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It would be hard to accuse me of being a Luddite about digital technology. I know of few people who are as tied to their technology as I am. I’m always connected, whether it’s with my iMac, iPhone or iPad. Despite being a big believer in the power of technology, though, I’m hesitant about digital textbooks — but I’m not sure why.

Printed textbooks seem destined to go the way of the dodo. Lately, I’ve been reading a lot about how iPads are sweeping schools and displacing books. I love my iPad, so I can see how it’s capable of that. I’m just not certain it’s the right medium for learning.

An iPad running a textbook app with hyperlinks and all sorts of learning aids might be great for improving education. I’m not saying I’m definitely against them. I just know I’m uncomfortable about switching away from books.

I have the Bible on my iPad and I use it for quick reference and for following along during worship services, yet when I’m ready to do more serious study, I still find myself reaching for a paper copy of the Bible. Why? I find that I can flip around and make connections in the paper copy far more quickly than I can on the iPad version. Yes, the iPad version has hyperlinks and a search engine, but if I’m reading something in Mark and I want to compare it to something in Matthew, my fingers “know” where to go quickly and I get there far more rapidly than I could if I had to use the digital way.

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There’s a dangerous idea that’s taken hold of mainstream politicians, media and even voters today that if you don’t support invading other countries and reshaping them to the will of the U.S. government, you’re an “isolationist.”

During a recent GOP presidential debate, Newt Gingrich attacked Ron Paul as an isolationist. Since Gingrich has been employed as a college history professor, you’d think he would have some idea about how dishonest he’s being to score political points. Sometimes it’s hard to say whether people such as Gingrich are ignorant or just dishonest. I suspect it’s dishonesty.

Just because someone doesn’t want to invade other countries, it’s not reasonable to call him an “isolationist.” Reasonably — and more neutrally — he’s a “non-interventionist.” If you’d like to see Paul give an explanation of the difference between isolationism and non-interventionism, check out this five-minute video from four years ago.

If I don’t have any intention of using violence to go into my neighbors’ homes to enforce my will, it doesn’t mean I’m an isolationist. I might want to have good, mutually beneficial relationships with them — for friendship, trade or other things. Declining to attack others who have not attacked you is not “isolationism.”

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Over the past couple of years, I’ve come to appreciate flaws and imperfections in a way that I never did before, especially in people. I confused someone a couple of nights ago by saying that, so it’s forced me to figure out how to explain this counterintuitive notion.

For years, I’ve had the intellectual belief that life is a series of tradeoffs. If you get something positive in one area, you give up something in another part of life. Ralph Waldo Emerson’s essay on “Compensation” influenced me a lot about this subject about 15 years ago. He argued that there’s a natural process that balances everything. I don’t buy everything about Emerson’s philosophy, but I’ve found a lot of truth in this particular idea.

It seems to me that people with great talents and gifts will always have compensating weaknesses, although the positive things sometimes make it hard to notice the negatives. Those who have terrible flaws will almost always have compensating strengths or advantages, even if they’re sometimes hidden by the obvious flaws.

So I recognized — in theory — that great strengths are always going to come with great flaws as compensation. What I didn’t realize until fairly recently was that I had a different standard for certain others close to me. (And for myself.) With certain people, I was expecting incredible strengths and impressive attributes to come with no downsides. So when I found someone amazingly impressive, I put that person onto a pedestal — a place where no one can stay for long.

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