I failed twice before breakfast

In general, in my business, we’re not good at talking about our own failures. Christian publishing—in the social media era—is an exercise in linking to our published articles, posting pictures of our book contracts while saying how “humbled” (read: proud) we are to be doing another book with Publisher X, posting pictures of our fashionable shoes in the airport when we travel to Place X to give Talk X, and then when the book comes out posting a picture of it and linking to it on Amazon and asking (but not really asking) for good reviews. Rinse, repeat.

In the aggregate, this gives publishers the feeling that we’re worth working with again and gives our real-life friends and acquaintances the feeling that we’re self-obsessed, insufferable ponces.

In my role in academia, we are required to produce a document every year that basically lists every impressive thing we’ve done over the course of the year. This document is literally intended to justify our continued existence at University X and even though everything we’ve done is relatively unimpressive (in the grand scheme) we’re supposed to make it sound like University X would probably grind to a literal halt were we ever to leave. I produce this document every year through gritted teeth.

Thankfully some really kind people I work with help me with both the document itself and the existential malaise that comes from having to produce it.

But so about the failure: Last week I made a fascinating connection with a fascinating person whose professional life included being an All-American at Notre Dame, being a professional boxer, and playing several years (with distinction) in the National Football League. He basically lived the life I dreamed about living from the time I was a sentient being (age 5 or 6?) all the way through right now in this very moment—meaning that right now if Bob Arum called and offered me a professional fight and then the New England Patriots beeped in to say they need a backup guard for next Sunday, I would say yes to both things without even thinking about it.

I have in fact always wanted to tell this person’s story and was SO happy to chat with him on the phone for 30 minutes during which we ascertained that we have a bunch of things in common and would probably be friends in real life. I then pitched the story to a magazine I’ve successfully written for and a documentary film company I’ve unsuccessfully set up previous projects with. This morning, in bed, before I even wiped the sleep out of my eyes, I read both rejection emails on my phone.

The rejection emails, thankfully, weren’t as damning and day-ruining as they would have been even a decade ago. A decade ago they would have left me questioning whether I had any talent or any upside or if God had any purpose for putting me on the planet to begin with. I’m ashamed to admit that I used to think these thoughts on a semi-regular basis.

The question is, what does this mean? And what do we do with the failure we all experience? The failure to bring order to a disordered world. The failure to bring our own dreams to bear, in the way that everybody said we could if we just worked hard and set our minds to it.

As I type this in my very comfortable home office, I’m looking out the window at a decorative garden bench that was completely smashed to pieces by some small children who were guests in my home recently. For some reason the thought of gathering the bench in my arms and walking it to the trash seems like an emotional bridge too far.

This is basically what it feels like to be almost 50 years old. In ways both great and small the Lord has been exceedingly kind—I have a job I like, I have a comfortable home office, I have my health (for now), and in fact some really amazing non-work-related things happened shortly after I got the rejection emails. He has allowed the lines to fall for me in pleasant places.

But I still have smashed decorative benches and routine failures. I will at some point have to call my new semi-famous friend/acquaintance and tell him that nobody wants to publish his story.

When I was young and full of hubris (and ignorance) I couldn’t even see my ceiling—that’s how high I thought it was. Now I can literally reach up and touch it. Now I hope I can gut out about 15 more years of work before AI makes me irrelevant, or, if it does so more rapidly, that my body is still strong enough to lift boxes or dig ditches or do whatever somebody will pay me to do. This is, of course, a Godless perspective, and then I remember Romans 11:29 which reads, “God’s gifts and his call are irrevocable.”

Romans 11:29 doesn’t promise me acceptance, acclaim, or even a job next year. But it does invite me to hope—in fact it demands that I do so.

These are the things we think but do not say.