32 is a better fit

 

 

I grew up the son of a forest ranger in the 70’s. We lived in mostly remote frontier outpost-like very small towns deep in the hearts of national forests. As a young boy I attended an elementary school that had 12 or so students. One teacher for first-through-fourth grades and one for fifth-through-eighth. Though it was not a church, the daily school bell was rung using a rope and swinging bell. The building was very ‘Little House on the Prairie’-esque. I’m not entirely sure that our teacher, Mr. Reeves, was a college educated professional but I liked him. He was a polio caused paraplegic who used special leg braces and crutches to be mobile. 

As a family we lived very modestly on my father’s income. Every morning at 05:00 my father would ring an old cow bell to wake us and we had five or so minutes to get to the kitchen to sit around the table and read scriptures for 30 minutes while our breakfast cooked. Except for Saturdays, we had wheat pancakes and syrup on Saturday, our breakfast was cooked cracked wheat or oatmeal cereal with powdered milk and honey as mixers. Cooked cereals would stay with us longer into the day, minimizing the need for much more than a sandwich for lunch. I had two pair of shoes – church shoes and a pair of White brand logging boots with Vibram soles for durability. Today those same boots go for four to eight hundred dollars. They were rugged and lasted forever it seemed. Because I was young and growing, we bought them at least one size too big. When they’d no longer fit, they’d pass to my younger brother to finish wearing them out. Hand-me-down to him is what justified the boot splurge. 

My mother, an excellent seamstress, sewed most of our clothes – especially jeans. She’d sew a small piece of red cloth into the seam of the right back pocket so they’d look like genuine Levi’s brand jeans. She’d also leave extra material in the pant waist and hem so they could be let-out to accommodate our growth. I never owned a genuine pair of Levi’s until I had mostly stopped growing taller. By then, I was a perfect 30-inch waist and 34-inch length. Even though there was extra material baked into the size of our clothes by my mother, she would carefully measure our size with an old yellow cloth seamstress measuring tape and let us know of our growth. Keeping track of our growth was kind of a ‘thing’ for us.  Since then, thanks to my mother’s care in sizing us, I’ve always been able to go into any store and buy a pair of pants at my current waist size and 34-inch length and they’d fit off the shelf.

 

Fast forward from the 70’s to 2015.  I saw a pair of pants on a man and wanted a pair like them. He had purchased them at a luxury men’s clothing store that I don’t shop but I wanted a pair enough that I would go to that store to get them. On our next trip to Las Vegas, my wife and I went the luxury brand store to find that pair of pants. We were helped by a rather proper and well put together saleswoman. Pointing to the pants I told her, “I would like this pant in a 36-inch waist and 34-inch length.” Didn’t even care if I tried them on since that size fits me perfectly. “Are they for you?” she asked. “Yes,” I replied. “You may be a 36-inch waist but you’re no 34-inch length, you’re a 32,” she said. “No, I’ve always been a 34,” I retorted. She politely but with the confidence that she knew better replied, “you’re not now nor have you ever been a 34 unless you like your pants baggy and too long.That’s an odd-ish size with not many body types fitting it, and you’re not that.” I felt a bit insulted but took two pair of pants to the fitting room that day. I walked out with a very expensive 32-inch length pair of pants. I’ve been 32 ever since. 

I was cognitively dissonant for a period after that. I tried on 34’s and 32’s for a while every time I bought a pair of pants. Absolutely crushed the 34-inch testimony my mother had given me. For all those years I’d never even considered anything else. A wee bit loose and a wee bit long was fine and I’d never noticed or questioned it until I bumped into someone who I knew may know better. I could have stayed with 34 if I wanted to and no one would have ever noticed. But, I'd know.

 

Reminds me of another 34-inch testimony I had for so many years. Perhaps a wee bit loose and a wee bit long but never had reason to question it. Until one day somebody who Knows more taught me 32 is a better fit. It is.

 

Signed

 

John The-Not-So-Beloved

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Socrates might Say

 The Socratic insight, “I am better off because he knows nothing and thinks he does, and I don’t know and don’t think that I do,” unveils the peril of false certainty and the virtue of intellectual humility. Socrates further observed that those exceptional in a craft—artisans who shape flawless vessels or poets who weave transcendent verses—often fall into the trap of believing their mastery extends to all realms of wisdom. This illusion of universal knowledge blinds them to their limits, while the humble, aware of their ignorance, stand poised for true understanding.

Imagine a potter, his hands deftly molding clay into perfect forms, revered for his skill. Emboldened by his craft, he proclaims insight into matters of justice, governance, or the soul, unaware that his expertise does not translate. Similarly, a poet, gifted with divine inspiration, might assume her verses grant her authority on all truths. Socrates saw this hubris as a barrier to wisdom, for those who think they know cease to question. In contrast, the one who admits, “I don’t know,” as Socrates advocates, embraces the vastness of the unknown, inviting growth.

In the Covenant of Christ, we find echoes of this humility. Christ’s teachings often subverted worldly notions of expertise and pride. Consider the Pharisees, who, masterful in the law, believed their knowledge of scripture made them arbiters of all divine truth. Yet, Christ rebuked their arrogance, praising instead the childlike heart—open, unassuming, and aware of its need for guidance. When He called fishermen, not scholars, to be His disciples, He chose those unburdened by the illusion of all-encompassing wisdom, men who could say, “I don’t know,” and follow with faith.

The artisan’s error, as Socrates saw, mirrors the spiritual peril Christ addressed: mistaking excellence in one domain for universal insight. The covenant invites us to lay down such pride, to approach truth with the humility of a learner. As Socrates found wisdom in questioning, so Christ’s followers find grace in surrendering the need to know all. In both, the path to truth begins with the courage to admit our limits, trusting that in humility, we draw nearer to the divine.

Signed

John The-Not-So-Beloved