Time is an integral part of our everyday lives. So much so that it is nearly impossible to imagine a world without time. You can sort of start to wrap your head around the idea of eternity, but then you start to think about things not having any sort of sequence and the brain starts going in circles and you eventually giving up before your head explodes. Yet how often do we really think about time. Our perception of time definitely colors our view of the world, but do we really spend much time pondering the idea of time.
We all know how time is measured and most of us a have a pretty good grasp of our schedules, but what about the actual entity time. We think of it as constant, but we feel its elastic tendencies regularly. Seconds can feel like an eternity as we watch imminent disaster, while happy hours seem to flit away before we fully enjoy them.
I think the majority of people are very aware of the quantity of time (seconds, minutes, hours), but rarely the quality of time. We pack our schedules to the brim with more and more appointments and errands. We know the exact amount of time it takes to get to and from work, the store, etc. and plan our lives around how much we can squeeze into each second that isn't otherwise occupied. And if there is anything that interrupts that schedule, we immediately start planning alternatives to get us to our next to-do to minimize any inconvenience.
But I fear that we are scheduling away our very souls. Life is not lived in a day planner. It is lived in the moments that make us stop and think. Those transcendant moments that take our eyes off the here and now and thrust us into the eternal, some times against our bidding, are vital to our being. They are wake up calls that remind us that this is not all there is to life. These are the times when we feel God's presence most keenly.
What would life be like if, every now and then, we threw the calendar out the window? How would it change our perspective if we stopped being so consumed with deadlines, and took note of life going on around us? It would be nice to be able to just press the pause button and stop everything so we can enjoy those moments, but perhaps the loss of time is part of the joy. Perhaps when we stop to enjoy life, we are trusting the Maker of Time to redeem the time others might think we are wasting. I hope this time has been rewarding for you.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Monday, September 10, 2007
The Room
There is a room.
It is not like any room you have ever seen. It is enormous and filled with people from every imaginable place. The people mill about, engaging in those activities people engage in: talking, arguing, laughing, playing. Some walk with great purpose and determination, while others stroll about as if there is nothing of import to do.
As you work your way around the room, you notice a great number of people gravitate toward the walls. Out of curiosity, you find yourself drawn along with them. There is nothing specifically interesting about the walls themselves, nothing more than dull concrete slabs, but it is the doors that line them as far as the eye can see.
You decide to walk along the wall, perusing the various doors. They come in every shape and size. Some are very colorful, some very dull, and some have been so gaudily decorated you can barely stand to look at them. Some are large enough for elephants to fit through, others so small that people have to crawl on their hands and knees to enter. All seem to be trying very hard to hide what truly lies behind them.
The doors are not alone. Each door has hawkers expounding on the exceeding value of their door. They wear special clothing that matches the décor of the portal they sell. Some use lofty words; others speak with disgusting vulgarity. All are thoroughly convinced of the rightness of the way they offer. And as people are persuaded, the hawkers usher them through their doors with great fanfare and dignity, though you detect an hint of desperation and futility.
As you continue to observe, you discover the source of your unease. Behind the doors are many things, but none is what the entrants are looking for. One door leads to an endless maze, where thousands of people cry for help. Another leads the new initiate in a circle only to have them exit the same door, now a hawker, proclaiming the glories of their door. Still another opens to reveal nothing more than a blank wall, which people ecstatically walk into, and then speak of great revelations after bouncing off. And, to your horror, one leads to a grisly death for all who enter.
You reach out to grab a new convert before he enters the door of death. You frantically try to talk some sense into him, but you must be garbling your words in your haste. He merely nods vacantly, turns, and walks straight to his doom.
You run from door to door, imploring the hawkers and listeners alike to see the truth of their doors before it is too late. Some listen and wander off to other doors, but most dismiss you. You slowly leave them behind, tears welling in your eyes.
You walk along aimlessly, lost in your grief. You pass by more crowds of people, gazing at doors, mesmerized by the hawkers. You pass by others who preach their own ideas about the doors. Some say that all doors lead to the same place, so it matters not what door you choose. Another encourages people to not worry about the doors, but to have as much fun as they can and the door will find them. One large group stands facing the center of the room, chatting very haughtily. You listen as you walk by and hear them scoff at the silly rabble who still believe in the doors. What nonsense!
You continue to wander until something causes you to stop. Did someone call your name? You look at your surroundings for the first time and see a simple door in front of you. It is different than the other doors, somehow more real. It is not the overdressed or preposterously sized doors that most hawkers offer. Then you notice the quietness. There are people who stand by the door and talk about it to others, but they are not hawkers. You feel peace, rest, and you know that this door is the truth. You look at the others around you and discover that some heeded your warnings and followed you, but are now wary of yet another door.
You step closer and ask about the door. A kindly, older man gently and respectfully answers all your questions. He does not have all the answers, which you find refreshing after listening to the ridiculous theories of the hawkers, but is not afraid of them either.
You have trouble keeping your eyes off the door. It fascinates you. You can’t totally explain why, but it absorbs your attention. It seems to almost be a living thing. It calls to you, beckons you. To your surprise, you find yourself irresistibly drawn step by step to the door.
You touch it.
Oh, the sensation! You feel like you have discovered a missing piece of your soul. You catch the fleeting glimpse of what it is like to be truly whole and loved. Tears well in your eyes again and your knees give out beneath you. Your breath is snatched away and you almost hope it never comes back.
But it does, and you find yourself panting on your knees before the door. You must know what is behind it. You seize the handle and a jolt of electricity runs through your deepest being. You open the door and step through.
It is not like any room you have ever seen. It is enormous and filled with people from every imaginable place. The people mill about, engaging in those activities people engage in: talking, arguing, laughing, playing. Some walk with great purpose and determination, while others stroll about as if there is nothing of import to do.
As you work your way around the room, you notice a great number of people gravitate toward the walls. Out of curiosity, you find yourself drawn along with them. There is nothing specifically interesting about the walls themselves, nothing more than dull concrete slabs, but it is the doors that line them as far as the eye can see.
You decide to walk along the wall, perusing the various doors. They come in every shape and size. Some are very colorful, some very dull, and some have been so gaudily decorated you can barely stand to look at them. Some are large enough for elephants to fit through, others so small that people have to crawl on their hands and knees to enter. All seem to be trying very hard to hide what truly lies behind them.
The doors are not alone. Each door has hawkers expounding on the exceeding value of their door. They wear special clothing that matches the décor of the portal they sell. Some use lofty words; others speak with disgusting vulgarity. All are thoroughly convinced of the rightness of the way they offer. And as people are persuaded, the hawkers usher them through their doors with great fanfare and dignity, though you detect an hint of desperation and futility.
As you continue to observe, you discover the source of your unease. Behind the doors are many things, but none is what the entrants are looking for. One door leads to an endless maze, where thousands of people cry for help. Another leads the new initiate in a circle only to have them exit the same door, now a hawker, proclaiming the glories of their door. Still another opens to reveal nothing more than a blank wall, which people ecstatically walk into, and then speak of great revelations after bouncing off. And, to your horror, one leads to a grisly death for all who enter.
You reach out to grab a new convert before he enters the door of death. You frantically try to talk some sense into him, but you must be garbling your words in your haste. He merely nods vacantly, turns, and walks straight to his doom.
You run from door to door, imploring the hawkers and listeners alike to see the truth of their doors before it is too late. Some listen and wander off to other doors, but most dismiss you. You slowly leave them behind, tears welling in your eyes.
You walk along aimlessly, lost in your grief. You pass by more crowds of people, gazing at doors, mesmerized by the hawkers. You pass by others who preach their own ideas about the doors. Some say that all doors lead to the same place, so it matters not what door you choose. Another encourages people to not worry about the doors, but to have as much fun as they can and the door will find them. One large group stands facing the center of the room, chatting very haughtily. You listen as you walk by and hear them scoff at the silly rabble who still believe in the doors. What nonsense!
You continue to wander until something causes you to stop. Did someone call your name? You look at your surroundings for the first time and see a simple door in front of you. It is different than the other doors, somehow more real. It is not the overdressed or preposterously sized doors that most hawkers offer. Then you notice the quietness. There are people who stand by the door and talk about it to others, but they are not hawkers. You feel peace, rest, and you know that this door is the truth. You look at the others around you and discover that some heeded your warnings and followed you, but are now wary of yet another door.
You step closer and ask about the door. A kindly, older man gently and respectfully answers all your questions. He does not have all the answers, which you find refreshing after listening to the ridiculous theories of the hawkers, but is not afraid of them either.
You have trouble keeping your eyes off the door. It fascinates you. You can’t totally explain why, but it absorbs your attention. It seems to almost be a living thing. It calls to you, beckons you. To your surprise, you find yourself irresistibly drawn step by step to the door.
You touch it.
Oh, the sensation! You feel like you have discovered a missing piece of your soul. You catch the fleeting glimpse of what it is like to be truly whole and loved. Tears well in your eyes again and your knees give out beneath you. Your breath is snatched away and you almost hope it never comes back.
But it does, and you find yourself panting on your knees before the door. You must know what is behind it. You seize the handle and a jolt of electricity runs through your deepest being. You open the door and step through.
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