Ben and Me_ From Temperance to Humility - Cameron Gunn [6]
One of the speakers at the conference was a friend of mine, Dr. Chris Levan, who is a writer, university professor, minister, and speaker in the areas of spirituality, professional ethics, and theology. He is the author of eight books on religion and moral values, and he has been the principal of St. Stephen’s College in Edmonton, Alberta, and acting president of Huntington College. He’s one of those spooky-smart people. Sometimes when we talk, he says things that go completely over my head. Then I have to decide if I should ask him what he’s talking about or just nod, pretend I know what he means, and hope he doesn’t ask any questions.
I had heard Chris speak on numerous occasions. Never, however, had I heard him in such an environment. This was a conference on preventing wrongful criminal convictions. I had no idea what Chris was doing there.
His talk, a general lecture on ethical decision making, was a tough pitch. The audience at this conference was almost exclusively made up of police officers and prosecutors. The theme of the conference, and the impetus for it, already had many in the audience spoiling for a fight. The premise underlying the whole event was that there had been a number of people wrongfully convicted and jailed and that it was somehow law enforcement’s fault. Our brothers and sisters in arms had screwed up, and we were going to be told (generally by people with no frontline experience in the criminal justice system) how not to screw up in the future. Tough crowd. Some with guns.
To deliver a successful talk, you have to know your audience and pick your topic, speaking style, and message carefully. Chris started his speech to jaded police and prosecutors by showing them a painting by Rembrandt. It was, I thought, courageous. Strange, but courageous. Don’t ask me what the painting represented.
By the end of his talk, despite the audience’s misgivings, he had this hardened group of law enforcement officials enthralled. He had them considering the mechanics of ethical decisions through the use of classic artwork. It occurred to me—flaunter of Franklin’s virtues, intemperate soul, and failed moral perfectionist—that I had found my sponsor. Thus, in the wake of intemperance, the good ship Morally Perfect was about to set sail . . . again (with a better captain and crew this time).
Chris wasn’t prepared to sign on without some idea of what I was trying to do. He asked, “What do you want people to get out of this book?” It was a reasonable question, and it deserved a cogent and thoughtful answer. If I was capable of that, however, I wouldn’t need a course dedicated to moral perfection (or at least I would have passed it on one of my first three attempts).
Of course, I wanted the book to be about my attempts to follow Benjamin Franklin’s list of virtues, but that was a premise, not a goal, and I was sure that Chris wanted specifics. He wanted to know what benefit, specifically, readers would gain from following my quest. Still, I had nothing.
Perhaps if I couldn’t answer what I wanted the book to be, I could tell him what I knew it would not be.
First, this was not to be, and is not, a history book or a biography of Benjamin Franklin. Except for Ben’s autobiography and other writings, I have relied almost exclusively on secondary and tertiary sources for my information about good ol’ Ben. I have done no independent research, analytical study, or even critical examination of the sources I have relied on. The basis of my knowledge of American history comes largely from Schoolhouse Rock, those catchy educational cartoons on Saturday morning television in the 1970s (if you know the tune to “But I know I’ll be a law someday, / At least I hope and pray that I will, / But today I am still just a bill,” then you know what I’m talking about). Let me repeat: This is not a book of history; most sixth-grade students would know more