Why?

Do you ever ask why?

As a classroom teacher, I always thought why was a good sign. If a student cared enough about something to ask why it happens, I figured I was doing something right.

Of course, why doesn’t always really mean why. Sometimes it means it’s not fair and I don’t like it and I want it to be different. You have to know the difference, or you’ll spend a lot of time explaining to someone who doesn’t really want it explained.

I also learned as a teacher that when someone asks why you’d better be prepared to answer. My dad’s favorite response was, “Because I said so.” I always figured that was a good sign of a bad rule.

Why the concern with why?

I’m thinking about this because someone responded to Tuesday’s article (Why Take The Risk?) with another why. Why do a workshop that’s centered on the same story as the book? What’s the gain from a conference or retreat? Why bother with an in-person event?

It’s a good question. I thought about responding, “Because I want to,” but I really try to avoid the whole “sounding like my dad” thing. If that’s the best I can do, perhaps it’s a bad idea.

So I thought I’d explore some of my reasons for pursuing this project. I hope this isn’t just about me. Perhaps it’ll spur you to ask why you’re doing something important—or maybe why you’re not doing it.

Experience. We learn and grow through experience. Lectures and other impersonal presentations of information aren’t very effective. Most studies indicate that we retain less than 20% of what we hear.

Retention increases dramatically when ideas are embedded in a stimulating story. Emotional engagement draws people into the story, incites imagination, and encourages them to interact with content in a deeper manner.

Reading a great story is one level of experience. Writing notes in the margins enhances that experience, journaling takes it to another level. Talking to someone about it and hearing their perspective is even deeper and more powerful.

Spending extended time with a group, having the uninterrupted opportunity to reflect, explore, and respond—that’s a chance to prompt significant personal change and growth.

Throughout my teaching career I learned that challenging personal growth doesn’t have to intimidate. The same principles I used in my classroom—live, love, laugh, learn, lead—can integrate discovery and joy, uncertainty and laughter, struggle and hope.

Serendipity. I’ve always liked the word “serendipity.” It’s a word that makes me smile. I like the reminder that many truly memorable discoveries happen while we’re searching for something else.

A group is much more than the sum of its parts. Interpersonal relationships generate insight and change that seldom occurs in isolation. The most important outcomes are often completely unexpected.

My classroom experience convinced me that the best lessons are experiments—not scripted recipes with pre-determined outcomes, but genuine experiments. You toss big ideas into a mix of curious individuals, then watch as they generate something you couldn’t have predicted.

Live events never happen quite the way they’re planned—usually they’re better. So you enter an experience like this with a lot of material, a bit of uncertainty, and a heart that’s open and trusting.

Of course, I don’t believe there’s much “luck” involved in my version of serendipity. I think it’s the result when people gather with a desire to follow where God’s Spirit leads.

Questions. Good teachers value questions more than answers. Answers offer immediate satisfaction and comfort, but they close the discussion. Once you know, there’s not much point in further exploration. You check it off the list and move on.

But good questions generate a small bit of discomfort that inspires deeper digging. They don’t lead to answers as much as to other insightful questions. The things that matter don’t usually involve simple answers anyway, so the only way to approach authentic truth is to create a framework, hang some open-ended question on it, and then allow the process to happen.

Inexperienced leaders fear this approach. It’s unpredictable. It might take you to an uncomfortable place, or expose weakness, or encourage a difficult personal change.

Happily, we’re not doing the leading. The One who is knows what He’s doing.

Selfishness. I hope it’s “good” selfishness, if there is such a thing, but you put this sort of project together because you want to be part of the process. You want the experience, the serendipity, the amazing question that will change you in some unknown but profound way.

The best big projects happen through a spirit of what seems like selfish generosity. We put something together because we want to help, knowing before we begin that we’ll be blessed in some unexpected manner. So maybe we don’t do it for what we get in return, but it’s sure a nice side benefit.

Help?

One cool thing about being part of a circle is not working in isolation. You let go of the illusion of self-sufficiency and ask for help.

You can help first by praying that I’ll find the right people to assist in making this happen.

I also ask that you consider whether you might be one of those “right people.” If you know the story of Relentless Grace (or want to), perhaps you can connect me with someone who’d be interested in hosting a workshop.

I hope I’m not talking too much about this topic. Tomorrow I want to look at forgiveness, so if you’re tired of hearing about it I hope you’ll forgive me.

Why are you pursuing (or not pursuing) your big dream?