When less is more and more is less

I sat opposite ten sober-faced interviewers who would decide whether I should be the next minister for their church. They asked their questions; I answered as best I could. Remarkably that committee recommended me for appointment. Why was that remarkable? Because they probably didn’t hear most of what I said. Earlier that day I’d developed a serious throat infection, and almost lost my voice. My answers to that committee were a near-inaudible whisper.

Perhaps they did hear a little and they liked that. And perhaps they never heard the rest, which they might not have liked. It turned out that less was more, and more would have been less.

Less is more and more is less in many areas of life. Below are six examples to explain my point.

When saying more might complicate matters

Near the end of an important hearing in front of a government body, I was about to speak again when I was dug sharply in the ribs by the lawyer alongside me. “Don’t say another word!” he whispered. The ruling was going in our favour, and the lawyer knew I might add information that could cause hesitation. I shut up. Minutes later the verdict we wanted was announced, and the meeting ended. “No-one ever objects to what you don’t say,” the lawyer told me later.

That is not a licence to omit vital information; just advice not to add anything unnecessary. Less is more.

When staying longer might be unhelpful

I’ve been a hospital patient several times because of back problems. I enjoyed getting visitors, but often did not enjoy how long they stayed. More than one must have imagined that, since I was going nowhere, their company through most of an afternoon would cheer me up. It didn’t. Instead, those visitors wore me out. Once they’d stayed more than an hour, I learned to plead that I needed to sleep. Yet, all too often, as one long-staying visitor left, another would arrive. Visiting times did not improve my health. More time visiting was definitely less benefit.

The same would be true when visiting the elderly, or interrupting someone’s busy day. For many years I worked from home, and Arthur, who lived nearby, would call at the door, saying “I’ve nothing else to do this morning, so thought I’d chat with you”. Arthur was a good man, but his casual visits were not helpful. Less, not more, would have been better.

When talking longer might reveal ignorance

From time to time I would let someone else preach. But I wasn’t always wise about my choice of speaker. With some, the congregation’s interest was over ages before the sermon was over. The problem with others was that they preached beyond their knowledge, by which I mean their theological knowledge. Martin would start well into his subject, make some good points, but then progress to ideas for which he had no foundation. Listening from the pews, I’d start praying that Martin would not drift into outright heresy. Thankfully, he’d usually stop just short of a complete distortion of the Bible’s teaching. But the lesson for me was ‘Don’t ask people to do what they’re not capable or competent to do’. Martin needed to speak only on the safest of subjects, and even then impart less rather than more of his own thinking.

When talking more reduces impact

One of the bloodiest battles of the American Civil War was at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, in July 1863. On November 19th, on the site of the battle, an official dedication ceremony took place at the Soldiers National Cemetery.[1] The main speaker was President Abraham Lincoln, and his speech is widely regarded as one of the most influential in American history. He began this way: “Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.” [2]

From beginning to end Lincoln focused his listeners on what really mattered. But from that beginning to its end his speech was only two minutes. It consisted of just 272 words. Every phrase, though, was moving and significant. Another speaker addressed the crowd for two hours. Which speech was remembered? Which speech had more influence? Less really can have more impact.

When writing less might get an article or letter read

Britain’s World War II Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, frequently pleaded for “short-windedness”. In a written appeal to Cabinet colleagues he demanded “brevity”. That note had only 60 words. He complained that “Cabinet Minutes are much too long” and should concentrate only on decisions. He called “Whitehall jargon a waste of time”.[3]

A war-time leader like Churchill simply did not have time to read lengthy reports. That’s true for many today. People I know are so put off by a long article they don’t read it at all. My friend edited our church magazine, and consistently reproduced the entirety of lengthy letters from missionaries. Most church members never read them because paragraph after paragraph of text was off-putting. But the editor kept reproducing those letters, convinced every word from a missionary was valuable. Those letters were valuable, but valueless to those who wouldn’t read them.

When you’re writing a love letter, make it as long as you like. In most other cases, writing less, concentrating only on key points, is much more appreciated.

When eating less might be healthier

The National Library of Medicine advises that, on average, a woman will maintain her weight eating 2000 calories a day, and lose weight eating 1500 or less a day. For a man, the equivalent figures are 2500 and 2000.[4] Sticking to that allowance was impossible when I ate out at a steakhouse where several main dishes would each give me over 3000 calories. If I’d added a dessert and a speciality coffee, I could have gained over 4500 calories from just one meal. Would that meal have left me feeling content? More likely, I’d have been seriously uncomfortable and not slept well.

I don’t mean to rant about diet, only to make the point that excess in almost anything is neither healthy nor rewarding. Some have said the 11th Commandment should be ‘Thou shalt have balance’, but that can be as difficult as the first 10 commandments.

Having written this much about less is more, there’s only one thing to do. Stop.

[1] Now called the Gettysburg National Cemetery.

[2] The most accepted version of the whole speech can be read here: https://www.abrahamlincolnonline.org/lincoln/speeches/gettysburg.htm

[3] These examples and more can be found at: https://blog.nationalarchives.gov.uk/churchills-call-for-brevity/

[4] This and much more fascinating information about caloric intake available at: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK499909/#

What shoelaces can teach us

My right shoelace was a little loose, so I bent down and retied it. Much tighter; much better. I walked on. In less than 20 steps I felt my left shoelace was now loose, so I bent down and retied it. Much tighter; much better.

As I walked on, I realised my left lace had felt completely fine until I tied my right lace more firmly. Then – only then – did my left lace feel slack. Because the right was tighter, the left felt loose, which caused me to fix it too.

My shoelace ‘experience’ reveals something interesting.

It’s this: often we decide something is right or wrong only when we compare it to something else. Studying an alternative makes us rethink what we are already doing or already have. It’s the comparison which causes us to make changes.

Here are several imagined examples:

  • Before putting my house on the market, I compare its value with the prices paid for similar homes nearby. They sold for a lot more than I first thought mine was worth. My hopes rise and so does my sale price, as I adjust it to equal what was paid for the homes of my neighbours.
  • I start at university, not sure where to go, which lectures never to miss, how to go about assignments. But I watch other students, see what they do, and I match it.
  • I am content with my salary, but then discover that others doing similar work get paid much more than me. I am now discontent, and demand that my boss gives me a raise.
  • I think my house décor looks great, but visit a friend whose home is so beautiful it could feature in a home design magazine. Now I feel my home is inadequate, and call in a designer.
  • I prepare a wonderful meal for visiting friends – beef stroganoff. They tell me they enjoyed it, and invite me for a meal in their home. They serve salmon en croute – cream cheese and dill beautifully encased in light puff pastry. It’s magnificent. My beef stroganoff no longer seems special. I enrol in a culinary school.
  • I love my car. It’s comfortable, reliable, and though not fast it gets me where I want to go. Then my neighbour buys a top of the range Porshe. The leather seats are luxurious, the technology mind-boggling, the engine purrs before roaring into life when he pushes the accelerator. I fall out of love with my car.

Several of these examples are about envy, and I may write about that another time. But envy is not the key point here, which is simply that we adjust our behaviour when we encounter contrasting behaviour. Sometimes we know we’re doing it; sometimes we don’t.

However, changing what you do in the light of what someone else does or possesses requires caution.

First, realise your point of comparison may be poor

For a couple of years I worked in a large open-plan office where Jean also worked. Jean was clearly a good staff member. Very efficient in all she did. In one respect, Jean was super-efficient. I’d walk past her desk after she’d left for the day, and the top of her desk was completely bare. No in-tray or out-tray. No stack of folders. No pile of to-do notes. No stapler, no pens, no paper clips. Not even her landline phone. The desk surface was completely empty. Jean had put everything, literally everything, away in drawers and cabinet. It was impressive.

Many blog posts ago I wrote about two visits to friends. These people did not know each other, but they did have something in common.

Noreen showed us round her modest-sized home. Everything was neat and clean, very neat and very clean. There were no stray cups or plates lying around the kitchen; in the bedroom no clothes strewn over a chair and no overcrowding of the wardrobe; no cushions out of place on the sofa in the lounge. We had to ask: ‘How do you keep everything so perfectly in place like this?’ Noreen’s answer was simple: ‘If I buy something new, I remove something old.’ That’s why her wardrobe and chest of drawers would never overflow. It was hard not to admire Noreen’s ruthlessness.

At their invitation, we visited Chris and Sally just one day after they moved into a new home. I’d protested we shouldn’t visit so soon, but had been assured it would be fine. It wasn’t just fine; the place looked like a show home. Nothing was out of place. At a quiet moment Sally gave away the secret. At the old house, Chris hadn’t allowed a single item to be packed for removal without it being labelled exactly where it was to go in the new place. On arrival, the removers opened the boxes, and laid each item down where prescribed. That’s why, when we visited next day, there were no unpacked boxes, no unhung pictures, nothing lacking a location. It was all perfect. Wasn’t that wonderful?  (Both stories originally at https://occasionallywise.com/2021/06/12/how-we-caused-a-plague-of-frogs/)

Jean, Noreen, and Chris provided amazing examples of organisation and tidiness. But:

  • At the end of each day Jean used 15 minutes of work time stowing away all her desk top papers and tools, and at the beginning of the next day another 15 minutes retrieving them.
  • Noreen’s ruthlessness eventually got the better of her. She didn’t control her super-orderliness; it controlled her. It became a compulsion, which sadly led to a broader mental breakdown.
  • Something similar was happening with Chris. He couldn’t function without everything being exactly in its right place. That actually made him inefficient, wore down relationships with others, and was one reason his marriage failed and career ended.

Not for a moment am I criticising habits like tidiness. My sole point is that we may encounter traits or practices in others which, initially, we find admirable. The contrast with what we do is stark. My only minimally organised desk looked so cluttered compared to Jean’s swept-clean desk. At the time I thought ‘I should do what Jean does’. But in fact I shouldn’t. Half an hour of work time spent presenting a clean desk wasn’t what my employer wanted. And Noreen and Chris paid a high prince for their super-organised lives. I shouldn’t emulate them either.

Every person or object we initially admire does not qualify as an example we should copy. Perhaps your modest vacation doesn’t look like much compared to someone else’s lavish cruise, but your bank balance and the environment may thank you for your choice. A bad comparison is no guide to right behaviour.

Second, every comparison we reject doesn’t justify our own behaviour

What if I was speeding down the motorway at 80 miles per hour, feeling a little guilty because the limit is 70 mph? Suddenly a car roars past me. It’s going far faster, almost certainly around 110 mph. “Now that’s really bad ,” I say. “At least I’m not going that fast.” No, I’m not. But my 80 mph is still wrong and risks an accident. Because someone else’s actions are worse doesn’t make mine good.

I played golf in the company of Colin who, to use an old phrase, ‘swore like a trooper’, perhaps because he had been a trooper. Whether from childhood or his years in the military Colin had developed extremely crude language habits. His swear words outnumbered clean words in almost every sentence. He put me off my golf, and probably spoiled his own game. I was used to fellow-golfers who uttered the occasional expletive when they hit the ball out-of-bounds, or missed a short putt. Colin’s appalling language was in a class of its own, a very bad class. Yet that didn’t make it okay that others only used the ‘F’ word sometimes. Their language was better than Colin’s, but still fell short of ideal.

Contrasting our behaviour with someone else’s worse behaviour doesn’t make us good.

When I was a boy my friends and I would jump streams. The challenge was easy when the width was only two or three feet. We could all jump those streams. Next we’d find a place where the gap was five feet. We all managed that too. And then the gap was eight feet. Tommy was great at running and jumping and he cleared it easily. Freddy was not so fast, and slipped as he jumped. He flew only about four feet before plunging into the water. Useless. Then it was my turn. I ran and jumped to an excellent distance. But six feet wasn’t excellent enough for an eight foot gap, and down I fell into the water. I was better than Freddy, but just as wet as he was.

The point is obvious. We see someone doing less well than we are, and feel good about our attitude, our ability, our accomplishment. But contrasting ourselves with someone who is worse doesn’t prove we’re okay.

In our thinking, speaking, acting our point of comparison should be doing what is right and good. What someone else does is, in a sense, irrelevant. The standard isn’t being better than others. The standard is being the best we can be.

Third, maybe nothing needs changing

The final lesson from my shoelaces is very simple. When I’d first tied them, both shoelaces were adequately tight. Yes, as I walked I realised one was tighter than the other, but neither was loose. Both were holding my shoes on my feet perfectly well. Nothing needed changing.

Years ago I read a review of hi-fi equipment. Hi-fi is short for high fidelity, and audiophiles, the people who seek the purest reproduction of sound, invest a lot of money to buy the best. They want no ‘noise’, no distortion, and the ideal frequency response. Having put two h-fi systems through a battery of tests, the reviewer reported that A was fractionally better than B. But, he added, the difference was measurable only in a laboratory. In the real world situation of a music system in the home there would be echo from walls, absorption of sound by carpets and furniture, and extraneous noises such as from passing traffic. Add to that humans have a limited hearing range. “The honest truth,” the reviewer wrote, “is that you’ll never hear any difference between these systems.”

We compare what we have with what someone else has. Or what we can do with what another can do. Then we feel we must get the other thing or be like the other person.

Maybe we do, but maybe we don’t. Perhaps what really matters is being content with what we have and what we’re able to do. Life won’t be significantly different by making a change. Most likely both your shoelaces are already adequately fastened.

If you’ve found this blog post helpful, you’d likely also enjoy others from the archives. For example, have a look at these:

The left-handed ironing board  https://occasionallywise.com/2022/01/01/the-left-handed-ironing-board/

When the right thing to do is nothing at all  https://occasionallywise.com/2021/01/30/when-the-right-thing-to-do-is-nothing-at-all/

Inner peace  https://occasionallywise.com/2023/07/15/inner-peace/

And, please think of sharing any of these with others who might appreciate reading them. Thank you.

The tyranny of the perfect

My golf match reaches the final hole with scores tied. Whoever wins that hole wins the match. My pitch to the green leaves the ball just six feet from the hole. If I sink the putt I win. I read the line, determine the speed, place my putter behind the ball, and stroke the putt toward the hole. It rolls straight and true. Until just six inches out, when the ball curves left and misses.

We played an extra hole and I lost. Afterwards I felt so stupid to have missed that putt on the 18th green. It was only six feet. I could and should have holed it. But I didn’t.

But the odd truth – which I discovered later – is that many of the very best golfers in the world might well have missed it too. The American PGA Tour publishes statistics for all their top golfers on putts holed from various distances, including from six feet. Some players are remarkably good, like Brian Harman (who won the 2023 Open Championship) who holes 91.53% of six foot putts. But others, including the biggest names in golf, are nothing like so good. For example, Jon Rahm (winner of the 2023 Masters Tournament) holes only 58.57% of times from six feet. Almost half of the top 184 sink less than 7 out of 10 of their six foot putts.[1]

If highly skilled golfers often miss relatively short putts, why did I beat myself up because I missed a six foot putt?

The answer lies in what I call the tyranny of the perfect. I don’t compare myself to my fellow amateurs, not even to highly rated pro golfers. I think I should be the perfect putter. I should always hole a six foot putt.

The truth is that no-one always does that, but, foolishly, I think I should.

That’s the tyranny of the perfect. It persecutes me in all sorts of ways – imagining I should always be patient, always be generous, always work hard, always excel in every task, always appreciate what others do, always want to wash the dishes, always be happy to walk the dogs in torrential rain. Of course I’m not always any of these things, so I feel bad.

Unquestionably I should always aim to be the best, to think, speak, and act correctly. But I have to come to terms with the reality that I won’t always be that good.

I’ll set down a few ways to think about this:

  • three negatives about perfectionism
  • two examples of when nothing less than perfect will do
  • finally a brief theological point

Perfectionism creates anxiety

Years ago I began work on a PhD with the University of Edinburgh. I’d already graduated in theology there, so I was on good terms with the faculty. One senior professor took me aside early on in my research work. “Alistair,” he said, “don’t be afraid to submit a chapter when you’ve done the work. There will always be more you could do, but you need to move on.” I owe that professor a lot. He was so right. I made steady progress through that degree, always knowing there were more books or journal articles I could have read, but accepting they wouldn’t have changed the direction of my research. But a perfectionist couldn’t have done that. The perfectionist would worry in case one more article might yield an important insight. And then there would be another article, and another, and another. Always anxious in case something was being missed.

Perfectionism causes inefficiency

My wife, Alison, remembers a near neighbour she once had. He was a keen gardener, so keen he worked endlessly on removing stones from his land. But his task was indeed endless – there were so many stones he never got round to planting his flowers and vegetables. Perfectionism made him inefficient.

The same was true for my friend Gordon who researched his doctoral thesis for five years without submitting a single chapter. His problem? He couldn’t let go of his work because he never saw it as finished. After six years he was warned about his pace of progress. The same happened after seven years, and eight years and nine years. He had drafted chapters, all excellent, but he kept refining each one. After twelve years Gordon got a final ultimatum from his university – ‘submit your thesis within the next academic year, or you get no degree’ – and after thirteen years he handed in his work. It was far better than acceptable; quite brilliant really. He got his doctorate. But he’d have been awarded his degree in a third of the time if only he hadn’t been a perfectionist.

Perfectionism forces people to become absorbed in detail to the detriment of getting work done efficiently.

Perfectionism limits performance

A figure skater practises and practises, and at last masters a quadruple Lutz. She focused on the quad Lutz because it’s extremely difficult and therefore one of the highest scoring elements. (The base value of a single Lutz is 0.60. The base value of a quadruple Lutz is 11.50.) Our skater worked up from the single Lutz to double Lutz to triple Lutz, and finally – after years of trying and failing – she succeeded with the quadruple. Surely our skater must now win every competition? But she doesn’t. Yes, she can pull off one of figure skating’s hardest jumps. But she has so concentrated on her quadruple Lutz, she’s neglected the Axel, the Loop, the Flip, the Euler, and the Salchow, important other elements in a figure skating routine. With those she’s just average. And being brilliant in one element but only average in the rest doesn’t win. Her perfectionism with the quadruple Lutz has limited her potential.

Likewise, cricket teams have specialist players, mostly bowlers and batters. But cricket teams don’t consist only of specialists. Other players are all-rounders, people reasonably good with ball and bat, but also excellent at catching, throwing, and running. Teams need players with many skills, not just one.

In life generally, most of us have to be all-rounders because focusing only on one thing neglects everything else. Perfectionism can limit performance.

However, having listed three negatives, I can offer two positives about perfectionism.

Perfectionism is sometimes essential

  • If I was ever to make a parachute jump – which will be never – I’d want my parachute packer to be an out and out perfectionist. Someone who thinks a ‘nearly right job’ is good enough might kill me.
  • If I needed brain surgery, my neurosurgeon had better have dedicated everything to be utterly brilliant. I don’t care if they can’t make a cup of tea, tie their shoe laces, or stack a dishwasher, as long as they’re an exceptional surgeon.
  • If I was trapped beside a ticking bomb, I’d need to know that the technician working to diffuse the bomb is the best bomb disposal operator ever.
  • If I was strapped in for a space flight, and the countdown has reached 5-4-3-2-1, I’m praying the aerospace engineers who constructed the rocket are the most detailed and careful people on earth.

You get my point. There are situations where it’s exactly right for someone to pour their attention and skill into just one area of work. In certain circumstances precision is an absolute requirement. – perfectionism not just desirable but essential.

Perfectionism is the inevitable instinct for some

I attended a Scottish Open golf tournament in Glasgow in the early 1980s. All day I walked the course, admiring the players’ skill. Finally, with the light fading, I headed back to my car. Right beside the car park was the practice range. There was only one player there – Nick Faldo. He was young but already well known. He’d played in several Ryder Cup matches and topped the European Order of Merit. He was already a successful golfer. But, while others had left the course or were propping up the bar, there Faldo was on the range. The sun was setting, but he was still practising. A great golfer, dedicated to becoming an even greater golfer. Which he achieved. He went on to win dozens of tournaments, including six ‘majors’ – the Open Championship in 1987, 1990, 1992, and the Masters Tournament in 1989, 1990, 1996. That’s more ‘major’ victories than any other European player has achieved since World War I. In the 1990s he was first in world rankings for a total of 97 weeks. When he finally retired from tournament play he began a significant career commentating on golf, and took up many other enterprises related to golf course design and developing young golfers. In 1998 he was awarded an MBE (Member of the Order of the British Empire), and then made a Knight in 2009, both awards ‘for services to golf’. Therefore he is now Sir Nick Faldo.

But his single minded devotion to golf came at a price. During matches he was so intense he hardly spoke to opponents or playing partners. He’s been described as having an insular focus that peers found less than endearing. That focus didn’t help his marriages either. The first lasted less than five years, the second for nine years, and the third for five. Faldo married his fourth wife in 2020.

Faldo’s great success as a golfer owes much to his perfectionism. It has cost him, but Faldo probably never considered any other attitude to golf. Utter dedication to his sport was how he had to live.

Similar commitments exist in other areas of life, such as:

  • the person building a corporate empire that spans the world
  • the academic whose whole existence is dedicated to study and book writing
  • people who dedicate themselves to finding rare species of moths, or trek the world as ‘twitchers’ (bird watchers)
  • those who commit all their attention to their families to the exclusion of any other activity.

Such people don’t have ‘interests’. Their goals are far more intense. Their focus is narrow. They could never be all-rounders. And their dedication to being perfect makes them very good in a single sphere.

Finally, then, a brief theological point.

Jesus said: ‘Be perfect… as your heavenly Father is perfect.’[2] That’s the standard. We shouldn’t aim for anything less. But, realistically, our lives will be less than perfect. Thankfully, the Bible also says: ‘If we claim to be without sin, we deceive ourselves… If we confess our sins, [God] is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins.’[3]

So, when we don’t get things right, there can be forgiveness. For which I am profoundly grateful.

But sometimes the biggest difficulty is forgiving ourselves. That was my problem after missing my six foot putt. ‘I should have holed it’, I kept telling myself. I measured my performance against a perfect performance, and fell short. That’s the tyranny of the perfect. Yes, let’s always aim for the best. But let’s accept we’ll often fail. That’s realistic. It happens even to people far more proficient than we are. Sometimes we need to seek forgiveness from God or from others. And often we need to forgive ourselves. If we don’t, the perfect will keep on tyrannising us.

[1] Season 2022-23 statistics from https://www.pgatour.com/stats/detail/344 There are many other similar statistics on other pages on the PGA tour site.

[2] Matthew 5:48 (NIV)

[3] 1 John 1:8-9 (NIV)

This way or that way?

I saw the sign in my photo on a nearby golf course. One arrow pointed left to the 13th teeing ground. The other arrow pointed right to the 13th teeing ground. “Which is it?” I asked myself. Both directions couldn’t be correct. Or could they?  Intrigued, I took the photo. (An explanation of the sign is in a footnote.[1])

It’s not unusual to be uncertain which choice to make, which way to go, which option to prioritise. Sometimes the decision is trivial. Do we watch this film or that film? Do I have a latte or cappuccino? Do I go shopping today or tomorrow? Sometimes the alternatives are much more serious. Who do I share my life with? Do I study law or accountancy? Should we move abroad or stay here? With life changing decisions, the stakes are super high. It’s difficult and often stressful when we could go one way or another, and it’s not obvious which way is right. So much rides on the choice we make.

No-one has a perfect method for making the uncertain certain. But here are three guiding principles.

Rationality can’t always tell us what’s right

We should be careful about making choices based on hunches or emotions. One couple were convinced a house they couldn’t really afford was perfect for them, so they bought it, but within months had to sell it because they couldn’t make the payments. That was foolish.

However, not  every decision can be resolved by calculation. We can’t always weigh the merits and demerits of one option over another. Jeff decided he needed a wife, so he wrote out a wife-specification: age, looks, family background, education, career expectations, role-of-wife assumptions. He found Julia, an attractive young lady who ticked every box on his list, dated her, and they got engaged. And then they broke up. Jeff and Julia were well matched, except for one essential: they weren’t in love. Emotion had been left out of the calculation.

As Jeff and Julia’s story shows, the rightness of every important decision can’t be defined by rational analysis. Top executives have been quizzed about their strategic decision making. Often they had folders or files full of data, but when the crunch came their final choice was based on a hunch. Some wouldn’t call it a hunch. They preferred ‘instinct’, or ‘intuition’, or claimed ‘inspired guesses’. However they described it, their final decisions were not data driven.

Faced with a ‘this’ or ‘that’ decision, rationality may not give us a clear answer. But, deep down, we may know what’s right. That inner voice shouldn’t be ignored.


Alternatives are not always the problem we think they are
When I’m making a long journey, I use digital mapping to plan my route. Usually I’m  offered more than one way to the destination. One option may take me via a motorway, and the other a more direct route but on minor roads. I can’t go both ways. Which is right? I could spend ages making a decision. But I don’t. Because often there’s no more than five minutes difference or a couple of miles in distance between the two. The simple fact is that I could go either way. The choice doesn’t really matter.

The same can be true with matters more serious than route selection.

When I’ve interviewed candidates for jobs, the final stage has often been a choice between two people, either of whom could do the job well. The significant point then is what I’ve just stated: ‘either could do the job well’. I can only employ one, so I must choose. But that choice is between good and good; neither is bad. Whoever I pick, I’ll be getting a great employee.

The same applies when I’ve got several things to do. Which should come first? Several clammer for my attention, but all that matters at that moment is that I start on one. Which one isn’t really important since all of them have to be done.

I’ve seen people in a restaurant almost unable to decide on their main course, asking their server to give them another two minutes, and even after that needing ‘a little longer’. What’s their problem? They can’t choose between the beef or the lamb. Do they dislike one? No, the problem is that they love both. They’ll enjoy either. Unable to decide, I’ve been asked to choose for them. So I do, and they’re delighted – as they would have been if I’d chosen the other dish.

So there are two truths there:

  1. We too easily think every choice is between good/bad or right/wrong. But alternatives can both be good. Either option will be fine.
  2. Because we’re frightened of making a bad choice, fear paralyses us. We’re stuck between option A or option B, terrified of getting it wrong. That paralysis leads to option C which is no decision at all. And that’s usually the worst option of all.

Sometimes there’s no big difference which choice we make.


Consider how urgent any decision is

There are decisions which must be made right now. You can’t tell applicants for a job you need another month to make up your mind. Or, if you know you want to buy a house, you’d better not put off making an offer.

But other decisions are not like that. I felt the time had come to buy another car. I read up on several models, took test drives, studied finance deals, talked to salespeople. Rather than narrowing down my options, that process so enlarged my thinking I was confused. Several models seemed equally good, and I’d likely be happy with any of them. But, with a significant sum of money involved, I struggled to make a decision. Then I realised I didn’t need to buy any of them. Not at that time. The car I had already was old with high mileage, but it was running okay, still doing what it had always done. Since I had a functional car, I could wait. (Which is what I did, and two years later, with clearer thinking, I bought a car that delighted me and gave good service for many years.)

Here’s the lesson. We shouldn’t put off a decision that needs to be made now. But not every decision has to be made now. Not everything is urgent. And when we don’t know which option is right, it’s legitimate to wait. That isn’t procrastination; it’s simply saying ‘not now’. With time, the fog of uncertainty may have cleared, or you may have found an option you’d never considered before. Now you can make a wise choice, and that’s the time to act.

So, in conclusion, we may wish every decision to be clear cut. No confusion. Make the choice and move forward. But the hard reality is that some choices are not plain and obvious. We could go this way or that way. It’s not easy, but I’ve given some clues for how to move forward. Decisions may involve instincts rather than analysis. The differences between options may not matter too much. And perhaps that urgent decision isn’t actually urgent at all.

[1] The left arrow pointed to the white and yellow teeing areas of the 13th hole. The right arrow pointed to the red teeing area, also of the 13th hole.

Unhelpful people

Near the start of a book I found a curious entry among the ‘Acknowledgements’. Having named those to whom the author was grateful, he then writes: ‘On this particular volume I received no help from Josiah S. Carberry. For that too I am grateful.’

It’s a joke. Josiah S. Carberry is, in fact, a fictional character[1], the name standing for someone we might describe as a crackpot. The author I was reading, Joel Feinberg[2], is humorously saying that none of those who helped him were crazy.

However, I suspect many authors could identify people whose help would be thoroughly unhelpful. And most of us could list folk like that too.

I’ve been grateful for supportive, gifted, positive friends and colleagues, and I’ve valued their backing and input. But a few have been ‘Josiah S. Carberry’ types. Some have discouraged, some misguided, some wasted my time. They were unhelpful people.

By ‘unhelpful’ I don’t only mean ‘annoying’. We all encounter folk who annoy us:

Those who are repeatedly late. I recall someone calling such people ‘thieves’ because they stole everyone else’s time waiting for them.

Those who won’t switch off their phones during meetings (or on the golf course!). One speaker, at a very large conference, not only failed to switch off his phone, he took a call midway through his talk. That’s so bad.

Those who constantly try to impress with their successes. Their achievements usually aren’t special. Most of us have the good sense not to brag about ours.

Those who boast constantly about their children’s successes. That might be their youngsters’ progress at reading, or their older ones’ exam achievements, or their grown up kids’ careers.

Those who take 500 words to say what deserved only 50. Long-windedness is not a quality.

Taking a hint from that last sentence, I won’t list more ‘annoyances’. My point is that annoying people do no more than annoy; usually they don’t stop us doing what we need to do. But unhelpful people are a real hindrance.

I’ll describe some unhelpful people who’ve crossed my path, partly from my time as a pastor but also from when I was leading major organisations.

Those who are excessive time-consumers  Ann made an appointment to speak with me. “What’s on your mind?” I asked. “Well,” she said, “sometimes I’m just not very happy”. My inner reaction was that I wasn’t always happy either. But there might be something much deeper troubling Ann, so we talked. And another time we talked. And another time we talked. At no point did Ann describe anything as seriously wrong, other than that she wasn’t always happy. We talked about expectations, and I left things there.

Ann may have wanted to talk more. Perhaps she was lonely, and enjoyed conversation. But I couldn’t be her talk-buddy long-term. To give Ann more time would have been at the expense of other people and other tasks which were in greater need of that time. That would not be right.

Some people demand attention which takes more than our time. Gordon MacDonald describes Very Draining People – he calls them VDPs – who sap the passion of leaders. Their demands keep increasing, they take but don’t give, and leaders who indulge them pay a massive bill in inner exhaustion.[3]

People who consume an inordinate amount of our time are unhelpful.

Those in love with their own opinion  Martin accosted me. He wanted me to know that people were saying that in our church services we should return to singing traditional hymns, and have far fewer modern worship songs. I had learned to be suspicious when someone used the phrase ‘people are saying’, so I asked Martin “How many are saying that?” He answered: “Everyone I’ve spoken to”. Exactly, those he’d hand-picked to be on the receiving end of his opinion. In fact, I’d heard already that Martin was cornering certain church members, pushing his passion for traditional hymns on them, and when they nodded, he considered they agreed with him and added them to his list of ‘people are saying’. But some of them had told me what was happening, and that they didn’t agree with Martin. However, he was a forceful personality, a man who believed strongly in the rightness of his own ideas, so partly out of politeness and partly out of fear they had just nodded in order to get him to stop.

I saw the same happen with departmental heads who pushed for more funding or more prominence for their area of work, sometimes going direct to trustees to win their support. I saw it too with people who thought they knew exactly what was needed for our organisation to grow, then sowed their opinions among other staff members, but they had neither complete understanding of the facts nor the ability to bring growth about.

People in love with their own opinions are often unhelpful. 

Those who are perpetually negative  Faced with problems I’ve been reassured when someone says, “Don’t worry; every cloud has a silver lining”. I like that positivity, looking for how something bad might also turn into something good.

But Charlie never reassured me. He was near 100 per cent consistent in seeing only insurmountable problems. His gift for gloom and doom depressed everyone around him. One colleague summed up Charlie this way: “Charlie is convinced every silver lining has a cloud – and it’s a black cloud”.

The negative Charlies of this world don’t see themselves as difficult. They believe they’re helping by pointing out the hard challenges to which we have no answer. But that’s not helpful. It tempts people to give up without trying. The truth is that virtually every project has tough challenges, but often those challenges are resolved by moving forward carefully and constructively. When running a marathon, you feel pain – cramps, blisters, weariness – and finishing the race seems impossible, but careful self-management before or after that point can still get you over the finishing line. Problems are usually not reasons to give up.

Negative Charlies are unhelpful people.

Those who oppose  The Old Testament book of Nehemiah records the rebuilding of the wall of Jerusalem. Decades before, the Israelites had been transported from their own land and made slaves. While they were gone, Jerusalem fell into disrepair and was occupied by other peoples. But then Nehemiah, cup bearer to his overlord, King Artaxerxes, got permission to return with others to rebuild Jerusalem’s walls. He succeeded, and Nehemiah 12 describes a lavish dedication ceremony for the new walls.

However, what happened between permission to rebuild and celebrating the completed walls is far from a story of straightforward success. In places it reads like a thriller novel.

Right from the start the project was opposed by other tribes and peoples. As soon as Nehemiah returned to Jerusalem and surveyed the damage, Horonite and Ammonite officials spread stories that Nehemiah was rebelling against the king (chapter 2). Once work on the walls began, Samaritans – backed by a large army – ridiculed what he was doing. But Nehemiah and his fellow Jews kept building. So his opponents, who’d enlisted even more support, plotted to kill the wall builders. Nehemiah posted guards and later assigned half the men to work on the walls while the other half held weapons ready to defend them. Eventually the order became: ‘Work with one hand and hold your sword ready in the other’ (chapter 4).

Nehemiah’s enemies got more subtle. They invited him to a meeting. That sounded reasonable, even friendly, but what they intended was neither reasonable nor friendly. They wanted Nehemiah alone to murder him. He sent a reply that he was doing a great work, and had no time to meet with them. Frustrated, his foes spread more stories: ‘Nehemiah is leading a revolt, and he’s planning to install a king in Jerusalem’. It was a rumour of insurrection, which could get Nehemiah killed. But the work went on. His enemies decided enough was enough. They appointed assassins who would creep into the Jewish camp in the dead of night and dispose of Nehemiah for good. Nehemiah learned of the plot, but despite the intimidation and danger he would not be stopped, and the new wall was completed in a little over seven weeks (chapter 6).

Nehemiah’s opponents were clearly the worst of unhelpful people. Few of us work with constant life-ending threats from people who want us to fail.

But we do face challenges in ways like these:

Head on  We can experience direct opposition from senior colleagues. They may be honest – they disagree on some matter. But it’s awkward, unsettling and, even when we have the authority to press ahead anyway, their opposition leaves us distressed.

Non-cooperation  Management gurus describe the covert way staff can halt new initiatives – they simply don’t implement them. They like the culture they have, the ways of working with which they’re familiar, the colleagues they work beside, so they don’t make the changes they should.

Campaigns  Opponents seek support from others for their point of view. They enlist sympathisers, who in turn enrol more. It all builds until there are sufficient numbers to obstruct a policy change.

Leaders must listen when people hold alternative views. But often it’s right to press forward despite opposition. That’s part of the job.

Those you can never please  There’s a common saying: ‘You can’t please all the people all of the time’. I don’t agree. Here’s my saying: ‘You can’t please all the people any of the time’.

The culture in my Christian tradition is to find unanimity. “We can’t move forward until we all agree,” someone says. Now, if we’re talking about a group of less than six people, we might get total agreement, especially if the matter is a small one. But complete unity of heart and mind is rare with greater numbers and bigger issues.

In fact, a call for unanimity can be a stalling tactic. When change can’t happen until everyone agrees on every detail, at the least it’ll be a long way off or, very possibly, it will never happen. That’s an intolerable situation. It’s a case of the perfect being the enemy of the best.

Those who demand agreement from all are mostly unhelpful people.

Finally, three more – briefly!

Those who are all talk and no action  I’ve had colleagues and friends who argued powerfully for policies or positions, but did very little after getting those positions. Terry was keen to head up maintenance work, and great at listing repair and development tasks. But he didn’t do any of them, nor delegate the jobs to others. People complained about facilities not working. I encouraged Terry, and was assured matters were getting his attention. But they weren’t, and more and more people grumbled to me about uneven paths, broken equipment, peeling plaster, and much more. I went again to Terry, and was very straightforward that he wasn’t doing the job. “I guess I should resign then?” he asked. I didn’t talk him out of it. Soon after, we appointed Gary who boasted no special skills, but made sure every task brought to his attention was completed promptly. No more complaints.

Unhelpful people talk a good game, but have little to show for it.

Those who don’t keep their promises  Some failed promises are relatively minor: the student who didn’t read a set book before class; the fellow actor who didn’t learn their lines; the Board member who, before the meeting, didn’t even glance at the papers staff had slaved to prepare. Such things matter, but they’re not at the level of other forms of promise-breaking:

  • After a lengthy and expensive hiring process, Josh is offered the job and immediately accepts. One week later – after other candidates have all been told they are not being appointed – Josh sends a one sentence email saying he’s changed his mind and won’t be taking up the post.
  • After two years of marriage, Katy tells Bert she no longer loves him and she’s leaving. He pleads; others counsel; but Katy just keeps saying she doesn’t want this marriage any more.
  • Cedric has elevated himself above all his colleagues, and is rewarded with responsibility for the firm’s biggest client. There’s talk of massive amounts of new business. Cedric assures his CEO he’s working day and night on a business plan that will delight the client. The deadline agreed with the client is 20 days away. No plan yet from Cedric, but he guarantees his boss it’ll be ready in time. When it’s down to the last ten days and then five days Cedric promises he’s making the final edits. Deadline day arrives, but Cedric’s plan doesn’t. He’s been doing everything but the plan. The client is furious and withdraws all business from the firm.

I can understand that some people aren’t successful at a task they promised to do. But they tried. What I can’t understand is how people make promises – often solemn promises – and simply walk away from them. ‘Unhelpful’ is far too weak a word for them.

Those who criticise behind your back  It’s those last three words ‘behind your back’ that trouble me most. I have never minded when people raise concerns with me. We can talk, understand each other better, and often resolve issues. But if people have criticisms, and take their complaints straight to others, then two things are wrong: a) I’ve had no chance to resolve anything; b) those to whom they speak are being given only one side of a story. I wish the complainers would be asked by those they talk to: ‘Have you spoken with Alistair about this?’ and, when the answer is ‘no’, they then refused to hear any more until the grievances had been brought to me.

I do understand that people find it difficult to speak to someone in line management over them. Yet, it’s far from fair to go straight to others, without giving the subject of their complaints the chance to resolve a problem. Secret complainers are unhelpful.

Finally, then, how do you deal with unhelpful people?  I can’t give specific answers because each case is unique. However, I learned that the only way to deal with unhelpful people is by actually dealing with them.

What I mean is this. When we don’t face up to the unhelpful:

  • we let the negative person go on being negative
  • we try to sidestep the opponent
  • we tolerate the person who promises much but never delivers
  • we just wait for the critic to get fed up and shut up

But the problem with all these inaction strategies is that, almost always, the unhelpful person keeps on being unhelpful.

So, my policy has been to speak kindly but directly to those causing difficulty. That doesn’t guarantee success. Those who oppose your ideas won’t instantly change their minds. But they might tone down their efforts. And, with others, I’ve seen a realisation that they’re being difficult, and they appreciate the insight they’ve been given.

Take courage. Be gentle but speak honestly. Almost always the end result will be better than leaving unhelpful behaviour unchallenged.

[1] See https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Josiah_S._Carberry to fully understand the humour around this name.

[2] From Joel Feinberg, (1989) Harm to self, Oxford Press (p. xix).

[3] G. MacDonald, Renewing Your Spiritual Passion (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1986), pp. 69-88.