John F. Kennedy sat next to me at St. Anne’s Catholic Church in West Palm Beach, for his last mass in this life—though 40 years before my arrival. Emotions welled as I reflected on his passionate desire for change, for attendance to the human condition, and the various references to his profile during this current election season. To drive from Jupiter Island and homes with 25 attendants across to the modest place of worship is quite a contrast in cultures, and provides the backdrop for JFK’s life. Though from the Sybaritic climate of caviar and cashmere, he championed the daily struggles of the disenfranchised. He reminded us that from wealth gained through capitalistic gains can rise a voice for the needy.

After spending time gazing on the well appointed marble naives and altar, I was shocked upon seeing a man’s leg sticking out from beneath a pew. It wasn’t ironic that a homeless man was napping in the confines of the same worship place as one of our heroes of human rights. Nor was it ironic that the leg was dark skinned, representing so many of the battles for which JFK fought and we continue to. And accenting this picture was that the makeshift pew abode of this homeless soul was beneath the large stained glass window with “Feed my sheep” and “Feed my lambs” on the bottom sections. There, around ten rows from the statue of Christ and in the shadow of the balcony crucifix, was a man seeking shelter from his world of choices and circumstances.

We all need such a place. Though JFK didn’t crawl beneath his pew, for those minutes during his last mass in 1963, he was preparing to pave the way for those who would, and in a sense for inspiration for you and me. Jackie Kennedy lamented that “He didn't even have the satisfaction of being killed for civil rights . . .” but in a sense, that bullet elevated his efforts for civil rights to echelons beyond his living grasp.

As Cindy and I passed the prayer room with all candles aflame, it couldn’t go unnoticed that we exited to find a Rolls Royce limousine near the door, and yet behind us lay a man asleep on the floor. The Kennedys and many others, perhaps several on Jupiter Island today, attest to the fact that men and women of extreme wealth can care deeply, and with extreme sacrifice. Their cars and homes might be extreme, but their cares and hurts are human all the same, and the extreme gifts of some mark our aspirational maps of hope. .

What are your thoughts from the pew?

Standing in the Indiana State capitol I heard a sandpaper-scraping sound, and turned only to see a lobbyist dragging his chin on the floor. An otherwise successful bloke, his kindly countenance couldn’t hide the fact that on this day his special interest was the big loser as a bi-partisan answer to a property tax crisis was about to pass. On this busiest of days, the last of the session, there was an amazing revelry, a joyful bi-partisan exchange in the majestic cloisters. From the restroom to the balcony, no sharp words were heard in this historic home of all three branches of government. Bitterness took recess.

I stood behind the rostrum with the respected Representative Harris for the standard House chamber picture—sensing the majesty of the place and the history in those hallowed halls. Laptops everywhere, scattered papers, stacks of folders. This was indeed a relaxed but busy place.

Across the hall in the Senate chamber I was reminded of the entrance to Charlemagne’s capitol at Aachen. The marble walls flanked by pillars and three stories of lighted offices were missing only the balcony and a king. The 50 pristine blank desks presented a stately presence, perhaps helping to define the term.

I positioned myself on a substantial wood carved bench and served the muse. There were the fast-paced staffers getting last minute signatures, and their mannerisms were in sharp contrast to the senior citizens guarding the chamber doors—more gregarious than Wall Mart greeters. There was Stellamae, seemingly the glue for the whole operation, ensuring the logistics from behind the scenes, and Mike Cline the quintessential wordsmith, running up a staircase with armfuls of briefcases and writing materials.

There were a few veteran politicians whose entrance to any hall or chamber turned heads and a cloud of respect hovered above them in an almost mythical fashion. Representative Bauer’s movements marked the House’s agenda as Senator Long’s did across the hall. One’s position bespeaks a presence, such as the entourages that surround Senators Young and Lawson, and media that track Lt. Governor Skillman’ well-calculated words. And those with the birthright giftedness, stature and otherworldly voice of a Representative Turner seem to set the standard for a state leader’s profile. True character stands the test of time, and career politicians live their lives in open scrutiny. To survive is a testimony of consistency.

On this particular day, March 14, 2008, I could not help but reminisce about faces no longer in the crowd but with legacies vested in making a difference for all of us, such as the indefatigable Julia Carson and the endearing David Ford. Their faces may be missing, but their voices remain. And that’s the beauty of it all, that what we strive for today is not ephemeral in the human story, but has staying power that enhances lives for generations.

We all know what they were willing to bet their lives on, and Carson and Ford did just that—giving their lives to politics. While two radically different leaders in many aspects they both gave without limits. While the Republican caucus strives to replace the beloved Senator within its thirty days it’s clear that his persona is irreplaceable. Oh, we will miss his face but let it be the face of politics, the kind, patient, beacon of integrity, and coupled with Senator Carson’s tenacity, let it be a face with eyes toward action. May it be a face that succumbs not to the modern relativistic democratization of truth, but insists on the truth of democracy’s potency for structures guaranteeing our freedoms. And, to our grandchildren’s chance for the same.

This afternoon I join many in the city of Marion welcoming home Bryan Crossman, our heralded West Point graduate surviving two tours of duty in Iraq, narrowly escaping the ultimate sacrifice exacted of many of his beloved troops. But my heart weighs heavy as I also tip my thoughts toward Arlington Cemetery where another Marion native is about to be saluted. While politicians were fighting for our rights in the state capitol on Friday, Staff Sgt. Collin Bowen passed from this world fighting for our rights on a foreign soil. Battling tyranny and oppression that rapaciously belittles women, kills children, he died in response to similar screams from families throughout the civilized world at the sights, sounds and ramifications of twin towers crashing on the helpless. While property taxes were taking unfair tolls on our pockets, human rights and ideals taxed Collin’s personhood. Just as the faces of Carson and Ford emblaze images of a high calling, the picture of the young handsome Bowen pierces my soul with an unforgettable image of sacrifice.

Clipped to my screen as I write on this hallowed morning is more than the picture of Collin Bowen, what I see before me is the cost of freedom. The diplomacy that begins in our local precincts and plays out in our state capitols and the national venue can never be severed from the realities of clashing ideals that throughout history have discarded the best of diplomacy. While President Bush’s awkward swagger and disjointed expressions pale in the wake of Obama’s call for hope, Staff Sgt. Collin Bowen’s sacrifice testifies that bombs don’t shatter one’s soul, but define one’s ideals. Our president’s lack of charisma should not discount his content. While we strive to protect the innocent from bombs, others bomb the innocent. From the Assyrians and Athenians to the Mayans and the Taliban, clashing ideals have been settled by the sword.

We should put forth our best diplomacy to advance solutions based on our ideals while simultaneously committing to defend them. The rejection of incivility does not ensure civility. A golden-tongued defense of freedom, as Pericles discovered in the shadow of the Spartans, does not itself sustain freedom. While we all need Churchills to clarify our ideals and to instill passionately to defend them, such protection against invading forces that defy them moves beyond words.

What I witnessed in Indianapolis on Friday are the logistical underpinnings of ideals that play out on foreign fields. A drive around Monument Circle and the War Memorial en route home vividly reminds me of lives lost for lives lived today in freedom.

How To Talk about Books You Haven’t Read is perhaps the best title of a book this decade. We’ve all been there—looking glassy-eyed like 50Cent and PDaddy at an opera. I had not read Catcher in the Rye until becoming a “Dr.” At first mention it sounded like an agrarian novel. However, I soon learned enough about the book's thesis and search for meaning to know that it was rather controversial. That fateful day when I finally read it (and such books should only take a day) my eyes were opened to the real world of Holden Caulfield and his miserable mental plight. Perhaps as important was to get to know the author, J.D. Salinger. Even though I finished the day disappointed, expecting much more and some sense of closure, and curious about its place in middle school curricula, I also gained an appreciation for the author’s genius. And in reading, and only in reading it, could I understand the underlying fascination with it among students. Misguided to be considered a required text, but a brilliant insight into the dreary fatalism that plagues so many. Reading, and only reading with a sense of sincerity, also brings to light the Harry Potter series, Tolkien’s works, the Chronicles of Narnia, and the long list of wonderful reads that enrich our lives. From Dr. Seuss’ The Snitches to Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s Gulag Archipelago, writers prompt us to think deeply about the human condition and how best to respond to its recurring shortcomings and blessings.

So what about this notion of talking about books you’ve not read—well, I’m sitting at Miami University’s King Library (Oxford, OH) ensconced by an expanse of books far beyond my reading limits. The new book has some clever and helpful advice but a sinister twist. Those of us in the academic professions and in professional setting need to stay appraised of new knowledge and should be reading literature reviews with regularity, such as Books & Culture, New York Times Review, Times Literary Supplement and so forth. We may be prompted to buy some of the books we read about, but mainly we’re just staying current with titles, authors, trends of thoughts and the key conclusions being espoused. How To Talk About Books You Haven’t Read basically says that’s enough—and we’re likely less biased by doing so. The author, Pierre Bayard, is a French literature professor of some renown, so readers without lobotomy scars should pick up a bit of overstatement and some sense of ingenuity or satire—he claims he doesn’t like ready or rarely reads. All said, it’s a wonderful read, provokes thought, brings several smiles, but leaves one perplexed with his rampant relativistic notions. My full review of this book goes into much more detail (pending publication at B&C), but suffice it to say that if a book can take on whatever meaning the reader intends, and not the author, then I’d be a bit leery of having brain surgery any time soon. If the surgeon heads towards my noggin with a gallon of ice cream and a sippy cup, I’ll be relatively certain that his relativistic reading of the med school texts were interpreted quite differently than the authors intended.

And if you read Bayard’s witty little book, besides violating its thesis by reading it, you’ll bristle at his notion that the main reason to stay current with your community’s “must read” book list is to be conversant at cocktail parties. That is, to avoid embarrassment. If that’s the case—as I reflect on my days in graduate school as one of the few non-imbibers—just arrive late to cocktail parties and you’ll hear some rather strange hops-induced theses from books you’re familiar with, or ones that likely nobody but you will remember in the morning anyway.

Well, you can’t judge a book by its cover, but contrary to Bayard’s anti-reading manifesto, I think there’s still quite a few that are still worthy of opening.

There were twenty million dollars on the table in front of me, and I couldn’t afford the table. The check was headed to a university out west and the coffee table was special ordered from the Far East. At that same table pastors, musicians, college presidents, politicians, and others smiled as checks were extended across the table to their causes. And on many occasions, egos, disingenuous spirits and other intangibles sent sad souls away from the table empty handed.

At the same table three million dollars was written to the New Era Foundation, which at the time was considered a rather unique investment group helping non-profits. I had been asked to represent my patron in the final meeting with the investment group when his daughter decided to go instead—and reported back the wonderful treatment, amazing reception with special ice sculptures, and the overall class of the operation. And, as others nationwide had experienced, the first rounds of investments had paid 200% to 400% yields, some remarkable windfalls in any year—and keep in mind, the proceeds were headed to good causes. But it proved to be a Ponzi scheme; my patron happened to be the last of many to hand over big checks. They wanted to reel in one more big fish before skipping the country. Good organizations and well-meaning patrons everywhere were bilked. Though the amount of the check was small compared to various other gifts and investments he had made that same month, this was the same boss who once flagged the purchase of a tin of Bayer aspirins on my receipts from a successful multi-million dollar project involving sleepless nights in Europe.

During those days many seeking an audience with my patron would ask me for help, “the inside scoop” or “some tips.” “What’s he really like to fund?” Every time my advice was the same – “Be honest. Don’t try to make an impression, that’s the impression you’ll make.” I learned that like the Ponzi scheme, one of the most difficult things for my patron to determine was the genuine nature of the cause, and the character of the person representing it. And for larger gifts, “Kings like to talk to kings.” That is, he’d also say, “An organization is only as good as its leader.”

We were asked to help screen causes and individuals and learned that creative corrupt minds are a scary thing. And self-serving individuals are sad as well. Many good causes never received a seat at the table because their representatives failed to bring their integrity, and long ago they took their ego out of some unwelcome closet. More than once I had long lost friends and faint acquaintances show up at our house or called in the evening with, “I just happened to be passing through . . .” Well, unless they were headed to snowless summer slopes in northern Michigan, working on a random vacation trip, or some other unlikely scenario, what they meant was “I’m here in Grand Haven to try to convince you to introduce me to your patron . . .” Sometimes I’d learn from others the effort they made to make sure I was in town.

A few years ago I was walking through the old parking lot at the Lilly Endowment’s main Indy office. Like other grant recipients, I was simply handing in an annual report. I heard my named yelled in loud whisper. It was someone I had not seen in two decades, in town from several states away with some associates from his organization. The first question was “Do you know anyone in there?” These were grown men, dressed in suits worth more than my car, asking me a question that revealed enough for me to start looking for their lobotomy scars. I asked them a simple question – “Do you have an appointment?” When they answered “Yes, took us several years. . .” I replied, “Then I think you should take comfort in that they already know your organization better than you think and found it worthy enough for a meeting. And by the way, what’s with the suits?” Last time I had seen the group’s leader he didn’t own a tie.

I recently finished writing a book with a senior friend, Malcolm Evans, often asked for funds to help causes. Managing by the Book: Principles for a Fulfilling Business Life is his story, and they’re his principles—I was simply asked to help him write it. At first I turned him down. Though respecting his business savvy and his decades of helping others from his successes, it is my policy not to ghost write or to write another’s book. “Okay” he’d say, but this deliberate white-haired university Trustee would then proceed, “But could I treat you to coffee to run my thoughts by you?” I’d agree, read a few paragraphs, make some scribbles, and we’d go our ways. A few weeks later, the same thing. One coffee at a time I was re-writing his entire text with him. Finally, I took the whole manuscript and several dozen pots of coffee later we finished the text (to be published this summer by Triangle Press).

Something happened each meeting, and through the reading of each chapter—I found the man’s heart. And, through various interviews I saw it deeply. Regardless of the business adventures we discussed, principles in question, personalities involved in unpacking the stories, and any shortcomings any of us might have—his unbridled passion was there. No special suit purchased to impress me. No “Just happened to be in your neighborhood.” No ice sculptures of my children. During three years of writing this text his eyes were on the prize – a text that passes along lessons about personal and professional honesty, about sensible solutions, people-first practices, and about “planning your work and working your plan.”

I suppose we need to keep asking ourselves what table we’re bellying up to. What’s on the table and are we honest with ourselves and others. Oh, almost forgot—that imported table that held tens of millions during our discussions—it was a replica. My boss told me he loved saving money on such things when because of the context people only assume they’re real. His entire castle was filled with the same furniture. On my way out of his house I stopped and looked a little longer at the little Rembrandt painting, wondering if I’d ever know if it were real.