Old Man Wisdom
A couple of summers ago an elderly gentleman walking down the street stopped for a moment in front of our driveway. Not realizing he was looking in my direction, he took me by surprise with his words.
“I’m an old man,” he said. “My days are long, but the years are short.”
Leaving no opportunity to respond, he just chuckled at me, then continued down the road. I watched him until he disappeared over the hill, his words hanging in the air.
“What was that all about?” I wondered. “Who was he? A poet? A wise old codger? Maybe he was an angel?” As I laughed at my thoughts, I wasn’t able to shake what he had said. It was as if Neil Young’s “Old Man” took a look at my life, then walked away.
Twenty-first-century soul that I am, I immediately left the street for the Internet. Within seconds my query was answered, Wikipedia citing a Gretchen Rubin and her Happiness Project as the crafter of the old man’s quip. Never heard of her. A New York Times bestseller, an online mega presence, maybe I should have.
To be honest I was a tad disappointed. I was hoping the authour was my old man, or at the very least an angel. Google could suck the mystery out of Agatha Christie.
I stared at the screen unsatisfied with Wikipedia’s virtual certainty. Though appreciative of the authour’s modern, masterful turning of a phrase, I wondered if her muse may have been a more ancient soul, One that has been inspiring generations of poets with questions of life and mortality for millennia.
"Behold, You have made my days as handbreadths,
And my lifetime as nothing in Your sight;
Surely every man at his best is a mere breath.”
Such ideas are at home in a book of wisdom, inscribed over a tomb, or upon the tongue of an old man.
I wonder where my old guy first encountered the proverb? Maybe he was a closet Happiness Project fan. Maybe he downloaded the quote as an image or meme. Wherever, it somehow resonated in his mind to such degree that he felt to share it with a stranger.
I’m glad he did. The words have come to mind during rights of passage bringing a much-needed perspective to a child’s birthday, a chance reunion, a sad piece of unexpected news, his face appearing again out of the blue, reminding of the beautiful, brevity of life.
I am happy to report that despite the passing of time, my days still seem about the same in length. More often than not, there are too many things to accomplish before any given nightfall.
As of late, however, the years are being less faithful than the days. They seem in far too great a hurry regarding the things that matter most- family, health, and a dream or two. “Where did last year go? Is it winter already? What do you mean grey hair?”
The beginning of a New Year seems to stoke such thoughts.
What was that Neil? “Love lost, such a cost; Give me things that don't get lost; Like a coin that won't get tossed.” That’s all very fine sir, but “Look at how the time goes past.”
If I could go back, to that day on the street side, I would run after my aged friend, and shout, “Old man, look at my life. I’m a lot like you were.”
Ah, enough of the melancholy. There’s plenty of time yet to live. “It’s “not too late to seek a newer world… Tho' much is taken, much abides,” etcetera, etcetera. Just don’t listen to my children. They are deceived. I am not an old man, though I have potential.
When the day of age does come, if by chance you hear me saying, “My days are long, and years are short,” I hope you’ll see me enjoying life as much as that “old man” was the moment he startled me street side. Maybe God will grant me the opportunity of startling some other soul on the backside of middle age with a little “Old Man Wisdom” of my own.
Old Man, Neil Young, Harvest Moon, 1972
Gretchen Rubin, "the days are long"
Online citations last visited January 1, 2018.
A Culture of Spirituality
This blog was first posted in 2008. It considers both the significance of spirituality in contemporary culture and the tendency of Christian institutions and individuals to interpret that relationship as something unimportant or even problematic.
A few moments of channel surfing through religious programming could lead the average Christian to believe our world is on the cusp of a spiritual vacuum, and the only reasonable response is to raise a fist against the cultural conspirators that are responsible. I don’t agree. Though the modern media may be oblivious to the reflection of the Holy in its creations, it is modern Christianity that seems deliberately blind to evidence of the image of God within human creativity. Literature, movies, television, and music are all reflections of the Creator indelibly marked within humanity, including the millions who have never heard of Jesus Christ.
Consider for a moment the mass appeal of the children’s literature and silver screen character Harry Potter. One would have to be a mere “muggle” to miss the spiritual dimensions of Rowling’s tale of an adolescent conjuror of magical arts. Characters on the small screen are loved in part for their commentary on religious themes, be it Battlestar Galactica’s playful reversal of monotheism and polytheism, or The Simpsons’ caricature of American evangelicalism. No one should be surprised that a-searching world both moves to the rhythm and affirms the spiritual message of John Lennon’s Imagine, U2’s I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For or Pink’s God Is A DJ. These ideas, lyrics and melodies may not appear on a pane of stained glass or the pages of a hymnal, but they nevertheless demonstrate humanity’s insatiable interest in all things spiritual.
If the ancient teaching of the Church remains true-that every human being needs Christ-then Christianity must find a way to connect with a global culture that is increasingly spiritually interested but simultaneously institutionally jaded. As tele-preachers vindictively indict the secular media for its failure to reflect the Holy, even Christian viewers are growing suspicious of these would-be miracle-moguls with their manipulating telethons and prosperity hanky offerings. Why would a non-Christian seeker of the spiritual be any less suspicious?
Two scenarios must be in play before the Rubicon that exists between the Church and our spiritually engaged culture can be crossed.
Firstly, the Church must realize that she is not at war with culture but rather recognize the Presence of the Spirit in all human creativity. It seems the doctrine of total depravity is so dominant in our theological vision that no one can see the Imago Dei in anyone but themselves.
Secondly, when the Church is given the privilege of responding to an honest seeker, it should do so with Spirit-led intelligence and a little cultural savvy- not blind belligerence. Why is it that so many feel they must damn the little solace people have experienced in their spiritual search before sharing with them the gospel? They may unwittingly destroy the very road that God has over a lifetime built between Himself and that person. Since Christ first walked the planet, the deity has taken delight in surprising the professionally spiritual with just how far he will go to reach a human being. Today is no different.
We can all use a little culture. Truth be known, I enjoy a little literature, television, a movie or two and some music. Sometimes the experience is downright spiritual. Truth be known, I have found the remote control a spiritual friend to turn more than one religious program off.
Faith, Hope, and Love… and Fishermen
The essay is a reflection on questions of personal faith and folk’s often disappointing quest for divine healing, woven into my memory of a story my mother told me from her childhood, and the writing of Paul to the Corinthian Church. It was originally published in Good Tidings.
I am no fisherman.
Anyone who knows me wouldn’t waste a breath arguing the veracity of the statement. The few calluses I have had on my hands were probably caused by papercuts.
It’s not that I haven’t any connection to the sea. My mother’s family fished out of Red Bay, Labrador, and generations prior from Bristol’s Hope, along the western shore of Conception Bay. My father’s family, prior to being businesspersons and preachers, were also fishers, sailing from Triton and Twillingate in Notre Dame Bay.
All this fishery heritage of mine, however, is from long ago.
There are no nets or floats in my shed, I have no hidden skills to fix a “make-and-break” engine, and frankly, I can barely fillet a slice of bologna. Other than catching trout in a sheltered “steady,” the few remembrances I have of fishing have occurred on family vacations, watching salmon pulled from a trap, jigging codfish in a swell, and avoiding a squid spraying its ink across the gunnel. Most of my favourite ocean memories occur on the shoreline side of the sea, be it skipping rocks into the foam, picking up starfish and urchins, chewing on salt fish pinched from a flake, reading a good book while watching the waves, or listening to “the Broadcast” at the kitchen table.
Maybe my lack of comfort with the ocean began as a child when I was ordered to crawl into the cuddy amid a sudden change in the weather; or, possibly much later in life, when my parishioner-skipper-friend couldn’t stop laughing at me, as I leaned over the side of his longliner, seasick on our late autumn sail.
As I said, I am no fisherman.
And yet, I have lived most of my life in communities where the fishery has been central to the culture and served in churches where fisher families have filled a pew. Though the romance of the sea is lovely, at times the reality of the ocean can be heartbreaking. I have both celebrated with folk following a successful fishing season and have knocked on the door of a home with the saddest of news. It is this part of the fishery that I wish I did not know more than most. Be it a family or an entire village, creating life from the ocean requires faith, hope, and love.
A few years ago, my mother told me a story from her childhood. She recalled watching her own mother stare a long time out a window that overlooked the harbour, Saddle Island, and the ocean beyond. My grandfather had not yet returned from checking his nets, the wind now howling, the sea tossing, the sky darkening. On almost any other day, there was no need for worry. Faith and hope are unnecessary when the people you love are at the table asking for another helping. But on this day my grandmother was worried, and when she realized my mother had noticed her fret, she responded with words searching for faith and hope. “Don’t worry. Your father has been in worse seas than this. Go set the table.” Believing my grandmother, she did as she was told, convincing herself that there was nothing to fear. It wasn’t until an hour later when she heard her mother shout, “Thank God! Your father is around the point!” that she realized how worried my grandmother had been.
Two millennia ago, Paul wrote a letter to Corinth, a city built on a narrow isthmus separating the Adriatic and Aegean seas. The apostle encouraged the infantile congregation who were worried about many things including relationships, religious rites, and the destiny of the dead. Peering “through a glass darkly” from time into eternity, Paul found insight to aid his readers. Scribing words more poetry than epistle, now more wedding psalm than charismatic primer, the apostle taught them that regardless of life’s circumstances, whether sacred or profane, every Christian thought should be guided by faith, hope, and love, and of these three responses, “the greatest of these is love.” His encouragement reached beyond their present pains into the heavenlies where faith and hope would no longer be needed, divine love flooding the life to come.
But on this side of eternity—between Corinth and the sea—faith, hope, and love remain the strength of the weary.
Some folk teach that if you conjure enough faith, you can have what you wish, and wish away what you don’t. Hope isn’t really hope at all, in such spiritual algorithms, but a false claim of certainty. There is no encouragement here, only a damning in the name of grace. The promise of light disappears when faith and hope are turned into millstones, wrapped around the neck of the tired as they sink beneath the surface.
Wisdom cries out from the darkness of untruth. The words, faith, hope, and love, intertwine like a mooring rope reaching far deeper than simple trite answers that mock human pain and make suspicious divine love.
You don’t have to be a fisherman to know the strength of the divine and the fragility of humanity. When you’re staring out a window waiting for a loved one to reach home safely, certainty is a façade. Faith in God leans on hope, and hope sometimes hides its worry while it sets the table in love.
Paradise Now
It all begins with an idea.
The following essay was written in 2008. Given the recent tragedies of the horrific Hamas attack on Israel, and Israel’s subsequent War on Gaza, yielding wide declarations of famine, the reflections on the movie, “Paradise Now,” maybe, worth considering again.
I was born in 1967, the same year the West Bank was occupied by the Israeli army following the Six-Day War. Since then, I have grown up watching the horrific scenes of grief-stricken children, buses torn apart like Christmas wrapping, flags and funerals, hopelessness and hate, all from the safety of my Canadian home. I'm a little surprised how easy it is for me to forget it all each night and fall asleep.
A couple of months ago, 35 souls and I braved some frigid weather to watch Paradise Now, a cinematic vision of the current Palestinian conflict. The director Hany Abu-Assad's picture relates the story of how two young men from Nablus-Sahid and Khaled, prepare to attack Israel as suicide bombers. Their desire to become martyrs is inspired by both religious zeal and the immense frustration caused by the occupation. Sahid is driven by the haunting reality that his father was complicit with the Israelis and was executed by the Palestinians.
Perspective, they say, is everything. If I lived in Tel Aviv and witnessed the terror of a city bus blowing up and killing innocent commuters, I am fairly certain the bomber would not be viewed with much sympathy. If, however, I knew the attacker's family and shared the frustration of the occupation, that same person might very well be viewed as a martyr. Not surprisingly, Assad's characters are a little too human for some critics in Israel and many evangelicals in North America.
I am part of a Christian tradition in which many view modern Israel's existence as nothing less than divinely instituted and a key sign of Christ's return. This has led to certain churches mounting Israeli flags in their sanctuaries, reinstituting ancient Hebrew feasts, and directing popular campaigns to support the Jewish state.
At times, I have been uncomfortable with the seemingly carte blanche support evangelical leadership has given to Israel's military activities and the corresponding demonizing of all Palestinians, whether civilian or militant. Such commitment seems to smack less of piety and more of prophetic self-service. Such folk would do well to listen to the plea of the Hebrew prophets to offer mercy, never mind the words of Jesus to love one's enemies-real or otherwise. Evangelical eschatology does not provide immunity to being blind to truth and failing to call for justice.
We are a long way from Paradise Now.