April, 2014 "Lookit." This word escaped my lexicon long ago but has recently come back to me like an old friend. As kids, we'd shout it whenever something fascinated us. "Lookit! A shooting star!" "Lookit this ant hill!" The word is both an exclamation and a verb; it signifies both wonder and an invitation. Interestingly, it was my father-in-law who brought this word back to me. He uses it regularly. This goes with his childlike enthusiasm and keen sense of observation. "Ha, lookit!" he'll say as we drive by deer gawking from the roadside. On one of our family's favorite walks, we're wandering through a wildlife sanctuary not far from our home. Waterfowl are so used to visitors they waddle around at your feet. Suddenly, we hear Diane's dad shout, "Lookit!" and turn to see him grinning with a mallard duck in his hands for us all to see. Diane scolds him. "Dad, put that duck down," but he's caught in wonder, giddy with delight. Delight is infectious. It beckons others to participate. I've begun using "lookit" more lately, and as I do, I'm recovering the innocence and simple wonder of my childhood. My kids, quite naturally, have latched on to the word as well. Why did I lose this sense of delight and wonder in the first place? The anxieties of adult responsibilities and the trappings of a rational world undoubtedly crowded it out. But I believe, before anything else, we were made for wonder. I believe "lookit" is woven into the fabric of our being, starting with the act of creation itself. When God saw all that he had made, he declared it "very good." I can't help hearing the love and affirmation in his voice, saying "Lookit!" as planets are set into orbit, as lilies disclose themselves, as flocks of snow geese take off in unison, unfurling like a clean sheet from the wet marsh. Best of all, there is an invitation to participate in God's exclamation, and man responds. His first activity is a creative one when he names the animals. Adam and Eve roll the sounds around in their mouths until together they shout, "Voila!" as they hit on just the right name. The same sense of observation and wonder is there. This is, in essence, man and woman's first recorded act of worship. You can hear this refrain of "Lookit" again in the psalms as the poet shouts: "The heavens declare the glory of God!" (Ps. 19). The prophets repeatedly call the people to stand in awe at what the Lord will do, and these displays either strike fear and trembling in those who witness them, or they incite celebration. But either way, everyone who sees it says, "Lookit." Similar words from John the Baptist set in motion the gospel story: "Behold! (Lookit!) The lamb of God..." If there is a key word in the bible, "behold" might be that word because what is the bible if it is not an amazing revelation. As the gospel story continues, Jesus heals many people and eats with outcasts, as if to say, "Lookit! This is what the Kingdom God is all about. This is the good news." And the invitation is the same for everyone: "Join in and follow me!" The Easter story is one big "Lookit!" event. "I have seen the Lord!" -- these announcements of Jesus' appearances fill the story of his resurrection. Locked doors can't even keep out the wonder as Jesus appears to his disciples gathered in a room. "Lookit!" he says. "It's really me. Come and touch me. Eat with me." And just in case they didn't get it, he breaths on them, rounding out this "lookit moment" with an invitation as he invites us to participate in his new life by joining in his ultimate purpose of reconciliation. From the beginning at creation to the resurrection, it's all very physical, earthy stuff, and this seems to be paramount in the Easter story. It's not primarily about abstract propositions or simply about metaphors dancing in the ether. We can't "look at" or touch a theological proposition. We were made to behold and hold him. Finally, when Jesus returns, the whole world will be saying, "Lookit!" But we don't have to wait until then to see him and join in the wonder. "Lookit's" are all around us every day, from a morning dew drop to a splash of vermilion across the evening sky, from a child's first step to the smile on a grandfather's face at his final breath.
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March, 2014 The property next door is set for demolition and redeveloping. The developer came to our door with a question that sent my head spinning. “Would it be alright with you if we cut down that tree?” “Say again?” “We want to build a two-car garage, and it would make things so much easier if we could remove it.” The maple tree he was pointing to is at least 75 years old and borders the two lots, so anyone would rightfully have to get our permission to cut it down. Nice of him to ask. My reaction was visceral – the gall. This shared tree is our only tree. Our kids play in the dappled light it casts over our yard and on our wood floors. On a warm summer day, the shade protects us from overheating. A slight breeze will cause a rustling and shimmering of light that is absolutely transcendent. Our maple tree, a conveyor of happiness, comfort and inspiration - the developer wanted it out of his way? I guess I shouldn’t have expected a stranger to understand, but I was incensed at the callousness of his suggestion. I confess my verbal outpouring was not very Christian. But he was relentless (he must get this all the time), trying to explain to me that a new tree would be planted in its place, of course. At that point I couldn’t hold my laughter. We thought the message – over my dead body! – had gotten through until the excavators arrived a couple weeks later, drawings in hand, and showed us, upon our request, the plans for development. They pointed to the locations of three existing trees they planned to remove, including the aforementioned object of our affections! My blood boiled again, and the excavators seemed puzzled. I called the city. No permit had been issued for the tree’s removal, and they would inform us if such an application arrived on their desk. A few days later, in a conversation with a real estate friend, he told us that some developers simply take a tree down without a permit and then pay the fine and ask forgiveness later. Praying with vague hope, I made a sign, “Do Not Damage or Remove This Tree," then added the ominous but obscure line, "Don't Wait for Forgiveness.” and then strung it up around the breast of the tree like a placard. The end of the story is still to be written, but as the saga of the maple has gone, I’m anxious about who will be writing the final chapter. I’ve come to feel caught in a cosmic battle between the forces of good and evil, with us as the guardians and the developers as the destroyers. The tree has become a symbol of helpless innocence, of purity, of God’s generosity and grace. It is not only the biosphere and carbon depletion that are at stake, though that would be enough, but the very heart of God and his love for the world were being defiled. Would it be a stretch to call our maple tree a sacrament? I don’t think so. We often assume the only sacraments are those we go to church for on Sunday morning. But I believe we are surrounded unawares by sacraments like this every day, not just as static symbols, but as means to apprehend God and as invitations to participate in his work. In fact, one could argue that the tree was among the first sacraments God gave us: The Tree of Life (Gen. 2), by which we were to draw life from God and know him. I am fearful, however. I understand how fragile these sacraments can be in a broken, self-serving world. They can be cut out of our lives with the brief hum of a chain saw, just as easily as hope can be nailed to a tree and die. To be sure, even in death we can learn of God’s grace. But I’m not ready to see that part of the story played out in our own back yard. I should prepare myself for the worst, I know, because life can be so easily snuffed out. This season, I am making the story of our maple tree my lent, waiting on God, trying to hear what he’s saying and see what he’s doing. February, 2014 I used to fast on a semi-regular basis. That was when I was younger and more zealous in my faith. So, why did I quit? Other concerns took over, I guess. Job and career, and now a family to care for. It would be not only incorrect but blasphemous of me to say fasting is a luxury now. From my memory, it's anything but a luxury. It's inconvenient and unproductive, which is probably the biggest reason I and most people don't do it. Also, there's nothing fast about fasting. It's a discipline that requires lots of patience, and the benefits are often not obvious. The forty days before Easter in the Christian calendar are normally referred to as "lent," a time for fasting, self-reflection and assessment, a preparation for receiving the sacrifice of Jesus and his victory over pain and death. A recent message at my church on Psalm 6 made me think more about fasting again. The pastor never mentioned fasting, but I caught a sense of it from what he and the text were saying. I don't normally engage in exegesis, but as I looked over Psalm 6, I saw the journey of the writer (presumed King David) that seemed to be a microcosm of a greater narrative of faith. It's only a short 20-line poem (see text below), but it expresses the scope of the biblical narrative from fall to redemption to restoration. First, David agonizes with God, pleading with him not to discipline him. We're not sure what kind of anguish he was in, but the threat is so severe it feels like he may die. It's very reminiscent of Jesus in Gethsemane. Then David rationalizes with God, arguing that he would be no good to God as a dead man. How would he be able to praise him before his people? There might even be a hint of manipulation in his argument, but hey, who am I to judge. When you're desperate, you try anything. This is raw human agony. David hasn't stopped crying day and night. He complains how his enemies, real or imagined, are getting the best of him. And this brief Psalm ends on a triumphant note, declaring David's confidence in how God has heard his pleadings and delivered him from his enemies. Then it struck me that in essence this is what fasting, at least in part, is about. When I was in the middle of a fast, I remember groaning and feeling like I was wasting away. I remember thinking, when the hunger pangs intensified, that I didn't want God's discipline. I can remember bargaining, with myself and God, that I wasn't doing my family, my students, or God any good in a condition of weakness, headaches and grumpiness. I couldn't work efficiently, much less feel grateful to God. And then, after I had broken fast, I remember feeling the triumph: relief from my agony and restoration to my original state. What I perhaps more aptly appreciate now is that fasting and lent is not simply navel gazing. It's also not only about me and God and about toughening up my faith. It is certainly about drawing my focus to God, on whom I depend completely for life. But that's not all. Fasting is also a way of participating in King David's agony, and in the agony of the world. As a king, David had to bear the burdens of his people and his kingdom. I also am called to participate in the brokenness and suffering of creation, of mankind, of my friends and community, and then bring us all before God our provider, healer, and restorer. As such, I am truly being faithful to Jesus, foreshadowed by King David and remembered in lent. For ultimately Jesus in his sufferings took on the agony of his creation, of us all. And finally, as Isaiah 58 puts it, for my fasting to be complete it should motivate me to "loose the chains of justice" and "set the oppressed free." I think I'll give fasting another try, but with a greater purpose in mind. Psalm 6 1 Lord, do not rebuke me in your anger or discipline me in your wrath. 2 Have mercy on me, Lord, for I am faint; heal me, Lord, for my bones are in agony. 3 My soul is in deep anguish. How long, Lord, how long? 4 Turn, Lord, and deliver me; save me because of your unfailing love. 5 Among the dead no one proclaims your name. Who praises you from the grave? 6 I am worn out from my groaning. All night long I flood my bed with weeping and drench my couch with tears. 7 My eyes grow weak with sorrow; they fail because of all my foes. 8 Away from me, all you who do evil, for the Lord has heard my weeping. 9 The Lord has heard my cry for mercy; the Lord accepts my prayer. 10 All my enemies will be overwhelmed with shame and anguish; they will turn back and suddenly be put to shame. If we put as much passion into other people as we put into our favorite football team, we may be surprised at what happens. I’m a sports fanatic, and my team made it to the big dance this weekend, the Super Bowl, for only the second time in its almost 40-year history. I'm stoked. I grew up in Seahawks land, and the football part of me has remained. I, my brothers and my dad were all crazy about football and any sport. For those of you with zero interest in the game, before you disparage your loved ones for their indulgence, indulge me for a minute. What is this “mindless passion” you see? Obviously, we don’t know these people playing. We have no relationships with these players except virtual ones. It’s only a dream world. So why invest so much emotion? When you put it that way, right, there’s good reason to give it up. But, what’s wrong with dreaming? I’m a perennial daydreamer. I create scenarios constantly, sometimes for a writing idea, sometimes to prepare me for a task ahead, sometimes to make sense of a problem I’m facing, sometimes for inspiration for success, and sometimes to resolve some mental anguish. My daydreaming may become counterproductive at times, it may throw me into loops of thought that I can’t get out of, but when controlled, dreaming can be a very productive thing. And there’s the rub, you say: “when controlled” and sports fanaticism is not only uncontrolled, it’s trivial. Maybe at times. But before snapping to judgement, think of football as a dream. Dreams often don’t make sense until you see them as collections of symbols and tropes of greater realities. In a football game, fans are pulling for a group of individuals to succeed. We are urging them to overcome obstacles. We have a healthy (yes, sometimes unhealthy) disdain for those who intentionally prevent them from reaching their dreams. Granted, applying the metaphor of competition, simply fighting to be better than the next person and beating them up in the process, is inadequate. We should actually be rejoicing in everyone’s success even if it means we don’t succeed. And we need to learn to handle the grief that comes with being second because, let’s face it, this happens most of the time. We will always be second. All of this, of course, begs the question of what constitutes success, which deserves a broader discussion. But staying with the metaphor, if I’m a responsible fan, I will reflect on this dream called a football game, and I will try to apply the same passions to my real life in this way. I will be a fan of my kids, my wife, and my friends. I will want them to strive, to put their best talents to the test, and to succeed in following their passions. I will grieve with them when they are disappointed and injured. I’ll help them on their feet again. I will stand by them and celebrate with them whether they succeed or not. Seahawks fans have dubbed themselves “The Twelfth Man,” a reminder that the team of eleven men on the field is not complete without the fans. Every team, every individual, needs a support group. It's not simply about winning. It's about who's with you. I think The Twelfth Man is an awesome and praiseworthy idea, not just because I'm one of them and not just because it sounds biblical. It's infectious. Even people in New York, where the game will be played, have been won over to the Seahawks by the passion and love of The Twelfth Man. The Twelfth Man is also a reminder that no one aspires to their goals for their own benefit alone. Our accomplishments, if they are truly of any use, should be for the benefit of the greater community. You can add to the metaphor. But through all the striving with those I love, through all the disappointments and victories, I become bonded more closely to them by supporting them on their journey. If we all look to each other this way, a community of love can be created made up of those who have the highest interest of the other person in mind. All this from watching the Super Bowl? Why not? If you can engage in that dream, maybe you can live the real thing. December, 2013 This Christmas my daughter asked the question many parents have to address sooner or later, “Is Santa real?” I took a breath. If I tell her, "No, he's just make believe," I could crush her and stunt her imagination before she even turns six. Besides, for kids if they can feel it or imagine it, it's as "real" as the nose on their faces, something as a writer I find easy to admire in kids. So it could be best just to go along with it. But if I say "Yes, he is," I could just be propagating the common Christmas heresy. “Yes, he's real,” I said. “Does he know what I’m doing and what I’m thinking?” she asked. Apparently this had been on her mind after a few introductions to him at school and from the media. “No, he doesn’t know that,” I said. Our natural impulse may be to disavow the roly poly man in a silly red suit who monopolizes the season. The festive figure streaking across the sky with reindeer, after all, is most likely inspired by a Norse god, not by the Christ of Christmas. And in North American tradition that formidable sleigh ride is really a guilt trip loaded with not only presents but also the expectations and conditions that come with them, which only make us depressed at Christmas rather than overjoyed at God’s unmerited grace. But let’s take a deep breath before going off on Santa and banning him locks, stockings, and barrel chest. Aside from these pagan influences, Santa’s earliest roots are in a real life church bishop of long ago. That is, originally, he’s actually a real Christ-believing, historic figure. Granted, your kids may not be too inspired by a history lesson on this point. Trying to demythologize a beloved icon in the heat of elated expectations we may find to be an exhausting battle we'd rather not get into. We might be better served bringing Santa down to earth rather than denying him any presence (pardon the pun) in Christmas at all. I’d like to suggest simply treating Santa as more human, like the rest of us, a joyful advocate of Christmas. I’m sure God has plenty of room in the stable for him, too. In our bedtime stories he’s the same old happy, generous soul, but he gets hungry and tired and has problems like the rest of us. He’s limited. For instance, he can’t possibly make it to all the homes in one night, so he has lots of help. And (this is crucial) he’s always a notch below Mom and Dad. He never gets to steal our thunder. Mom and Dad’s names are always attached to the best gifts such as the doll house or scooter. Santa gives little cheap things. It’s the only way he can handle the whole world on his budget. He’s a welcome guest at our dinner table, our imaginary friend, a bit of an over-eater, but we all have our vices. He is also not allowed to steal Jesus' thunder. In one of our stories, Santa joins the family at our Christmas Eve service and learns about the true meaning of Christmas, quite taken by a self-giving God. So, Santa learns where the “spirit of giving” originates. Isn’t this mash up of Christmas just weak-kneed compromise? Rather, I'd like to think I’m trying to make him more human. To others this version of Santa may rob our kids of some of the Christmas magic. Are we taking the wonder out of Christmas? Again, I don’t think so. Ask my daughter today if Santa is real, and she’ll flash you a big smile, “Definitely!” Santa’s still a fantasy character in her mind, just a little more down to earth, a little less endowed with magical power, taking a little lower status in our Christmas. And once he is put in his place, it’s also much easier to get a proper grip on the commercialism that entangles this blessed season. And most importantly, when he’s in his place, the Christ of Christmas can take his proper place, leaving lots of room for “what Christmas is all about” as my daughter is fond of saying. December, 2012 Kaitlyn: Do you believe in God? Dad: Yes, I do. K: I don’t. D: Why not? K: I just don’t. I don’t see him. (pointing) He’s not there. He’s not there. Where is he? My heart sinks with such a demand for hard evidence from my little girl. Is this some conversation she's heard elsewhere? I thought we were farther than this. But then even 5-year-olds can go through periods of doubt. I stay with it. D: Well, some things we can’t see. K: Oh. D: Just because we don’t see something, doesn’t mean it’s not there. Can you see the wind? K: Yeah, when the trees blow. D: That’s actually the effect of the wind, not the wind. The wind makes the trees blow, but we can’t really see the wind. Watch. (I blow into the air.) Did you see the wind come out of my mouth? K: I could smell it! (laughs) D: Ha, ha. But you couldn’t see it, right? That’s what God is like. K: God is the stinky wind? D: No. He made the wind? And you and everything else. That’s how we know God. By what he’s made and by what he does. K: But you and Mom made me. D: Okay, true. But who made Mom and Dad? (crossing my fingers, hoping she gets my drift) K: Oh. A couple of days later, Dad is driving to Ikea with Kaitlyn, who is carefully observing everything as she loves doing from the back seat. Kaitlyn: Dad, did God make the trees? Dad: Yes. K: Did he make that? (pointing to the grand Alex Fraser Bridge rising above the Fraser River) D: Well, yes, sort of. He made people with the brains and imagination to make the bridge. K: Did God make that? (pointing to a big box store) D: No, he had nothing to do with that. K: But you said he made everything. D: Not ugly things. K: Then why are we going there? D: To get some ugly things. It was getting more and more challenging. After the conversation, I had to check myself. Is God the God of ugly things? Isaiah, when he forecasts the coming of Jesus says that Jesus would have “nothing in his appearance that we should desire him” and that he would be “like one from whom people hide their faces.” I.e. Jesus would never make the cover of G.Q. So, why should it be so surprising if he have a special affinity with ugly things? Kaitlyn insists that the angels and shepherds in the Christmas story should get married. Does the idea repulse us? God's angels so intimately relating with smelly, dirty sheep herders who have dung under their nails? Does it repulse God? Is it merely a quaint suggestion, not to be taken seriously? We can argue by our personal criteria whether certain things or persons are ugly or worthy of our esteem. We can argue whether or not God “made them” or approves of them. But it’s abundantly evident from the beginning of Jesus’ story to the end that God identifies intimately with all of it, beautiful and ugly, sometimes with compassion and sometimes with judgement, but always with love. November, 2013 How often do we find ourselves at a loss when our favorite machine breaks down? What would you do, for example, if you lost the use of your washing machine, fridge, computer or mobile? Could you function competently and confidently without it? If your autopilot failed, could you land the plane? Many of us find, and airline pilots have proven this, we either react slowly or not at all in such situations. Panic quickly sets in. Why? Because we’ve forfeited our skills and knowledge to machines for so long that we’ve forgotten how to act on our own. With the breakdown of a gadget we rely on daily, the world can become a scary, open frontier with nothing but unknowns because we’ve forgotten how to live knowledgeably and creatively in the world. This lack of an experiential, personal knowledge of our world threatens the very quality of our lives. I urge you to read a fascinating article from The Atlantic: “All Can Be Lost: The Risk of Putting Our Knowledge in the Hands Machines.” The last paragraph is a huge pay off after the rest of the article. (link below) Much of the article echoes my previous posts on this blog entitled “How Smart Is Smart.” If you don’t like trailers, skip this paragraph and read the article. In essence, the author shows how we are losing skills and real knowledge by our over-reliance on automation. He cites examples from aviation, operating rooms, Inuit culture and elsewhere to show what happens when automation (computers, smart phones, GPS, etc) fails us because we lack skills and firsthand knowledge of a task. Our preoccupation with speed, efficiency and end results has supplanted the process, where real learning and skill development take place. We have become passive observers in the world rather than engaged participants in it and have given over life and work to technology. But isn’t this critique of automation all a little high-minded? Why am I so intent on pushing this button? Because I think it has spiritual significance. It has everything to do with my Christian faith and what it means for me to live as a Christian. Contrary to critics like David Suzuki who believe our environmental problems and our over dependence on the machine stem from the dominance of Christian thought in the West, I believe there is nothing more foreign to a Christian world and life view than a failure to engage ourselves wholeheartedly in the world with care, respect, and enthusiasm. God created and sustains the world and ultimately became a part of it himself. This is a great statement of love, and it means his creation is to be honored, celebrated, and intelligently, wisely cared for, with gratitude to its Giver. Is it possible that we are in danger of slipping further and further into a malaise, feeling insignificant? Are we becoming zombies, searching for real life substance? It’s no surprise to me that before the proliferation of drug remedies for depression, people for generations understood that work, hands on activity, and interaction with others was good therapy for depression. I’m thankful for how drugs have helped people get through difficult times and illness. But in our love affair with the quick fix of drugs, I wonder if we’ve lost the value of hands on engagement with life as depression therapy. I went through bouts of depression in my 20’s. The drugs they gave me didn’t seem to help much. I found the best therapy was activities like raking leaves, whittling, running, cleaning, oil painting, molding clay, and flesh and blood interaction. Giving something away to someone in need, or spending time with people who understood and loved me did more than the drugs did. None of these activities were interfered with by machines. All of them required me getting my hands dirty, and it got my synapses snapping. Somehow I felt my blood flowing normally again. A little physical exertion in the earthly elements and time with real people helped put me together, mend me, and make me whole again. I was feeling reconnected to myself and to my world. I keep coming back to the image in Genesis where God creates man: he’s on his knees in the mud, sweating, as he shapes and reshapes with clay the first human being. We find our image and meaning in our Creator, and in him we find the model of how we too are to live in the world. No one can deny the advantages – the comfort and ease – machines have brought us. Their exotic marvels are addictive. My daughter, when entering her school, insists on pushing the automatic door button for wheelchairs in spite of my efforts to get her to use her own door opening skills. We so easily succumb to things with shiny buttons. But I often wonder how much our machines have actually improved our quality of life. I’m not advocating a retreat to cave days. Only that we consider the cost of having machines and that we find ways to include in our day what we’ve lost to machines. From a Christian perspective, it’s impossible for me to simply stand back and forfeit every aspect of my day, including its potentially most rewarding activities, to machines. God created us to be engaged in his world as learners and doers, to get our hands dirty, just as he is engaged in it himself. This gives him great pleasure. http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2013/11/the-great-forgetting/309516/ November, 2013 Halloween used to be my favorite holiday, second only to Christmas. As with most kids, it was on my radar many weeks in advance. And it was in my favorite season, fall, in the same month as my birthday. After I had finally finished with smashing pumpkins and soaping windows (sometime during high school), and after I had quit trick or treating (sometime in college), Halloween became just a lot of noise, costumes, begging kids, and make believe terror. The celebration of gore and death, the non-stop train of uninvited guests to the door with parents who couldn’t care less who you were or give you the time of day, and kids learning how to destroy their diet and teeth in one night—it all sent me crawling to a dark corner of the house with the doors locked. Now that I have two young girls who have had a taste of Halloween that they’ll never forget, it’s all come full circle and I’ve been forced to take part again. Last week their mom took them out trick or treating while l assumed the role of hander-outer. I lit the candles on the front porch and put on a CD with creepy Halloween sounds that kids love to be terrorized by. It’s always a rough go. We’re in a busy kid-friendly neighborhood, and constant interruptions of a hockey game don’t sit well with me. I thought about simply putting the basket of sweets out on the porch with a sign that read, “Take ONLY ONE or you’ll be grabbed by a witch and ground into soup before you make it down the last step.” Then I thought, why not let them go ahead and take two, three, as many as they want? When Diane comes home with the kids, I'll tell her so many kids swarmed us all the candy went in a few minutes, so I had to shut it down early, nothing like it in years. But lying seemed too sleazy as a way out. I took a Crunchy, turned up the volume on the horror CD, and turned off the lights, hoping that would hold back the tide of visitors a bit, but it only encouraged them. My youngest, just turned three, had to bail early and came home a little disillusioned. Good, a fellow dissenter, I thought, who shares my beliefs. She continued to watch from “behind the scenes” in fascination, now from the perspective of the hander out, following my every move, running with eagerness each time the door bell rang, until she started grabbing the candy and handing it out herself. I stood back and saw my little girl transformed. A huge grin covered her face as she looked up wide eyed into the faces of witches, cats, bats, skeletons, and Sponge Bob’s. It seemed that being the treater was more satisfying than being the treatee. The visitors also seemed more appreciative to be getting treats from one of their own, and their “thank you’s” were more genuine. She even gave a candy to one little fairy’s father, who like me was momentarily caught speechless. Then it dawned on me. My three-year-old was teaching me how to give. A pleasure so easily bestowed, a transaction so wonderfully simple—one hand reaching out, the other letting go. I tried – taking my time, smiling, and looking into their eyes. To my surprise, I started to feel happier, more human you might say, like Scrooge coming to life. I don’t really get into the religious debates popular among some: whether it’s the eve of All Saints Day commemorating the holiest of the holy gone before us, or if you wish, a pagan holiday expressing the early Celts’ fear of and warding off of spirits, or a mix of the two. A paltry few people care about this anyway. For most, Halloween has no more meaning than a traveling costume party with a strange but fun-filled ritual of hand-outs. And I don't think I’ve ever noticed any more spirits on Halloween than on any other night. I realize Christians have gone out of their way to reclaim this day from the devil, handing out candy wrapped in tracts, for example, or holding private Christian parties, witnessing at the door (which I imagine would scare kids off faster than skeletons would), trying to get to know their neighbors at the door (utterly futile), and handing out hot drinks on the street. Bless them all. But this year, I was the one needing conversion. I needed a Halloween in its most uncomplicated terms, the way only a three-year-old can celebrate it: by giving and receiving, one person to another, monsters and goblins all, letting go like a child, and getting a little giddy about it. October, 2013 I’m not a big fan of class reunions. People go, they schmooze with people they can’t remember but pretend to, they feel the need to justify their continued existence with inflated reports about their career successes, they pretend to be interested in what the other person has been doing over the past decade even though they share no point of contact any more, and then they promise to do it all over again in ten years. So why? Recently I went to my high school class reunion, hoping to find something new, to get below the surface and make it different. I was nervous. I hadn’t seen any of my old classmates for decades. I had avoided these gatherings partly fearing their superficiality, and I’m not fond of large groups anyway. Also, I’d rather not replay my high school moments. Finally, like many, I’ve evolved from the protected rural subculture I was a part of then. I’ve moved on, while most of them have stayed in the small town and farming environments we grew up in. I had nothing in common with them anymore, I thought. Sure enough, most of my classmates greeted each other as if they did it every day, while I constantly had to glance at name tags, mumbling their names, staring vacantly into their eyes, searching my memory while trying to be happy to see them and interested in what they were doing on the dairy farm these days. I’m sure they thought dementia had set in. It wasn’t going as I’d hoped. Why endure this discomfort? I wanted to run, but something drew me to stay. Somehow, intuitively, I knew that placing myself back then with those people would offer something invaluable, something I couldn’t replace by simply reading an alumni update. One revelation came when I understood why I could only vaguely remember some of them (or their names). When I was in high school, I had stayed to my own group most of the time. A teenager’s world is so self-absorbed and small. Egos are fragile and we avoid risks of interaction that might make us look stupid. And I was a timid kid, which made it harder. I could even feel the timidity of that young man as I interacted now. So, there I had a foil to measure my growth against. I wouldn’t call myself timid today, but I am still somewhat of a loner, happily. I admit I could use some balancing out there. I had a chance to meet one of my old girlfriends again although I had to have someone point her out to me. Once we gave each other a warm hug, we had a good conversation. She left me for another guy whom she married right out of high school. He had recently passed away, so I had a chance to express my condolences. Rehearsing the good old days was easy and fun, and she and I felt a common gratitude and appreciation. Seeing her, hearing her share about her life and what was important to her, I realized how my life could have taken an entirely different turn had I stayed and married her, had her boyfriend turned husband not stolen her from me, and I was grateful to him. I wish I could have seen him again one more time. I also had a chance to grieve for two friends who had shown me great kindness when I arrived at my new school in grade three. One had taken me under his wing to make sure I was treated fairly on the playground. The other had frequently invited me to his home to play with him on the farm. But I found out that one of them is in rehab, facing a long battle with alcohol, and the other is in prison. These weren’t the only heartaches among us. Someone (whom I couldn’t remember) stood up to offer a prayer at the end. We thanked God for the school, for the times we had together, and for the lives we had now. That's when it all came together for me. While praying, submitting ourselves to our common creator and redeemer, it dawned on me that together we faced a simple truth: we were all equals before God in the same boat. We were as one. One person’s joy, burden or guilt was the joy, burden or guilt of us all. None of us were self-made individuals but indispensable parts of each other, like it or not. Each of us had played a part, for better or worse, large or small, in shaping the other to be the person he or she is today. The realization was both humbling and terrifying to me. I wondered if I could consider my relationships today with the same reverence. Or would I find myself learning these things all over again in another ten years? Maybe that’s what reunions are for. September, 2013 If you’ve read the first two parts of this post, you may have the mistaken impression that I’m a technophobe. It would be silly to be “against technology.” Since the cave days, man has innovatively employed techniques to accomplish his tasks. Using utensils for eating, maps for finding one’s way, or traps for catching food are all uses of technology. My beef is not with technology (“smart” gadgets in this case) per se. I’m simply appealing for smart choices, i.e. to consider the often overlooked impacts of these gadgets, their costs, and to control our voracious appetites for them. They easily become distractions from life’s deepest needs rather than the answer. Most importantly, smart gadgets should not be our masters. It would be equally foolish to overlook the obvious benefits of devices like cell phones with GPS, cameras, and certain app’s. They offer convenience and time savings. They offer obvious advantages in emergencies (e.g. when trapped in a vehicle or under rubble with your cell), serve to stop crime, and serve as public surveillance. If those were their primary use – to improve healthcare and public safety – I’d be right there with the rest of the world toasting the smart gadget revolution. But I seriously doubt this noble purpose (health and safety) was prominent on Steve Jobs’ radar, or that this is the primary reason people own them. So, my question is at what cost do we gain the convenience of these smart devices? And my assertion has been that the losses might well prove to outweigh the gains. As I’ve already tried to argue, smart technology has already exacted a cost beyond what we can afford – socially, emotionally, physically, and relationally. We have made serious compromises to the quality of communication and our relationships, to personal growth, and to our children’s physical development. Smart technology threatens to make us dumber in these fundamental facets of our humanity. The ultimate price is a spiritual one. First, as just suggested, smart devices encourage a reductionist version of what it means to be humans created in the image of God. The term “smart technology” betrays a common misconception: that intelligence is primarily or only about obtaining and retaining as much information as possible. Indeed, science has long recognized memory as one kind of intelligence. But to reduce intelligence to such a narrow definition ignores kinds of human intelligence such as critical thought, value judgements, social and emotional intelligence, creative intelligence, spatial intelligence, and physical intelligence, to name a few, i.e. the kinds of intelligence that make us uniquely human. Without them our masses of information are meaningless. Next, we need to dispense with the mistaken notion that smart technology sets us free. Go back to the college girl standing in the hall, who was so immersed in her texting that she couldn’t notice her fellow classmate trying to get her attention. I mean “couldn’t” not simply “didn’t want to.” Like so many others, she has become a slave to her gadget. How many do we know who, during down time with their friends or dates, simply sit and text in each other’s presence? And we’ve all heard of people having panic attacks when they realize they’ve lost their phones. This is not freedom but entanglement and slavery. Smart phone addiction, like any other addiction, dominates, beats us up, and eviscerates us of our spirits. Smart technology, not kept in its place, isolates rather than brings us together. Texting or phoning someone easily creates the false notion of having connected with them. Look back over a day. Compare the number of friends you’ve texted versus the number you’ve talked to face to face. Relationships can only develop in any truly meaningful way through physical contact. This is possibly the most obvious and most discussed fallout from our use of smart devices. And, this too is a spiritual cost since true spirituality does not exist in a vacuum while we sit on our lotus leaves and stare down into your palm held devices. Spirituality is essentially relational, bodily presence, and involves engagement with others and God. Information overload can also rob us of life’s natural and healthy mysteries. Mystery keeps us humble, thoughtful, patient, and appreciative—all qualities of a healthy spirituality and all qualities that quickly diminish when we’re glued to a smart phone. It has always amazed me how people rely on their phones to guide them simply from one end of town to another – calling their destination constantly along the way, updating where they are, and chatting. Why do people have to continually phone people they intend to meet in just a few minutes? Go ahead and call if you know you’ll be late or have to cancel, but for Pete’s sake, plan out your trip and get off the smart pacifier! No one has had to do this for centuries. Why now? Text me before you come? No, just meet me as arranged and enjoy the ride! Look around, celebrate your place, meditate, and pray on the way. Be reminded that life is full of contingencies, and be content. We don’t need to have matters constantly under our thumbs. Smart gadgets are increasingly drawing us into mere abstractions of life—voices on a phone, texts on a screen, pixels in our palms—rather than enabling us to live the real thing—hand in hand, face to face. There is a reason God not only made us physical beings in a material world but also became part of it all himself. He must obviously love the world he created. Embracing creation must be his way to truly know and love us, and for us to know and love each other. |
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