Nate’s Thoughts

It is a Sunday, a day where my family and I often rest in the mornings, take a nap in the afternoon—we generally try to take a Sabbath from the crazy schedule of the rest of the week.

This afternoon was one of those times—they boys were down, my wife and I had tried our hand at the Sunday crossword, and she decided to go upstairs and take a nap. Sleep sounded good to me too, but I don’t nap well upstairs in bed. It feels too forced or something. My version of a luxurious nap is to lie on the couch, the TV tuned to an afternoon baseball game, and allow the sound of the crowd and commentators to lull me to sleep like a young child.

It may sound silly but it is one of life’s luxuries, if you ask me!

Today’s routine went a little differently, however.

I got myself situated on the couch, grabbed the remote to turn on the game, and found that whatever channel the TV was left on was now broadcasting a symphony—Shubert’s 9th, to be exact.

I was mesmerized.

I had planned on switching straight to the game, but after the first few notes, I just sat there, watching and listening. I had heard that piece many times before, but this time, it was different. I seemed to notice things that I had never heard before, more likely than not due to the camera work that focused on specific instruments, one at a time, allowing me to “hear” more clearly each instrument’s individual influence on the piece.

I found myself with tears streaming down my face as the music would reach a crescendo, then quiet down, only to hit another peak moments later. I noticed particular threads of music teasing the score, bouncing from the flutes to the violins, back to the flutes, and then alluded to by the French horns.

It was absolutely phenomenal.

And when you consider the number of musicians all playing in such accord, it was remarkable. All eyes of everyone in the orchestra, fixed on the conductor, following his lead through the score.

At times the strings would “rest”, sitting quietly while the horns and percussion took the stage. At other times, the horns would return the favor, and allow the attention to be on the violins and cellos. Still at other times, common themes would dance from section to section, a musical dialogue from one end of the orchestra to the other.

All notes were held together by a common musical story line, each section having the opportunity to add its unique sound to the mix. Sometimes minutes would go by without the story surfacing, but it would show up, faithfully, in one form or another, whether a subtle bass line, a soothing horn, or the show-stealing violins.

It all worked.

No ego, no horns trying to steal the limelight from the violas, no timpani being hit too loudly so as to drown out the oboes. It all worked.

I think the reason it brought me to tears was because a symphony can be such a metaphor for life. Sometimes, I feel like my limited perspective places me in the chair of the second violin, right at the point of a musical rest. It seems like everybody else in the orchestra is getting a chance to play but me. I just have to sit and watch.

At other times, I feel like my role is that of the bass—I get to play a bit, but just slow, low notes, while the violins play furiously and attract all the attention. Sometimes still I feel like the oboe—slightly abrasive in my role, standing out as different from the others.

But in watching this symphony from the perspective of the audience, I realized that all pieces worked together for the common good of the score. That without the second violin resting, it would not have given the other instruments their proper place in the ears of the audience. Without the bass keeping the musical theme, there would be no dancing around for the other parts, for they would have lost their way. Without the oboe’s sometime abrasive tones, the cellos would never sound so soothing.
That in order for the symphony to work, every instrument was required to yield to the other, allowing them to shine, while at the same time yielding to the conductor, allowing him to manage the various pieces.

It was a picture of literal harmony—all pieces working individually, creating a masterpiece in their unity.

Ah how I wish we could be more like a symphony in our approach to life. How I wish so desperately that I would be more accepting of my role, whatever that role may be. How I so fervently wish that I could be comfortable with the “instrument” I was made to be, without comparing myself to the other instruments in the orchestra.

How I wish that, when it was my time to play a little louder while the others rested, that I would do so with controlled enthusiasm, allowing not only my individualism to show, but also being aware of the musical theme, allowing myself to dance around the story line.

And how I wish we could follow the conductor’s baton, all mutually submitting to each other, everyone aware that it takes the whole part to succeed.

That the beauty of a symphony is that it is made up of individuals.

Individuals who sometimes get to play solos, who at other times get to rest, still others who maintain the thematic elements written into the score.

Individuals who, together, are capable of such beauty, of such transcendent unity, that we bring Life itself into tears of marvel, tears of astonishment, tears that have no other way of expressing themselves than to stand in ovation, loudly cheering “bravo” for the orchestra, while the conductor stands by, his smile revealing the pride of a father, himself applauding a job well done…

I was driving onto a high school campus this morning, and had the “joy” of waiting behind a long signal. It was one of those moments where I was stuck behind the wheel (I had already been driving through over a half hour of traffic, hadn’t had my coffee yet, and had no time to stop at a coffeehouse) and found myself having to choose between getting irritated at my lack of motion, or opting to just sit and observe.

I chose the latter.

And it was interesting, this moment of observation. I looked, and saw a bunch of teenagers…hiding.
Not hiding behind the bushes, or behind parked cars, mind you—just hiding.

Hiding behind their iPods.

Hiding behind the particular brand name they had on.

Hiding behind the façade of toughness, or popularity, or the number of text messages they received as they crossed the street.

I felt compassion. We were all teenagers once (some of us still may be), and we all know the feeling of insecurity that comes from not knowing our identity. It is an awful discomfort, one that feels like every eye in the world is fixed on us, judging us, yet at the same time feeling the acute notion that no one notices us.

Kids play the friendly game of hide and seek—some unfortunate soul has to count to ten (or thirty or fifty depending on the whims of the rule-makers) while the other kids go and try to hide. They search far and wide for the best possible place to blend in, to not be noticed. They sometimes go to great lengths, bringing themselves to the point of physical exhaustion as they frantically search for “The Spot”. And if it works (i.e. they don’t get discovered) then they go right back to the same spot again and again, as long as success would have it.

It is a wonderful kids’ game.

It’s fun, you get to run around, seek out the best possible hiding place, and get prepared for adult life all at the same time!

Which is exactly the problem—we’re still playing the game. It hasn’t changed; it’s just that the rules are just a bit more sophisticated.

How many of us still find ourselves playing hide and seek—hiding behind our boats, our SUV’s, our new clothes, or our big homes? Perhaps we find ourselves hiding behind our family name, or our spouse, or our jobs.

Whatever it is, everybody hides.

The game hasn’t changed; the rules are just a bit more sophisticated.

And the great part about the adult version of hide and seek is, we find some really great places to hide. I mean—these places are so subtle, sometimes we don’t even know we’re hiding. But we are…
And because these places are so good, so well thought out, we don’t get discovered. Perhaps ever.

Were we ever that one in the game as a kid? You know, where our hiding place was so good that two, maybe even three games went by, and we still hadn’t moved from our place? It was so good that nobody found us?

How did that feel?

Were we a bit lonely, a bit afraid? Did we feel like maybe our friends left us and moved on to another activity? Did we leave our hiding place in search of another, more noticeable place? Not really hoping to be found, but to at least observe the action from a distance?

As adults, we have mastered this art.

We have become so good at keeping our space, making sure that we repel the feelings of loneliness, while at the same time staying just close enough to be…distant.

This is a trait we have learned from Adam… We hide from God, we hide from others. Heck—we even hide from ourselves most of the time.

Why? I think it’s because we’re afraid. Afraid of being found out, afraid of others seeing the real “us”.
I think we’re even more afraid of the real “us” than just about anybody else. For if we were to see ourselves the way God does, it would place such a burden of glory, of heavenly responsibility, that we would prefer to stay ignorant of the fact. And most of us do.

But remember the childhood game? We are sometimes prompted to move a bit—away from our highly strategic places of hiding, and a little bit closer to the action again, to feel like we’re a part of it without really having to engage. It is extremely convenient.

Now, when we were playing the game as children, and we moved from our lonely place in an effort to see more of what was going on, didn’t we find that in doing so, we found ourselves invariably moving to a more visible location?

And didn’t we find that we would eventually get caught once this happened?

We were met with an awkward mix of shame and relief at being found. It was such an infringement to be discovered, and yet, it was also something so affirming. For were it not so, we would never have moved from our original location in the first place.

We were found by the seeker, and then were met with the responsibility of doing the seeking ourselves.

Our role changed from the one avoiding, to the one looking.

And there was something so dignifying about being the one seeking, wasn’t there? Even though we played it off like we would rather be hiding, didn’t we feel inside that we now had a more significant role to play? That our actions would have impact in the lives of others?

Therein lies the hidden joy of being discovered…

And the beautiful thing about our adult lives is, that although we hide, we sometimes get fortunate enough to find ourselves in that desperate situation where we have to get out. We have to move, to change position—to risk greater exposure for our own survival.

And when we get found by the Seeker, the One who reveals all secrets, all hiding places, we find this mixed feeling of shame coupled with exhilaration—something in us feels so good to be discovered…

And once found, we then have the role of seeking for others, delivering them from their hiding places, for the sake of their souls, for the sake of their survival, for the sake of their joy and affirmation.

For we all hide.

But may we learn to be found, and in that discovery, may we turn from hiders to seekers—with eyes open and heads up, drawing out the secrets, bringing light to the darker places, inviting the people dwelling among the shadows into the richness of full, utter, Life.

For our very souls (and humanity itself) depend on it…

Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous person is powerful and effective. [James 5:16]

Last night, I actually got to see this lived out. I was in a meeting that was focused on the direction of our church (we can call it a leadership meeting if you want), and then time was provided to share prayer requests. I went first—my family and I have been broken regarding a potential condition in my 3-year old son. I fought back tears as I shared our fears.

People gathered around me, and prayed. It was wonderful. Wonderful to feel the warmth of a group of people who genuinely cared.

And then the amazing happened.

People started sharing. I mean, really sharing. Sharing areas of brokenness that took amazing courage to bring public. Sharing areas of weakness, of repeated struggles, unafraid of what the others in the room might be thinking, focusing on the healing much more so than the potential embarrassment.

The profound quality of confession, in public (or to a small group, at least), had something transcendent about it—like people were bringing their junk out into the open, a tangible sense of relief as they were doing so.

I think this is what James is talking about when he tells us to confess our sins to each other.

I’ve been in groups (we called them “accountability groups”), where we would have a list of questions that we came up with ourselves—things we wanted others to help us keep in check. When we would meet, we would ask each other the list of questions, then “confess” to each other if we had fallen short, etc.

I’m not inherently against such groups, but I think what I experienced last night had so much more healing in it.

It was voluntary confession.

It was honest people crying out for help.

It was a group of people bringing about the healing power of the resurrection, through prayer, over a broken and contrite person.

It was confession that brought secrets out into the light, right there and then disarming their power over the person.

It was a room of safety—where there was no judgment, just compassion.

It was a room where Christ himself was present, represented by a group of people, confessing, praying, bringing into the light things they have been struggling with for years.
A place of healing.

A place of holiness, where the veil between heaven and earth was so thin, it felt like God himself was breathing healing and community into the room.

It was a moment so sacred, so holy—one I hope we can all experience from time to time—one where grace is the message, confession is the vehicle, and restoration is the result…

Life is crazy. I mean, really crazy. Some compare it to riding a roller coaster, where there are dips and turns, ups and downs, and the occasional upside-down roll with a twist. Often times, we just hope to make it off the coaster without too many bumps, bruises, wounds, etc. We pray that we aren’t part of the rare but catastrophic train wreck, where the track seems to be missing, or broken, or of a bad design…

But if life is a roller coaster, how do we approach the ride?

Do we embrace it? Or does it cause a sense of panic within?

Do we feel we aren’t big enough to meet the minimum requirements?

Or are we too bold for our own good—lacking appreciation of the dangers inherent in the journey?

Either way, I bet there are times you wish you weren’t on the track.

I love adventure. I love to feel the wind of freedom in my face, I love the smell of pine needles in the cool of the evening. I even love a good love story every now and then.

These are the high points on my roller coaster.

But then there are the tragedies.

There was the time my best friend died when we were twenty.

There have been the feelings of loss, heartache, loneliness.

The loss of female relationship has left me feeling dark and cold as well.

Life seems to deal blows like that. These are the low points on the journey. Like the time when the coaster turns upside-down and I’m not ready for it, leaving me with a very nauseating light-headed sensation that lasts for hours, if not weeks.

But part of my love of adventure is the freedom, the rush that comes with the rapid turns of the coaster; even turning upside-down can be a great thrill if I’m ready for it.

I like to say that this is fun because the coaster has full control, where I have none.

But is this an accurate description?

There are those who ride roller coasters with their hands elevated the entire time. I am not one of them. I like to grip the harness tightly during the intense turns.

Sometimes I’ll emulate the arm-raisers. But it is usually at a point on the track where I know what’s ahead, or where I feel comfortable, or where we’re not really going that fast.

But the second the ride gets more challenging, the second the ride requires more trust from me, I pull the hands down, hold on for dear life, and (white knuckles and a hand cramp later) I arrive back at the station.

Here’s the problem with that kind of mentality as it relates to life:

If I am comfortable raising my arms, “letting go” during the easy times, what kind of adventure is that?

I ride the coasters in the name of excitement, thrill, adventure, but I sometimes sabotage the full enjoyment by my tight grip.

How often do we do that on life’s roller coaster?

Are you as much of a control freak as I am?

Do we hold on too tightly when the real fun is in letting go?

The reason this is sabotage is, we ride in the name of adventure, but we hold on. We go in the name of freedom, but we stiffen up during the tough turns. We go for the thrill of being at the track’s mercy, but we peek around the corner to see the degree of the turn.

See what I’m getting at?

Now, what if there were this ultimate roller coaster—one that had unpredictable length, steepness, turns, flips, etc. And to top it all off, you had to ride it blindfolded and backward?

I would imagine there would be a line out of the park for a ride like this.

But such a ride does exist.

And the line is usually so short that it requires no wait.

The trick is in the approach. The trick is in the willing submission of control (or the illusion thereof—do we really have any control in this anyway?)

I want to ride like that. I want to be comfortable going in backward and blindfolded. I want my scream of thrill’s pure delight to be heard for miles.

I want to be willing to let go of the bars for a while. Willing to offer control to the maker of the track—even if I don’t know exactly what that requires or where it takes me.

When it comes time for me to step out of the car and off the track, I want to know that I trusted the coaster completely, that I allowed myself the utmost enjoyment of the ride, that I was relaxed during the intense times.

I want my hair and face to be windblown, my heart to be racing, my breath to be gone.

But I want my knuckles to be loose and my hands to be relaxed.

And then I want to try skydiving…

Together Alone

I dwell amidst so many people
So well connected
Email, text messaging, My Space friends
Everyone together
But so alone

Why does the willow weep?
Perhaps she weeps for you, for me
For our lost humanity
A world that is frighteningly content in being
together…alone

I am always struck this time of year by the amount of advertising we get shoved in our faces from a variety of sources. I can’t find the sports page in the paper because there is a commercial wrapped around it. The paper itself carries the extra weight of additional full-color ad sections; even the plastic bags keeping the paper dry are littered with advertisements! No mention of the TV ads we digest on a regular basis while watching our favorite Christmas movies, sitcoms, news channels, etc.

All of these play on my desire to want during this season.

I know, we’re supposed to use these sales, deals, and ads to generate lists of gifts for those we love, and to go and buy those, but in reality, I think our own Christmas lists can be so much longer than the lists we generate for others.

Why is this?

What has Christmas become, that we have turned something so potentially special into something so commercial?

Why is there a name for the shopping day right after Thanksgiving, where retail workers have to get to their stores at 3:30 in the morning in order to open for the hordes of people who have sometimes literally camped out in the parking lot overnight?

Why are we so consumer driven during this time of year? Certainly not for the pleasure of being in overcrowded shopping malls, fighting for parking spaces, spreading that lovely Christmas Cheer?

I think the ad agencies have figured something out about us that we haven’t: We like to compare.

If I can look at the advertisement for that new flat-screen HDTV, and then compare it with the TV sitting in my living room, I will suddenly become discontent with what I have. I end up believing the false promise that the new TV will provide me with the fulfillment I am missing.

If I get enamored with the new car with the Christmas bow on it, I climb into my older car to do some shopping, and am suddenly struck with the fact that my car isn’t fast enough, quiet enough, doesn’t have the best sound system.

The list goes on…

I compare what I see to what I have, I get discontent, and I go and make a purchase.

And I call it Christmas.

Is that what this has all been reduced to?

Whatever happened to the classic Christmas stories we used to hear about?

What about Dickens’ Scrooge? Where is he in our Story?

What have we held up as the standard for the holiday season? Multiple gifts, bought for spouses, children, brothers, sisters, parents, and other family members; then we expand the circle and add gifts for friends, co-workers, gift exchanges. And we get exhausted in the process.

All the while, there are people on the street with nothing.

Perhaps right next door.

Have we ever stopped to add up just how much we spend during this time of year?

Now—I’m not criticizing gift giving. I think it is absolutely critical to all of us that we give gifts to each other during this time. I am not an ascetic. What I am asking is, have we been sucked into the American standard of “bigger is better”, and allowed that to actually steal the joy from our giving this time of year?

What if we took a week where we didn’t look at any advertisements? Now, I know TV ads are basically unavoidable, but I’m talking about staring at the print ads, following the links on the top of the websites—these types of things. What if we didn’t chase after the bait for just one week?

What if we extended that discipline for an entire month?

What if, during the span between Thanksgiving and Christmas we stopped looking, stopped comparing?

Would we feel left out, would we really miss it? Or might we become a little more contented with what we have. Might we be moved to respond to the question of “what do you want for Christmas?” with a genuine, “I don’t know—I’m not sure I really need anything”.

Because, once we stop comparing, we might start realizing that we already have.

Lots.

Once we have quieted the drive for consumerism, we might begin to hear the whispers of those who don’t have, and we might be compelled to do something about that.

We might start asking ourselves just how far fifty dollars would go to a family in need.

Perhaps that family is someone we know. Perhaps they aren’t. Perhaps they are in need of a hand up—someone who has much, offering to someone who has little.

For isn’t that the spirit of Christmas, anyway?

No great stories are written about consumers; they are written about givers. Dickens would be nothing if he wrote about a family who kept buying, buying, buying, until there was no storage space for all the gifts in the house. No—what makes Dickens powerful is that the hero of the story is one who gives what he currently has to those who don’t.

That is the spirit of Christmas.

That is what makes heroes.

That is what happens when we stop comparing what we have to what we don’t, and instead begin to compare what we have to what they don’t.

That is what makes a story compelling.

That is what makes characters interesting.

If we’re willing to take a courageous step, if we’re willing to try something new, if we’re willing to look outside of ourselves, even if for a brief moment,

That could be us.

What is it about this time of year that seems to make the calendar speed up to paces out of our control? The traffic feels more congested, but faster; the nights later and the mornings earlier; the weekends faster; the exhaustion more pronounced.

I call this month between Thanksgiving and Christmas the “Magnified Time”, since everything seems to be so much greater, so much… more, during this time.

The joys we experience are more profound this time of year. I don’t know if it’s the colder weather, the fires in the fireplaces (sometimes even with real wood!), the perfect gifts we search far and wide for. Whatever it is, it just seems like there is something special in the air.

Family get-togethers can be downright rich in the quality of time spent together. The kids play more freely and joyously together, enjoying the anticipation of the gifts they will soon be receiving; the adults laugh more often, enjoying the care-free feelings that come with increased time off work, good food, and time with family.

But the bad times, the hurts, the loneliness—these too are more profoundly felt during this Magnified Time.

Loss of relationship can be especially painful, stinging more during the holidays than at any other time of the year. The death of a close friend or family member can feel like salt in an open wound…

The thing with magnifying glasses is that they can help, or harm, depending on the way they are used. Anyone with poor eyesight can sing the praises of a magnifying glass as it assists them in their reading. Any botanist can sing the praises of a magnifying glass as it allows them to see the extreme details of their subjects, providing them with a deeper and more intimate knowledge. Any young boy can sing the praises of a magnifying glass as it focuses sunlight into a fiery concentrated beam on newspaper, gunpowder, or wanton bugs.

The same tool, each use aimed at blowing up; it just depends on your definition of the phrase…

So, what do we do with the magnified feelings of the holiday season?

If we are like most people, we bury them. We hide from them. We fail to confront them.

We have this deep fear, as humans, of being exposed, and so when the Magnified Time exposes our hurts, our pain, our fears, we run and hide.

Sometimes running might look like getting away from it all and taking a trip out of town to avoid family members. Sometimes running might just be dreaming of taking such a trip. Maybe it’s running to the refrigerator, hiding in the comforts of food while avoiding the confrontations of the season.

Sometimes we hide behind happy faces when we are really dying inside. Sometimes we hide our true emotions from our close friends or family members, fearing that they might know “the real us”. Sometimes we hide behind masks of false decorum in an effort to avoid unpleasant relationships “since it’s Christmastime”.

I can’t think of any other time when our strained relationships are masked by fake goodness in the name of “getting along”.

Now, I’m not saying that this “getting along” can’t lead to reconciliation; I hope it does. And sometimes, that façade is all we need to get the ball rolling and the conversations started about who hurt whom, when, and why. Often, honest communication can be such a problem-solver.

But what I am saying is that we have a choice in how we use the magnifying glass of this season. Are we going to let it focus intense light on our relationships, on our pain, on our hurts, to the point where we get consumed by destructive thought patterns, destructive language, destructive behavior? Or are we going to use the magnifying glass as a tool for examining the details, the areas that need a little rebuilding?

Successful surgeons use them, you know…

Are we going to allow the pace of the season to overtake us, like some tidal wave, where we stand helpless to it, or are we going to dig our feet in, stand our ground, and take time during the holiday season to just be?

My hope, my prayer, is that we can allow the Magnified Time to act as a catalyst for positive change. Maybe it’s noticing that we have lost relationship, maybe it’s seeing that we get caught up in consumerism, maybe it’s noticing that we carry along bitterness.

Maybe we need to let go of these things.

Maybe we need to work at reconciliation.

Maybe we need to build in to the people in our lives, letting them know how special they are to us, letting them feel goodness magnified.

Maybe we need to take more time for ourselves.

Maybe we need to shop online more, to avoid the agitation of overcrowded shopping malls.

Maybe that incredible sale is costing us more than we think.

Maybe a day without a cell phone can help us regain our sense of identity.

Maybe taking an extra day off work, school, or duty and spending that time with our immediate family can be the best gift we can give.

Maybe opening the door for a stranger can communicate so much more than “you go first”.

Maybe generosity can be more than just buying another gift for someone.

Whatever it is, maybe this Magnified Time can motivate us to ask some of these tough questions.

Maybe asking these tough questions will turn some of these “bads” into some “goods”.

Maybe there is hope for the season, after all.

Maybe…

In the span of one week, I have had the opportunity to see my boys’ eyes light up while on a ride at Disneyland, one grandfather’s eyes light up at seeing my boys’ smiles, and another grandfather’s eyes go dim as he faced death.

It has been a whirlwind week.

And I’m exhausted.

I had the opportunity for a free evening tonight, and in my fatigue and freedom, I tuned in to ESPN to watch my beloved Padres win a baseball game with playoff implications. It was great; relaxing to a baseball game has been one of my favorite pastimes for as long as I can remember.

But then, once the game ended, I did what every red-blooded American male does with a remote in his hand: flipped mindlessly through the channels, pausing on the occasional show that captured my interest. I got to see some actor who willingly put himself in harm’s way, bearing the brunt of a snowstorm out in the wild, in the name of capturing footage of a “real” survival story. I watched a travel show on Prague, the lovely Bohemian city, where, I must admit, the scenery on the show made the city look much lovelier than I remember from my experiences in person. I watched more of ESPN, the repetitions of the sports highlights rendering my brain more and more numb with each showing.

I had a free night, and I filled the time with mind-killing inactivity.

We all do this. Some more than others, some for longer periods of time than others, but we all do this.

Why?

Why are we content to sit in front of a screen for hours at a time, when in reality, we could be living more, doing more, breathing more life into our days?

You see, with my recent confrontation with my grandfather’s death, I am reminded: what’s it all for, anyways? What is this life’s grand work, this life’s great scheme, that we are to take part in?

Is it watching TV?

Is it anesthetizing our loneliness/boredom/brokenness, with abject entertainment?

Or might there be more to it than that?

My grandfather was one who embraced life. He was one of those who, when he walked in a room, people noticed. Part of that was his personality, but a bigger part of that was his outlook. I would imagine he must have had a rather low tolerance for watching TV. He didn’t care about watching action, because he was the action.

Now, this is not an attempt to pay tribute to his life; I would be unable to do that in one short essay. But it is an attempt to look at one attribute he possessed, and ask ourselves if we might all be a little better off if we had a little bit of that ourselves?

But before we delve too deeply into that, I must go back to the title of this essay: mortality. What does embracing life and watching TV have to do with our mortality?

I believe they are directly related. You see, I have found that the more TV I watch, the more dull my mind gets. It can be restful, but only in increments of about 20 minutes. After that, a certain restlessness builds up inside; a certain swell of inactivity, in direct conflict with my own sense of life-giving nourishment. In my attempts to find rest, I actually become more restless. Which is an interesting word to describe it, because that is exactly what I experience: I rest less.

In my experience, when all I seek is rote entertainment, a little bit of me dies in lost opportunity.

Think about it. If I watch a 30-minute sitcom, I may have laughed a bit, been exposed to an endless display of stimuli we call advertising, and at the end of it, I often feel more fatigued than when I started.

Now, this really is not a knock on television—everything is fine in moderation.

But it is an attempt to ask some of the difficult questions about how we tend to find rest. For me, I tend to rest in front of the TV. For you, it may be something different. But in either case, the question is, if you are out to find rest, just how life giving is that rest you are seeking?

Is your “rest” exhausting?

Do you feel bombarded with stimuli, where you can’t remember the last time you sat in silence, or sat and read a novel, or sat in the shade of a large tree breathing in a gentle breeze?

Where are we finding our rest?

For when we can find our rest, we can begin to find our life.

And that is why I think rest is tied so closely with our own mortality. For, if I die a little bit with each passing sitcom, how is that going to fuel me for the times in my life when I really need a significant energy output?

If I cannot find rest, I will not be able to handle the rigors of this life.

If I cannot handle the rigors of this life, I may be unable to answer the calling God has on my life.

And if I cannot answer the call God has on my life, I will not experience the joy that comes from a life lived with purpose, a life lived to make a difference, a life lived to glorify God.

And that is ultimately what it’s all about. For if I can’t glorify the God who gives me breath, then I end up dying from the inside out. It seems that for many people, this is the fate they are surrendered to. Their bodies just take years to catch on…

And so, we live lives of insignificance. As Thoreau said, we live lives of “quiet desperation”.

Is that the legacy we want to leave behind when our grandkids are reflecting on our lives?

Yeah, my grandpa was always around, but I never saw him laugh much, live much, talk much…

I know we all want more than that.

And I am convinced that we can have it, it just takes a little practice, a little discipline.

A discipline of rest, so we can enjoy the fruits of life. A willingness to face our own mortality, our own frailty; an admission that we all need recharging on a regular basis, so we can embrace this precious life with vigor.

What will our legacy be?

May we find today, a determination to pursue a life-giving rest, in order to be equipped to offer our lives, our souls, our gifts, and our talents, to others, that they too may see the glory of the God who gives us our finite number of days…

Have you been to a bank lately? Let me rephrase—have you been inside a bank lately? I hadn’t. That is, until a couple of weeks ago.

I used to have a job where I would go in to the bank twice a week to make deposits. I would step up to the merchant teller line, exchange a friendly smile with the teller, carry out my transaction, and then leave. Nothing special.

A few years have passed since that time and now (let’s call it five or so years). During those entire five years, I can’t recall but one time I stepped inside a bank. Even that one time was fairly recently, within the past year or so.

I know you’re probably not terribly interested in my forays into various banking institutions, so allow me to state the observation that prompted this writing:

Nowadays, when you go in to banks, there are huge plate glass walls between the tellers and the customers.

Imagine it, if you haven’t seen these firsthand: Where the counter was (and still is) there now exists glass of at least an inch thick extending from the top of the counter all the way up to the ceiling. And you know how high bank ceilings tend to be—we’re not talking about a small plate of glass—we’re talking about a transparent prison, a literal barrier between teller and customer.

Why is that? Safety, I’m sure you would respond. I mean, it makes sense. If I were a teller, I would feel much more secure that someone was not going to make an attempt at robbing me. I’m assuming the glass is bullet proof, and the way it’s configured for exchanging money, there is certainly no way a person could get his or her hand even in contact with the teller, their money, or anything at all, for that matter.

I guess it never dawned on me that banks were such dangerous places.

It makes sense, I suppose—there is very valuable material inside, and they want to make sure that only the select few, the authorized, are allowed any contact with it.

Aren’t we kind of like that?

There is much talk in psychology about people putting up “walls” in their lives, barriers around their hearts, protecting them from the outside elements. But to me, that metaphor almost sounds warm and nice. I mean, I like hiding certain things. I like protecting myself from “the elements”. It’s kind of like sitting by the fire sipping a cup of hot chocolate while the cold rain falls outside.

It’s safe.

But what if the walls talked about are made of glass?

We also talk extensively about “transparency” in today’s language. We talk about being honest and open with one another, in the name of community. Those who bare their souls are spoken of highly in today’s world.

I’ll ask again: What if the walls are made of glass?

Allow me to break for a moment. My son, who is approaching two now, has never been inside a bank. What do you think he will notice when he sets foot in one for the first time? Will he notice the new glass additions, like I did? Or will he think to himself, “Oh—this is what a bank looks like from the inside”.

Is it possible that a new generation of people will be raised thinking that glass walls are “just how things are”?

Is it possible that there is already a generation of people now who don’t notice the glass walls?

Where are we in this?

I must admit, having experienced banking in the past and comparing it to now, I genuinely miss the old days. And let me tell you, the old days were nothing special. They certainly were not perfect but at least they were personal.

Again, where are we in this? Have we constructed protective glass walls around us? Have we built up barriers with the deception of transparency, but still affording us protection from the cruel outside world?

I’m not advocating blind vulnerability. But I am suggesting that we take a long, hard look at our own selves. I am suggesting that we take the time to analyze our own hearts, our own personalities, to see if we have erected a permanent barrier to protect our own valuable insides.

Notice, that when I used to bank in the old person-to-person style, there was the opportunity for a handshake, a pat on the back, a hug. It may not have been the best place for these, but at least the opportunity was there. Now, we have no opportunity. Ever. Now we have eye-to-eye contact, but even that isn’t without barriers…

I don’t know about you, but I’m not content raising my son in a world where glass walls are the norm. I’m not content raising my son in a world where physical contact is a thing of the past. I’m not content raising my son in a world where most of the communication is faceless—done over the phone, through email, or text messaging. I refuse to agree that the best we can do is to provide eyes, a face, and a voice muffled behind two-inch thick glass.

I want to break these walls. And I want to start with me. Right here, right now. I want to live in a world where glass walls are constantly, methodically, being torn down. I want to watch my step, not because I’m looking over my shoulder in fear, but because I’m sidestepping the broken glass of people reaching their arms out to one another, shattering the carefully constructed divides between us, each embracing his or her own humanity with a bear hug…

May we become “glass shatterers” in our current culture. May we reach our arms out in invitation to a new humanity—one eerily reminiscent of a bygone time, one whose voice echoes from deep within, crying faintly to be released once again…

Can business exist independent of greed?

I’ve been pondering a lot on this issue, and for most of my life have thought the answer to be, “absolutely not”. My cynical answer would always be that business is self-serving, that by my experience the only reason people play the business model is that it lines their own pockets. That their sole purpose in life is to climb the ladder, where the view from the top is always better (as the business proverb goes).

Is our existence solely to pursue comfort? Is my economical purpose in life to constantly be upwardly-mobile? Should I buy into the notion that I need to sell my house for enormous profit, in order to “upsize” by another 1000 square feet of living space?
I am having a hard time accepting that this is our American fate. While others are moving up, my wife and I are considering downsizing. I mean, the house I live in now is bigger than the one I grew up in–why should I be so privileged as to live so comfortably?

There was a time I literally worshipped the tile of my floor–not bowing down to it, but I couldn’t get past its beauty, the straight lines drifting endlessly into the distance of the living room. And this is not bad in and of itself–I believe God gives us an appreciation of beauty so that we will understand him better. But when beauty becomes our object of worship more than the Beautiful One, problems abound.

All digressions aside, I’m wondering if there is a way to do business that isn’t all about me. I’m wondering if there is a way to do business that will provide an income, since we do all carry certain financial obligations, but that will provide for others as well.

What if businesses decided to give more of their profits away? Now, I’m not talking Bill Gates-type generosity. Mr. Gates already has his millions. I’m talking about forfeiting the right to the millions so that others may eat. I’m talking about forfeiting stock options in favor of shelter for the homeless. I’m talking about giving up profit for the sake of the poor.

What would America look like if this was the business model adopted by the majority? How would the landscape of America (and the world, for that matter) change if more people were donating more and more money, resources, time, and energy into solving some of these issues? What if the citizens of this country started to awaken to the fact that, as the richest country on the globe, we can actually use our capital for the good of the world?

There are some who are pioneering this movement. Tom’s Shoes is one. For every pair of shoes purchased, he donates a pair to a child in Argentina. The Q Café in Seattle gives people a free cup of coffee for every blanket or jacket given to the homeless. I know there are more, but what if this model became the norm rather than the exception? How would corporate America respond? I believe they would have no choice but to (in the name of competition) keep up with the rest of the business world and donate, donate, donate!

So, may we become agents of change. We may feel we have little, but a small change here and a small change there can have a ripple effect felt far and wide. I am convinced it can happen, and it starts with a brave few…