Expectations & Excuses — Part I

Soft language and soft men...

"Without an expectation of success, one is rarely successful."

When I was ten years old, my father expected the grass to be cut every week.

Sunday mornings? I was expected to be in church.

At football, basketball, or baseball practice, the expectation was that I’d give my best. And when we lost—I am from a small town in Kentucky, loss was inevitable—it was never anyone else’s fault. Not the officials. Not my teammates. And certainly not the coach. The expectation was that I would own the loss [and give away the win].

As I got older, the expectations grew.

At fourteen, I was expected to get a part-time job. Twenty hours a week, I kept the dining room and salad bar at Wendy’s stocked and spotless [yes, Wendy’s actually had a salad bar].

At sixteen, I was expected to get my driver’s license and buy a car—the one I’d been saving for. Mom and Dad were done being my taxi.

I was expected to earn good grades and attend college. Right or wrong, the belief was that education opened doors and stretched possibilities.

At the heart of it all was expectation.

Virtue was expected too. Kindness. Courage. Generosity. Helping your neighbor. These weren’t hashtags or trending reels. They were ordinary life.

The Death of Expectation

Somewhere along the way, we stopped expecting much of men. Especially young men. We stopped expecting young men to grow up. We stopped expecting husbands to stay married. We stopped expecting fathers to be present and raise their children. We stopped expecting employees to show up and work hard. We stopped expecting men to pray for and oversee the church.

And when expectations disappear, excuses multiply. Now our homes are bathed in excuses. Our churches are full of them. Our communities run on them:

"I’m tired."

"I’m busy."

"That’s not really my thing."

"I’m not called to that."

This generation of men is drowning in explanation. We have a reason for everything and responsibility for nothing.

The Language of Excuse

Excuse has its own language. It’s subtle, but once you start listening for it, you can hear it everywhere. Excuse is always other-focused. It is shifty, never my fault, my failure, my fight to fight. It’s always someone else’s fault. Someone else’s failure. Someone else’s fight.

Adam spoke it first in the Garden: "The woman You gave me…" [Genesis 3:12]

Adam sinned, he failed. And instead of owning it, he deflected. In one breath he blamed both his wife and God: "The woman YOU gave me…" The first excuse followed the first sin. And men have been fluent in the language ever since.

Moses said, "I don’t speak good…"

Naaman said, "The rivers back home are cleaner."

Gideon said, "My family ain’t much to speak of."

Saul said, "Come on, it’s only one guy and a few animals…"

And this list goes on… "I’m too young," "I’m too rich," "I’ve gotta bury my daddy first…" We are professionals at excuse-making. We’ve even mastered sounding spiritual while making excuses. We say, "I’m praying about it," when what we mean is, "I’m never going to do it."

We say, "I’m in a season of waiting," when we’re just afraid to obey.

We say, "I’m processing," when really, we’re procrastinating.

We can justify anything, spin anything, nuance anything. We’ve become fluent in soft language—words that sound spiritual but serve as camouflage for apathy.

The Men Who Didn’t Talk That Way

Our grandfathers never talked this way. They didn’t have time for the luxury of overthinking. They had mouths to feed. Communities to build. Kids to raise. A God to worship and obey.

They didn’t have to "find their calling." Their calling was fulfilling their responsibilities. They had expectations. They were expected to show up. Stay married. Work hard. Sacrifice. Lead.

My father, Chris Harper, the man I was named after, erected steel buildings. He never owned a suit, just a hard hat and a hammer. He didn’t find purpose in his work. There was no dream board, no personality test, no quest for alignment. There was simply the job in front of him, and the people behind him—people depending on him. As Chesterton said:

"The true soldier fights not because he hates what’s in front of him, but because he loves what’s behind him."

My grandfather, Kenneth Wayne Jones, tuned pianos. He couldn’t play a single note. He couldn’t read sheet music. But he could tune them. That was his craft. While others made music, he made harmony. Every day, he showed up and brought order to chaos. He understood something this generation has forgotten: Significance isn’t found in being famous. It’s found in being faithful.

Neither of those men posted motivational quotes or took retreats to "reconnect with themselves." Nor were they prefect, far from it in fact. But they had clarity, they had purpose, the kind that comes from necessity. Life was too hard [and too short] to waste on introspection. There was no room for excuses—only effort.

They Built Their Lives on Verbs, Not Adjectives

Our grandparents didn’t talk about purpose. They didn’t wait for motivation. They just showed up.

They carried weight—physical and emotional. And because they carried it, they became strong. They didn’t ask the world to bend around them; they simply did what was expected. And somewhere along the way… we’ve stopped doing that. Today, we chase meaning while running from the very things that give it: hard work, first loves, long obedience, quiet faithfulness.

We’re convinced that if something doesn’t feel inspiring, it must not be important. Our grandfathers didn’t need inspiration to go to work. They had mouths to feed. They didn’t need retreats or mission statements to stay married. They made vows. They didn’t need followers to lead. They led by example, in the light and in the dark.

Somewhere along the way, we started mistaking ordinary for brokenness. We began confusing monotony with meaninglessness. We traded the sacred grind of a steady life for the thrill of constant change. We told men to "chase their dreams" and "follow their hearts," and then wondered why so many of them lost their heads.

What Men Need to Hear Again

Here’s what [young] men need to hear today: meaning and purpose grow in the soil of expectation.

Purpose is discovered in the hard places, where you keep showing up, even when no one else does. It is found in holding your marriage together through dry seasons. It is found in loving your kids when you’re tired. It is keeping your word when it costs you something. It is doing the right thing, not for likes, but because it’s right.

Those small, steady acts of faithfulness; those are the real miracles of manhood. We’ve built an entire culture that glorifies ambition but ignores endurance. Everyone wants to start something. No one wants to stay with something. We celebrate launch but not loyalty—visibility but not virtue. Yet greatness rarely announces itself. It grows quietly, behind the scenes, in the man who keeps showing up when it would be easier to quit.

That’s how our fathers and grandfathers lived. They didn’t talk about legacy. They lived one. They didn’t post their work. They finished it. They didn’t chase meaning. They created it.

We’ve Demonized Duty

What they called duty, we’ve demonized. We say, "Don’t work too hard." Avoid "burnout." Keep "boundaries." Strive for "balance." We act as if zealousness is oppression instead of the seed of formation. What we need isn’t more self-discovery. We need more self-discipline. Less trying to "find ourselves," and more choosing to die to ourselves in what matters most: our faith, our families, our work.

Those who came before us knew something we’ve nearly forgotten: A man’s purpose isn’t something he discovers. It’s something he delivers…

Part II coming Thursday…

For the King,

— Harp

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