David McElroy

I never cared much for the late Rush Limbaugh. I didn’t know him in person, of course, so when I say that, I’m really saying that I didn’t like his performance persona.

I thought he was pompous and arrogant. He was overconfident and seemed to think he knew everything.

But I heard an interview Sunday with producer James Gordon — known on Limbaugh’s show as “Bo Snerdley” — that made me realize I hadn’t been evaluating a real person. Gordon worked with Limbaugh for three decades as a producer and call-screener — and he saw the man as something very different than the one on the radio.

Gordon described Limbaugh as humble and eager to help others. He told a story about Limbaugh giving him $5,000 early in their association, when Gordon was deeply in debt. The man he described sounded nothing like the bombastic personality that Limbaugh presented on the air.

And something clicked with me, maybe because it addressed something I’ve been wrestling with for myself. Limbaugh was playing a role for his audience. He was successful because of the public persona. He entertained his audience. In fact, I realized that he couldn’t have been the ultra-successful performer he was if he had shown his true self to the audience.

And that made me wonder — probably for the first time — whether someone performing for the public must play a role for the audience. Maybe he can’t be his real self.

Does this suggest that I need to play a role if I’m to be successful in the ways I’d like? Does it mean I need to invent a persona for myself — and save the “real” side of me for my family and friends?

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Most of us are better at talking about love than we are at actually loving. In this respect, I am chief among sinners.

Loving other people is a struggle. If it were easy, the world would be a very different place. But it’s not easy. And it’s even more difficult because our culture seems so eager to narrow the meaning of the word. A lot of people want it to apply to nothing more substantive than the shallow Hollywood version of love, which is little more than lust with some shiny new clothes.

Real love is much deeper than that, but I struggle to find words for it. I saw glimpses of the idea in many of the words attributed to Jesus in the Gospels, but I didn’t take them seriously when I was young — because I didn’t see the Christians around me living out what the words meant.

For years, I unconsciously internalized the notion that God’s love — and especially this notion of us loving our enemies — was hokum that we talked about in Sunday school, but ignored for the rest of the week. Talking about love seemed like an empty ritual for “good people” — but it meant nothing to me in “real life.”

But something eventually changed me. You can call it love. You can call it God. Or Spirit. Or even “the Universe,” if you prefer. You can use whatever word you’re comfortable with. But this powerful spiritual love changed me.

And that change left me a stranger in this world. It left me with one foot in the earthly world of hatred and misery and one foot in a spiritual world where we were all united in profound and genuine love.

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When I was a very small child, my life was easy to understand. I was my father’s son. I adored him and wanted to be like him. And I needed him to be proud of me.

I wanted and needed my mother’s love and attention. I saw myself as a tiny protector for my younger sisters. Nobody actually told me these things about myself. This was simply an acceptable role for a little boy in my culture. It was my identity.

As I grew up, I added bits and pieces to my identity. Without realizing it, I was choosing from a limited menu consisting of what my culture believed was acceptable. Bit by bit, I developed a definite identity.

I knew who I was. I knew where I belonged. A lot of things were wrong in my life as I grew up, but I firmly understood my place in this world.

Eventually, I broadened my view of myself and who I was. I became someone whose identity diverged more and more from what traditional culture considered acceptable. I made choices which would have once seemed unimaginable to me, but which had come to be acceptable by the culture.

And I’m left with a seeming contradiction. I’ve found a wonderful array of choices which previous generations never had. I’ve had freedom to make my life into things which cultural norms would have prevented for my grandfather or great-grandfather.

But those choices I’ve had — the choices I’ve made for myself — have also taken me further and further from the cultural grounding which gave their lives stability and meaning. And I’m not certain whether my life is better or worse than the lives of those who lived before such choices were possible.

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