remotes resting on the table beside my over-stuffed chair and ottoman. I have mastered them all. I am quite capable of not only finding the one I want in the dark, but I can also control each without the benefit of light. It’s by touch – the brail system of audio-visual remote control.
I thought perhaps that what I saw before me was one more news organization blunder, one more erroneous rush to judgment. So I looked for confirmation on the other networks. Grabbing the correct remote, I quickly scanned the other stations. ABC. NBC. CNN. MSNBC. CBS. FOX. All of them. And they all confirmed the same result.
Eleven fifteen p.m. George W. Bush, the projected winner.
I checked in on them all. Jennings. Rather. Woodruff. Jeff Greenfield. Bernie Shaw. Tim Russert. Brokaw. Williams. Couric. All of them. They seemed relieved. (I think they were eager to sign off and go home.) For the next half hour, I bounced around the satellite signals, listening to each speak in glowing terms about our next President. His brilliant campaign. The last minute strategies. The speeches. The confidence. The likeability. The extraordinary campaign team. The first-rate advisors who now will have Cabinet posts. The critical role brother Jeb played in delivering the State of Florida. His proud parents (“they should be,” all the anchors agreed). And then the devastating, ruinous errors of the Gore campaign. The media giants basked in the late-night glow of electoral decision-making.
This time, it was the Bush supporters in Austin in rapt celebration. And the Gore supporters in Nashville, mourning.
“Look at this!” I said to Carolyn.
“I’m going to bed.” She got up from the couch.
“I’ll be there soon, but I want to see the speeches.”
Up to that point, a reasonable person might have generously considered me an informed and involved citizen. But that one line, indicating I would stay up, at near midnight, cinched it. I had crossed the line - from responsible, reasonable, balanced participation in the American political process to demented, sleep deprived, irrational, hypnotic obsession.
Is there a twelve-step program for guys like me?
Carolyn would gladly sign me up.
* * * * *
Connie and Clyde Childress moved to our town two years ago. Orange County real estate had been very good to them. They picked out their dream retirement property on top of a hill, with views and vistas all around. Five acres.
They
set aside a million dollars for the landscaping.
The gardens and pavilion are nearly complete. This week, the Childress’s invited us over for a walk through.
The graveled entrance they modestly call The Grand Concourse. To the right is a tropical garden that rivals Disneyland’s Jungle Cruise. Pathways take you through the palm branches and banana trees, the waterfalls and koi ponds with lily pads. Water runs through the creek bed. Walking bridges and trails ramble around to the water’s edge and grass roofed patios, with slate floors and blooming birds of paradise and coconut trees.
On the other side of the Grand Concourse is the Pavilion, a covered arbor held up by white columns, grape vines hanging from above with more slate tile flooring and round tables and fountains and a stereo sound system.
To the north, an English rose garden, and to the east, tropical fruits and then cactus. But just down the hill, an Oriental garden with Pagoda style walking bridges and canopies.
The gateway to the Japanese Garden is an
unusual circular opening, a perfect round of stonework.
Through the aperture, you can see the delicate plants, the stream
tumbling over falls into yet another lily pond and off in the distance graceful
mountains under fluffy clouds and a blue sky.
Clyde and Connie call it “The Moon Gate.”
Round as the full moon, the Gate gives you a rare perspective.
Perhaps nowhere else is the partnership between God and man more apparent than in the garden. All the shapes and sizes and colors of plants and trees and flowers and shrubs and fruits and nuts. Each a matchless creation. The human role in the garden is to plant, prune, shape, weed, feed, water, plan – and give it all a sense of orderliness. Symmetry. Trim. Every gardener is inspired by the peerless work of the Creator. No gardener will ponder the wonders of the chrysanthemum or the aster without a humble acknowledgement of the Master Designer’s hand. Conversely, no hedgerow maintains itself. Every garden needs a gardener. Have you ever seen a neglected garden? Uh, yeah. Me, too. Indeed.
Stand at the Moon Gate for a while, and you will be filled with a sense of wonder and awe that transcends the transitory winds of change, the pressures of the moment, the willy nilly twists and turns of every day life. Stand there. Look around. Breath deeply. Take it in. Get some perspective.
Gardens do that.
* * * * * * *
It was after one thirty in the morning. Tuesday… uh, that would be Wednesday morning.
I was still up, waiting for the concession speech Vice President Al Gore was expected to make before his grieving supporters and a watching world… whomever of them might still be awake, that is. And then I planned to hang in there for Bush’s victory speech. We had been told that Gore made a telephone call to Bush, following protocol, congratulating him on his victory and conceding defeat.
We waited. And waited some more.
“Mr. Gore has made his way to the platform, and is waiting behind the curtain,” the reporter announced blurrily. “We are told he will be approaching the microphone to concede this election momentarily.”
The two at the anchor desk made small talk while I yawned again. And then, one more look at the Florida vote.
Tom Brokaw reported, “Let’s take a look. With ninety four percent of the precincts counted, it looks like Governor Bush’s lead has been reduced from over ten thousand, to a mere five hundred votes.”
“That’s a mandatory recount, Tom,” said Tim Russert.
We waited a little longer. Al Gore never made it to the microphone. He changed his mind, with a little help from his advisors. The last thing they reported before I called it a night was that he telephoned G.W. to recant his concession. Someone got snippy, I heard.
That’s when I stumbled down the hall and dropped into bed, exhausted, wondering why in the world I allowed myself to be lured into this curious drama so late that fateful night.
I could have read the summary in the morning paper in about ten minutes.
Frankly, not much has changed since I fell asleep in those wee small hours of the morning.
* * * * * * *
It’s another Monday. You are a leader.
We all thought by now that the election would be over… and that we could move on to other things. And yet, here we are, still in the trough of presidential uncertainty.
Jay Leno complained that he had a terrible nightmare. He tossed and turned as aliens from outer space invaded planet Earth. The Martians pounded on his door and then smashed their way in demanding, “Take me to your Leader!” And Leno cried, “I didn’t know what to say!”
But the best advice comes from Chuck Colson in a recent e-mail –
Whichever way things turn out, some people will be joyous, and some people will be dismayed. But one thing is absolutely clear. It should not alter in the slightest the course that we, as Christians, follow in our society.
Take me back to the Moon Gate. Not to escape, but to consider the miracle of the garden. And those mountains out there in the distance. No matter which way political and circumstantial winds blow, the flowers will still bloom in all their stunning color, the fruit will taste just as sweet, and the peaks in the distance will remain in all their grandeur.
So let’s focus on the task at hand. Today, Monday morning. Here and now. The task that belongs to us.
Leaders, ready to lead.
© Copyright Kenneth E. Kemp 2000
Special Thanks to my good friend David Belcher, owner of Rhino Media Group and creator of WisdomGram
LeaderFOCUS is a service of Good Stewardship Associates
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