Special

Everybody needs to feel special. And, to be sure, everyone is special. Unique, in some way or another. Heaven knows, this blog keeps banging away at that very concept.

But it needs to be special for a good reason. A useful reason. A noble reason. Not a trumped-up, selfish reason.

Let’s take my very personal example, one with which I’m sure you can identify. I’m Canadian, of English-Welsh extraction. I love my country, and I’m fascinated by my ancestry, especially on that crazy Celtic side. Canada Day and St. David’s Day (March 1) are red letter days for me. I get to fantasize that I’m some kind of latter-day snow-bound Dylan Thomas.

But does being Canadian or having Welsh ancestry make me better? No, not a bit. There’s nothing particularly outstanding about being Canadian, or Welsh, or Irish, or American, or Chinese, or whatever. It’s just a fluke of personal history.

If my Welsh ancestors were born just a few kilometres further east, they’d have long since been assimilated as Englishmen. If our Canadian ancestors had been chased out of the “Old Countries” a decade sooner or a decade later, they could have been American, Australian, or Argentinian.

Does that mean I can’t love my country? Of course it doesn’t. My soul’s joy is in the blaze and scent of Canadian autumn, the sacred crystal silence of a snowbound forest, the thunder of moonlit waves on Nova Scotia’s rocky shore. These are part of who I am. They are special. To me.

But no more special than you and your special things. I have a friend in South Africa and I easily sense his passion for the beauty and majesty of his homeland. The tenacity of the Icelanders, the joie de vivre of the French, the outrageous optimism of Australians, all these things are part of the brilliant fabric of humanity. They’re all special.

The problem arises when “special” begins to mean “better than”. Because I’m Irish, or Italian, or White, or even from Lanark County, I’m better than you? Seriously? Well, maybe the Lanark County part.

I have more rights than you because my sacred book says so? Because my parents were special? Because of the colour of my hair or my skin? I’m Jewish, or not? I’m male, or not? I’m straight, or not? Give me a break– am I so insecure that I have to rely on my history or genes or orientation for meaning? Is that I belong to a tribe my only claim to significance?

Yes, I am special, and so are you. But it’s because of what’s inside, not what’s outside. Our worth arises not from what’s been given to us, but by what we give.