Ben and Me_ From Temperance to Humility - Cameron Gunn [76]
“They always use the larger cuff on me,” I said. “I have big arms.”
Another weary look, a number of pumps on the squeeze ball, and raised eyebrows. “Your blood pressure is too high,” she said. No wonder, I thought, you’ve just told me all my efforts have lost me a measly five pounds. Her disappointment in me was obvious. It was as if I had failed her. She didn’t even know that I was seeking moral perfection, and yet she clearly found me wanting.
And why wouldn’t she? The truth was out. Even with all my self-deprecating jabs about my failures, I’m sure we all hoped at the conclusion of this story there would be a happy ending. But despite all our good wishes, there it was, visceral evidence of my failure to follow Franklin’s virtues. This was more than a check on a chart or a vague sense of unworthiness—this was real, hard, irrefutable evidence that I was not following some or all of Franklin’s virtues.
As I skulked out, prescription in hand, my heart was heavy with the knowledge that not only was I a failure but I would have to acknowledge my
{ The absent are never without fault, nor the present without excuse.}
shortcomings to the world. So here is my acknowledgment.
I am no Benjamin Franklin.
He was at least forty pounds lighter.
A Little Cleanliness for the Soul
One would have thought that the opportunity to meet and speak with a man recognized as one of the world’s leading humanitarians might be beneficial to a person seeking to be more virtuous. I can only blame your lack of understanding on some confusion over my character.
This section of the book requires an understanding of my contemporary ethical guide. As I have said, Chris Levan has a mind that works at somewhere near the speed of light. He juggles multiple projects, constantly thinks of new ventures in a myriad of arenas, organizes countless events, and lends his labor, both physical and mental, to almost any project he thinks would benefit from his help. Sometimes it can be a bit exhausting to watch for people like me, who are a little more temperamentally inclined toward watching rather than doing.
It was in this context that he approached me and another colleague and asked if we would chair a conference entitled “The Politics of Compassion.” “Don’t worry,” said Chris, “I’ll do all the work.” From anyone else, I would’ve taken the statement as disingenuous. From Chris, I took it as gospel.
And he was good to his word. Chris, and a core team of volunteers drawn from the church where Chris is on the ministry team (and where I attend irregularly), handled almost every aspect of the two-day conference. Other than chair a few meetings—my chief responsibility, as I explained to the first-day audience—was to welcome people, introduce a few speakers, and point out the location of the washrooms.
Indeed, I felt a bit like a fraud. Several times over the course of the conference, participants would congratulate me on how smoothly things were running. I did my best to explain that I took no credit for anything, but try as I might, people could not be dissuaded from the notion that I was somehow responsible. Even some of the volunteers, the people who were doing the real work, suggested that I should be proud of what had occurred. I maintained my humility and decried any attempts to foist glory on my shoulders.
And yet, by the time Mr. Stephen Lewis, the keynote speaker, was to give the first of his two addresses on Friday afternoon, I was feeling the tiniest hint of self-satisfaction.
That ended when Mr. Lewis actually spoke.
For those who don’t know, Stephen Lewis is a former politician who has been the deputy executive director of UNICEF and the Canadian ambassador to the United Nations and, at the time of the conference, was UN Secretary-General Kofi Annan’s special envoy for HIV/AIDS in Africa. He was appointed by the Organization of African Unity to a Panel of Eminent Personalities to investigate the genocide in Rwanda, and in 2005,