Missing the message

I was sitting at a graduation ceremony filled with pomp and circumstance, but the students across the aisle looking at their cellphones distracted me. The speaker was talking about the difference between doing and being, but her message was lost on those checking a recent score, texting with a friend, or playing a game.

How could they, I wondered, only to realized how often I’m guilty of the same thing. No, I’m not one who’s addicted to my phone, but that doesn’t mean I’m attentive to what life’s saying to me. Sometimes I’m focused on crossing something off my to-do list; other times it’s my calendar with little room to breathe that gets my attention. The worst is when I feel I know all I need to know and look away from the meaningful moments surrounding me.

Just as I felt bad for the commencement speaker, I also feel bad for God when we don’t pay attention. I believe God speaks often, but we don’t always have ears to hear. God’s artistry surrounds us, but we rarely have eyes to see. And I think God’s presence is always within reach, but we rarely make the effort to feel it. Like the graduates, we look down and not up. We focus on the trivial and ignore the profound.

I guess I should be grateful to the students, not annoyed. They illustrated something of which I’m often guilty. They may not have learned anything at their graduation, but I did. The speaker was good, too.

Proceed to the Route

As someone who always has his phone on silent, I was startled when I heard it speak to me as I entered the church. I had come to the funeral of a friend’s mom and used GPS to get me there. I forgot to turn it off when I arrived, so as I entered the sanctuary it said, “Proceed to the route.” The connection between the words and the purpose of the space I was entering was so obvious I had to laugh. As one who has always longed for God’s voice, I never imagined it coming in such a way.

The most meaningful way the spiritual journey has been described to me is as a journey. With a beginning and end, with twists and turns and up and downs, thinking of my walk of faith much like a walk up a mountain trail has helped me envision my life-long spiritual trek. As one who has climbed many mountain trails, I know how easy it is to lose one’s way. Sometimes the trail can become obscure or other trails can make the way confusing. No wonder we can so easily lose our way. Hopefully, we will realize our mistake and have the ability and willingness (not the same thing) to return to the proper trail, or as my phone reminded me, we proceed to the route.

I’m embarrassed how often I’ve lost my way. While each wrong turn has been unique, beneath them all is a common cause: self-centeredness. Self-centeredness wears a thousand masks, but its sole purpose is to get us off the spiritual path. Because I’m not very good at this spiritual stuff, I need to read a lot, consult countless “maps,” spend time with other travelers, and reflect each morning on the day’s journey. Still, I lose my way and need to proceed to the route over and over again. It’s never fun to admit you’ve lost your way, and it’s sometimes hard to summon the humility needed to turn around, but returning to the route is part of the spiritual journey, and I’m grateful for the grace that makes it possible.

We all in need to proceed to the route from time to time. Rather than bemoan the reasons why, I give thanks for the invitation to return, even if it comes from my phone.

Real Faith

I was a visitor. I didn’t know what to expect. I was excited to worship in a different church and followed the parishioners into the sanctuary. At the appropriate moment, the minister read the scripture then began his sermon. It was a flowery, theologically-loaded opening which went in one ear and out the other never getting close to my heart. Then he paused, looked up, and admitted his opening was not his at all. “It was artificially made,” he said, “an A.I. introduction.” From there, he proceeded to deliver a refreshingly real and memorable sermon. His point was about the difference between artificial faith and real, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since.

I was struck by the difference between his opening and the rest of the sermon. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was a difference between the manufactured part and the real part. One was grammatically perfect and theologically accurate but sounded like cardboard. The other was less articulate but sounded like bread.

On the way home, I thought about our lives of faith. Like the sermon, some are manufactured, others are real. There are those who seem to have pushed a button and can utter formulaic declarations of faith and are eager to teach you to do the same. Others struggle to put into words what they believe, but when they do, it’s sometimes messy and awkward . . . but at least it’s real. Their armor of faith, to use Paul’s image, is not shiny but dented.

It seems to me, God wants us to mean what we say and say what we mean, as the song goes, even if it’s not perfect. At least it’ll be real, and that’s what God cares about most.