Monuments to Vanity

Several years ago I had breakfast with my friend Paul. As we chatted over eggs and coffee I confessed to him that, spiritually, I felt a bit “dry.” That was the best I could do to put into words what I was feeling inside. It was not a lack of faith, I told him, because I still loved Jesus and knew I had a home waiting for me in heaven. He asked me a few questions.

“Do you spend time with other Christians?”

He knew the answer to that very well. I was, after all, on staff full time with a local church. I met at least every week with the Senior Pastor, the Youth Pastor, the Children’s Pastor, the secretaries, and the bookkeeper to discuss and make plans for the church. I met with the choir and the praise team each week to rehearse. I chatted with the custodian daily, and spent every Friday working with the small group of retired men who made it their business to keep the church buildings and grounds in good repair. In fact, I spent most of my time with other Christians.

“Do you read the Bible?”

I was teaching Bible studies, preparing worship services, and writing promotional articles. I used the Bible in my preparation for all of those things. The other staffers and I would often have deep discussions about the meanings of various passages, and how the original Hebrew and Greek texts compared to the English translations we used. When necessary, I could always find a text to support my position as I attempted to correct a brother. Yes, I read the Bible a lot.

“Do you pray?”

Only for the President, the country, our church, the people on the prayer list (many of whom I did not know), lost people, saved people, missions offerings, city leaders, friends, strangers, choir members, potential choir members, stubborn people who I knew were really good singers (but just would not make a commitment to join the choir!), deacons, deacons’ wives, deacons’ children (especially deacons’ children), other ministers, their families, the State Convention, the National Convention, Congress, soldiers, firefighters . . . my prayer list grew and grew. Yes, I prayed a lot.

Paul smiled and leaned back in his chair. “I think I know what you need.”

I was all ears.

“Spend a little time every day reading the Bible, but do it with this purpose in mind: to enjoy spending time with Jesus. Don’t prepare a study, don’t prove a point, don’t have any agenda except to enjoy your Savior. Let the scriptures speak to you without deciding ahead of time what you need to know; let the Spirit lead you without expecting anything but an encounter with Christ.”

I understood what he was saying. I had let the busyness of (I thought) serving Jesus smother the very thing that made me a Christian in the first place: an intimate relationship with and knowledge of Christ. I had become a Martha, and Paul was reminding me that I should strive to be a Mary.

We have just survived the “holidays”, the noisiest time of the year. For months we have been bombarded with messages telling us to buy more in order to show that we love more. The emails say ‘Keep Christ in Christmas,’ the ads say ‘Keep coming to our new sales,’ and the news media says ‘Keep the economy afloat.’ Don’t these people understand that we are doing the best we can???

Well, maybe not the best best.

Jesus said, “Martha, Martha, you are anxious and troubled about many things, but one thing is necessary.” (Luke 10:41-42, ESV) He was reminding her that spending time with Him was more important than anything she might be able to do for Him.

Maybe you had a “Merry” Christmas, maybe you didn’t. Either way it’s not too late to get started on a “Mary” New Year.

So . . . it has been a while. Just trying to maintain (in)consistency. You could say that I have journaled sporadically in the past, but that is probably too kind. It is more accurate to say that I have started journaling many, many times. As evidence I present this post from one of my pre-blog journals. It is something from almost 5 years ago, but neatly documents my literary aspirations — both then and now.

January 3, 2004

This is the year I write. I have been telling myself for years that I could write, if I would only put in the time. Well, now I have some time. I intend to write a book, or at least a long, dilatory rant. Sort of a dilatrante. Mostly my plan is to fill a least a page per day with my pearls of wisdom, in the hope that someday I will learn to think in a straight line, rather than the veering, flitting mental flights that I am more used to exercising. In the process of all this writing I also hope to gain some healing from the recent painful eclipse of my future as I had it planned.

Most of all, though, I want to become a writer. In Dance Macabre Stephen King tells of his frustration with folks who approach him and say, “I have always wanted to be a writer.” His weary response is to say that he always wanted to become a brain surgeon. He goes on to explain that if you want to do something, you do it, you don’t just wish you had done it. I really identified with this idea because I always wanted to be a rock star. I’ve always loved making music and thought that the life of a rock star was one to which I could easily adapt. Unfortunately, one day I realized that I did not have any desire to work as hard as it takes to earn my way up to join the high rollers at the Rock Star Roulette table.

You see, prosperity in the music business is not about talent or hard work or technical skill alone. You can be blessed with loads of natural talent, practice until your fingers bleed, and become the very best at whatever it is that you do. In the end you still may wind up to be a super-talented nobody. It just depends on where the ball drops, on whose number comes up. Don’t get me wrong — I do not believe that some no-talent who has not paid his dues is likely to get plucked out of the crowd and named the winner of The Entertainment Business Lotto. I just came to the realization one day in early 1980s that giftedness and hard work carry no guarantees of success, if stardom is your goal.

On the other hand I realized that if I wanted to enjoy music and improve as a player, that was something I could attain. So I adjusted my goals and became an aspiring musician rather than an aspiring rock god. I have recently added to this the desire to become a songwriter and to record an album or two of music. These I can do.

This idea that you actually do what you actually want to do has bitten me in the butt a few times. In the early 1990s I began to become dissatisfied that I had never attended college. I whined to any who would listen that, if only my parents had not divorced, I would eventually have gone to college and made something of myself. (Note to self: Get over it!) Eventually I came to the realization that achieving goals is tied to my willingness to rearrange my life in a way that allows me to accomplish those goals

I had a similar epiphany recently and realized that only by sitting down at the desk and writing will I ever become a writer. I saw that it is not the product that makes one a writer (or musician, or songwriter) but rather the process of putting thought to paper. It is like the silly exercises at the beginning of any elementary music book. You do not play Hot Cross Buns so you can dazzle people with your stirring rendition. You play it so you can work toward mastering the instrument of your choice. The mastery of the instrument is the goal because once mastered, the instrument becomes your servant and tool, used to elicit mirth and pathos and awe in the audient, if you are fortunate enough to have one.

So, this year I write. Not so much to create a book, but more to gain a sort of mastery over the literary form. If a book or article that edifies the soul or comments on the human condition is the byproduct of the mastering process, I will take that as an added bonus.

Samuel is hanging out this morning while Katie goes for her weekly home-stretch doctor appointment. Sue is at the funeral of a classmate, so I’m flying solo here. I carefully explain to him that he is not allowed to poo until mama or grandma comes home. I am confident that he understands the conditions of his visit.

Read the whole post here.

Here is an interesting take on the “technology is ruining your life” discussion.
What Productivity Studies Really Show (Lifehacker)

“The longer I do this, the more I suspect that a good part of the “information overload” story is a myth cooked up by folks who don’t know how to use the internet well in order to demonize something they don’t understand. I get more done via email and surfing the web than my parents ever did using phones and libraries, even when I’m having a bad day and switch to my email application the moment I see a new message notification.”

I have been listening to an audiobook by Peter Walsh. He may be best known as one of the hosts of Clean Sweep, TLC‘s entry into that grande genre of high culture known as the reality series. Had I known this, I likely would not have bought the book. It was the title, mentioned in 43 Folders, that caught my attention: It’s All Too Much: An Easy Plan for Living a Richer Life with Less Stuff. The irony of a reductionist manifesto with a 15-word title didn’t hit me until much later.

I have been reading a lot of reorganizing, regrouping, and rethinking literature lately. I think it started with Malcolm Gladwell’s The Tipping Point. After that it just snowballed: Freakonomics, The World Is Flat, 48 Days to the Work You Love, The Power of Nice, Getting Things Done. Together they all added up to a perfect storm of middle-aged introspection and reevaluation.

Imagine my disappointment when Walsh trotted out his credentials. A reality show host? Really? I had seen his show. “Crap!,” I thought, “This is going to be six hours on how to organize my sock drawer.” It turns out to be all that and much more. Neatly tucked in among the nuts and bolts of decluttermania, he reveals a deep philosophical streak.

Throughout the book he challenges his listeners to frankly assess what our stuff, and the way we collect, scatter, and store (pile?) it, reveals. He asks probing questions to show the gap between the ideal and the real.

He compels me to ask, “Is this what this (room, table, sofa, bed) was meant to be used for?”

“What does my desired life look like? What have I done today to make it reality?”

“Am I destroying something of proven value today in order to build something of questionable value tomorrow?”

Walsh couches this examination in the guise of housekeeping tips. He starts a section on the value of a clear dining room table with this sociological observation:

“At some point we seem to have lost the concept of dining and have replaced it with an interest solely in the mechanics of eating. When we dine, the food is only one of the reasons for coming together. We gather together to enjoy each other’s conversation, to share views and opinions, to reinforce relationships, and to celebrate what we have. The traditional Thanksgiving meal is a great example of this broader idea of dining.

The distinction between dining and eating is important. When we give up on dining, and just eat and run, we sacrifice a family ritual that has a real purpose.”

Sue has always made sure our home is presentable, not so much because of my contribution but more in spite of it, so I did not expect to gain much from this book. I had never considered myself a hoarder, though others might disagree. I did, however, discover that I don’t have to have every issue of “Popular Mechanics” since 1946 stacked on my kitchen table to have an inappropriate relationship with my “stuff.”

The Bible talks a lot about possessions, treasure, and other “stuff.” Jesus said that worrying over physical things is inappropriate for a disciple. “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow. They toil not, neither do they spin, and yet I say unto you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.” (Matt. 6:28-29, NKJV)

My friend Josh Kenfield recently wrote a touching article about the loss of his dog, Maile. His memoir reminded me of past pets and the holes left by their absence. It is astounding how deeply embedded in our hearts pets can get. We had a cantankerous Cocker named Raleigh who developed cancer. When Sue had to have him put to sleep she came to where I was working and just wept in my arms.

When Mostly, our Lab mix, died at the age of 11 I cried for three days. I mourned the passing of that stupid dog more than those of my mom and dad. I refused to get another dog for four years because I didn’t want to go though that kind of pain again.

Sue eventually talked me into a new Lab puppy last fall. When that six-week-old bundle of legs and loose skin lay on my chest one lazy morning, something melted inside me. To paraphrase Ron White, that dog healed my heart. Now BD sleeps next to my side of the bed and greets me every morning with wet kisses as he plants his big front paws in my chest.

Someday, but hopefully not for a very long time, I will write here about BD in the past tense. Just typing those words puts a lump in my throat. There is something about his presence, though, that makes me want to be alive. For that I will gladly endure slightly gnawed shoes and slobbery greetings, and I will worry about tomorrow when tomorrow comes.

The Buzz Out Loud panel discussed a possible move by the Canadian government (and others) to tighten controls on iPods, laptops, and other media-storage devices last week. The proposed regulations would codify the RIAA’s position that ripping your own DVDs and compact discs for transfer to other devices is illegal. It would also put Canadian Customs agents in the position of determining whether the copy of Everybody Loves Mary on your Zune was legitimately purchased or downloaded from BitTorrent. Molly Wood makes the case that this and similar initiatives might cause consumers to eventually abandon commercial entertainment as we know it.

This is a real possibility. I have not listened to over-the air radio since I discovered podcasts about a year ago. The content:advertising ratio on commercial radio makes the value return insufficient to endure the endless stream of advertisements for things I do not want. I used to listen to Los Angeles AM station KFI 10-15 hours a week, mostly during commutes. Then I discovered RSS feeds and found that the same newswire stories read verbatim by the on-air talent could be perused at my convenience, minus the inane chatter. Podcasters understand niche marketing; they don’t get on the salesman’s horse and ride off in every direction.  Commercially supported podcasts such as The Cranky Geeks have the decency to shill products that might actually interest me.

I understand that most media exists for the purpose of selling soap. I have no quarrel with radio stations and home re-piping specialists teaming up to make a buck. It is simply that I would rather pay for useful, content-rich programming than endure crap for free. It is the logical extension of the idea behind cable and satellite TV. I have even subscribed to the TWiT network. Each month they take a token fee from my PayPal account, and I enjoy as much guilt-free content as I please.

A separate but related issue is the pressure to force ISP’s to serve as Hollywood’s enforcement arm. The whole idea of net neutrality rests on the concept of the internet as a utility. I know it is not a perfect comparison, but expecting service providers to monitor net traffic looking for media pirates is like expecting the phone company to listen in on calls in case people should conspire to kill a bald eagle. After all, both acts are violations of U.S. law. The latter, however, would raise an invasion-of-privacy stink from LA to DC. How long will it take for industry watchdogs to kill that goose?

I think I may have crossed some line this weekend. Twice I used Jott instead of my memory. The first time I was in the car with a song idea running around inside my head. I knew I would lose it if I didn’t write it down or record it somehow. The problem is that I was on the way to church, where I play piano. There was no hope to remember a new tune after and hour of playing and singing. So I Jotted myself; the Jott service then sent me an email with the words to the song, including a link to an audio recording of my message to myself. Neat, huh?

The second time was this morning. I was in my morning devotion time, when I remembered an email I needed to send. I usually keep a pad and pen near to write such things down so they will not interrupt my current activity, but today I had none. I remembered Jott, and when I was going through my morning routine later I “answered” myself with an email. Jott is cool!

So, Parvati won. Not that I followed; not that I care. I find Survivor and the raft of imitators that followed a little disturbing. Really, how often do we need to relive that warm, fuzzy, feel-good message from Lord of the Flies? Sue likes it, though, and so I got to see Ozzy thrown under the bus driven by the girls gone wild, and Erik (silly, trusting Erik) get cut off at the knees like one of Tony Soprano’s whack jobs. I think Sue likes watching the interplay among the characters, and I do mean characters, since only a TV character has time to drop off the face of the earth for two or three months.

Sue has always been a people person. I was intrigued when we were dating; she would tell me her version of the backstory of the people we observed in malls or restaurants. This was new to me, since up to then I was only vaguely aware that there were other people in malls and restaurants. It’s not so much that I was self-centered, it was more that I was and am a male, also known as “clueless.” Having a wife cures you of cluelessness. She helps you learn to pay attention. For instance, I now know that you should be extra nice to your wife on Mothers Day, even though she is not your mom.

There is so much to learn!

If left to my own devices, I would prefer to take my lessons from more forward looking entertainments. You can learn a lot from the Sci-Fi channel, for example. Stargate SG1 taught me that everyone in outer space uses Dell laptops. Dr. Who proves that a universal language translator is a must-have gizmo for every star traveller. (Don’t leave the homeworld without it!) I learned from the Star Trek franchises that every crew of every future spaceship will have at least one female member who wears really tight clothes. Then there are the weighty social issues of Eureka, Lexx, Battlestar Galactica, KyleXY, and Heroes. (What happened to Charlie???) With such important mysteries yet to be discovered, I fail to see the allure of the touchy-feely, “let-me-hug-you-so-I’ll-know-where-to-put-the-knife” shows. Yet they continue to march on, like Emperor Palpatine’s  clone army.

I suppose it’s good that we are different, Sue and I. Each expands the other’s horizon. Just yesterday she allowed as how Dr. Who has the potential to be not awful. She said some other things too, but I can’t remember them all. I seem to recall something about a half-finished bathroom remodel. What was it? . . . No, it’s gone.

There is so much to learn!