Just Because I Can Doesn't Mean I Should!

I’ve been thinking about a thought that has followed me through different stages of life, usually arriving a little later than it should have: Just because I can doesn’t mean I should.

As a kid, I rarely asked that question. As an adult, I ask it more often, sometimes out loud, sometimes while reaching for the antacids. As a 63-year-old man, I ask it while putting on a jacket I once swore I’d never need.

The thought first came to mind while watching news clips of people interrupting church services, convinced that their constitutional right to free speech gives them permission to speak anywhere, anytime, and as loudly as they choose. Now, I’m no constitutional scholar, but I am fairly certain the Founders didn’t envision the Bill of Rights as a license to hijack other people’s sacred spaces.

Rights are important. They matter. But they don’t float in a vacuum. They live inside relationships, communities, and what I like to call other people’s personal bubbles. Free speech protects us from government overreach; it does not exempt us from courtesy, reverence, or common sense. A church is not a town square. A worship service is not an open mic night. You may be able to speak, but wisdom asks whether this is the time, place, or manner.

That same principle shows up in far less dramatic ways. Take NFL games, for example. Every winter, without fail, there’s at least one shirtless fan painted team colors, proudly enduring what looks suspiciously like a near-blizzard. I watch from my couch, wrapped in a blanket, holding a hot drink, thinking, Sure, you can do that… but why?

I did foolish things in the cold when I was younger, too. I went outside in single-digit temperatures without gloves because hands were optional?! I survived. That does not mean it was smart then, nor does it mean it’s a solid life strategy now. Nostalgia has a way of convincing us that endurance equals wisdom. It doesn’t. Sometimes it just means we were lucky.

The same logic applies at the dinner table. I grew up in the “clean your plate” generation. You ate everything, whether you were hungry or not, because somewhere, very far away, someone else might not have dinner. The intention was good. The outcome was, occasionally, a belt notch surrendered unnecessarily. Just because I can finish everything on my plate doesn’t mean my stomach, or my doctor, thinks I should.

Then there’s my lawn. I am fully capable of letting it grow unchecked until it reaches a point where normal lawn equipment waves a white flag. At that stage, my options narrow to industrial machinery or a small herd of goats. I haven’t chosen the goats yet, but I’ve come uncomfortably close. Capability is not the same thing as stewardship.

And music,  I can play it loud. Very loud. Loud enough to rattle windows and announce my impeccable taste to the entire neighborhood. But just because my speakers go to eleven doesn’t mean my neighbors want to experience my playlist as a shared spiritual journey.
All these examples circle the same quiet truth: we’ve confused freedom with the absence of limits. Somewhere along the way, restraint started sounding like weakness instead of maturity. But self-control isn’t about denying joy; it’s about preventing joy from becoming excess, and excess from becoming someone else’s burden.

As we get older (and wiser, one hopes), the question shifts. It’s no longer “Can I?” That answer is often yes. The better questions are: Should I? And perhaps most importantly, who pays the price if I do?

Growing up means recognizing that our actions ripple outward. They land in pews, on neighbors’ lawns, in shared spaces, and in relationships we claim to value. Wisdom lives in knowing when to speak and when to be silent, when to push through discomfort, and when to put on the coat, when to indulge, and when to stop.

Just because I can doesn’t mean I should. It’s not a restriction. It’s an invitation to maturity, to charity, and occasionally, to wearing a sweater.