Labor Day was quickly created after the Pullman Strikes and as a result of President Grover Cleveland and congress’ initiative to improve political relationships with the unions. It was first celebrated in 1882.

This year Labor Day presents an irony to many American families living through the worst economic downturn since the Great Depression. Somewhere between 10 and 16 percent of Americans can’t find work.

Growing up as young boy the Great Depression was something I read about in history books. I thought about the Great Depression the way an art critic thinks about art. I thought of it from a safe, slightly detached, third person perspective.

But not anymore.

Given the people I know who have lost their jobs or are afraid of loosing their jobs, have burned through their retirement and savings, have lost their careers, lost their homes, or declared bankruptcy, the Great Depression now has a personal, first-person feel to me.

I can better empathize with what our fathers, mothers, grandfathers and grandmothers went through during the 1930’s.

I no longer need to look at Dorthea Lange’s iconic photo, Migrant Mother, to understand how hard and destructive a strong recession or depression is. I just need to look at the vacant storefronts dotting Main Street in my own town and see neighbors, friends, and swollen clusters of nameless Googling people in the coffee shops at mid-day, when before they would be at their jobs.

This Labor Day weekend, many of us Americans feel a part of the Migrant Mother’s tribe.

Summer is over and many Americans this Labor Day weekend will continue searching, hoping, and praying for that one precious thing that has existed since the Garden of Eden--work.

Happy Labor Day.

With the other moms and dads, I watch as both my boys get out of the car and step onto campus. I’m watching their lean, strong bodies tanned from summer, their bulbous backpacks, their comradery and brotherly banter as they cross the street.

Knots of girls stand and talk as dozens of crisp boys pass by and try to be cool. Nobody is obvious, but everyone seems aware of each other or is checking each other out. There is a palpable eagerness and electricity in the air that only the young, the curious, and inexperienced can bring

Like the other parents in their cars watching this ritual scene, I’m pausing.

Maybe we’re watching to make sure our kids don’t get run over by an overzealous car or school bus. A touch of that helicoptering impulse in us parents raising its head?

Perhaps we’re momentarily having a collective flashback to our high school days.

Maybe we’re thinking about how much time has passed since we brought our kids home from the hospital and are silently amazed by how our little bundles of flesh now have wonderfully taught limbs, unique minds, and spirits of their own.

Maybe we’re feeling the pangs of change and separation; We’re coming to grips with our kids developing their own distinct lives and our own mortality.

Maybe.

But as I put my coffee cup back in the holder, begin to pull out, and drive down the tree-lined street, I sense my thoughts and emotions dissolving into a prayer—not a formal prayer, like at church on a Sunday morning, but more like a deep cry of the soul.

In the moving sanctuary of my car, I prayed they would always remember and rely on their Maker.

My sons are going to school and learning a lot of things. They’ll be required to remember a lot.

But this morning I’m praying that, of all the things they have to remember in school, they'll remember and never forget their Creator.

A lot of learned knowledge eventually fades. We all grow old. But the knowledge that comes from knowing and glorifying their Creator will stand them well to pass the hardest tests of all—living, loving, and dying well.

Ah, freshman year. What a beautiful moment in life.

The elder Wooden taught his son, “be true to yourself, help others, make each day your masterpiece, make friendship a fine art, drink deeply from good books—especially the Bible, build a shelter against a rainy day, give thanks for your blessings and pray for guidance every day.”

John Wooden’s accomplishments and, most of all his life, show he took his dad’s words to heart.

The Midwestern tale of growing up in Indiana with God-fearing parents and all the rest makes for an interesting story--one with a distinctly conservative flavor.

So, it’s no wonder that the bespectacled teacher would be characterized by some reporters as a “guardian” of a bygone era who coached in an age of convulsive cultural change.

The word “guardian” may be convenient or have some truth to it, if one where judging only by the appearances. But, if you look at his character, reflect on his values and what he actually thought and taught, I think you have to conclude that John Wooden was a radical.

For example, in a time coined the Me Decade, Wooden catechized, “Consider the rights of others before your own feelings, and the feelings of others before your own rights.”

In an age fomenting personal freedom in every area of life, Wooden advised, “Talent is God given. Be humble. Fame is man-given. Be grateful. Conceit is self-given. Be careful.”

In an era awash in the Jacuzzi philosophy, “If it feels good do it,” Wooden so counter culturally taught, “there are many things that are essential to arriving at true peace of mind, and one of the most important is faith, which cannot be acquired without prayer.”

John Wooden and the American 1970s were not simply a contrast of philosophies. It was no less than a titanic clash of worldviews.

The Me Decade taught one view of God, man, creation, society, time, pleasure, and success, and John Wooden taught another.

John Wooden’s teachings were not the byproduct of a bygone, conservative culture. They were in fact grounded in the Bible, which is to say, they were grounded in Jesus.

This is the Jesus who taught you had to become lost to be found, weak to become strong, and a servant to become great. This is the radical from Nazareth who cared for the social outcasts and invisible people of society—the lepers, the blind, women, and children. This was the Jesus who focused on the character and heart of people, not their outward religious activities.  

Say what you want to say about religion or denominations and the like, but the Jesus Christ of the Gospels was counter cultural, even radical for his day. Because Wooden was a true follower, the man himself could not help but be anything less in his day.

The Gospel has always had a subversive quality, culturally speaking, and so did the teachings of Coach Wooden. As the stories of his players repeatedly convey, it did not matter whether you were Republican or Democrat, conservative or liberal, black or white, rich or poor, or anything else. Like the Gospel that so imbued his teachings, Coach Wooden’s message transcended the usual earthly categories.

Coach Wooden came in tweed coats or modest suits with short hair, rather than a playboy bathrobe and long hair. He didn’t live in the city, the tony west side, or Santa Monica. He lived in the suburban enclave of the San Fernando Valley. What could be more unimpressive or uncool?

Outwardly, coach was unassuming and conventional. But make no mistake. John Wooden was more than a staid defender of the ideals and values of a fading generation.

Wooden’s philosophy, approach, and teaching—and the Gospel principles that grounded and guided them—have all the all the classic marks of a radical, not a guardian.

Memorial Day signaled the start of summer, which meant the end of school. That was a good thing. I still had my books and projects and thirst to explore and learn. I was just happy to have a break from going to class and live by a generic scheme that reduced education from a blissful adventure to a dull, scantron-ladened chore.

Memorial Day also meant the alien family experience of togetherness. I’m a survivor of growing up in the meat grinder of the 70’s, but somehow Memorial Day had a temporary healing effect on my family. The daily divisive forces of my parent’s dead marriage, dad’s career, mom’s job, our collective denial, plus the obligatory school and sport practices and events, all seemed to go away. Instead, we actually came together and enjoyed each other. For precious moments, we played and laughed together as a family.

In the swells of grief, Memorial Days were like islands of relief to me.

~

And now, as I reflect on my childhood Memorial Days, I realize I like Memorial Day for another reason. Like the Fourth of July, Memorial Day annually jolts my cul-de-sac conscience to remember that my suburban tribe and I are members of something larger than our own leafy street, private gym, sport club, or LinkedIn networks. We are more than segmented consumer cohorts. As Americans, we’re commonly united by the idea of freedom. 

Now, to be sure, we all bring different notions to the idea of freedom. Regardless our differences, however, the idea of freedom is still able to makes us intentionally choose to see ourselves as a national community.

I like Memorial Day because anything that disturbs our comfortable state and awakens us to see ourselves as more than materialists and consumers has got be good, not only for our own souls, but also for the soul of our nation.

I love Memorial Day because it reminds me that the challenge isn’t just the willingness to die but also the willingness and boldness to live for something that transcends beyond ourselves and our world.

So, thanks dad and to the many other men and women who served and died in battle.

Happy Memorial Day.