The True Meaning of Christmas - BAH! HUMBUG!

The Christmas season is here.  You can tell because you spend money you don't have on things other people don't need.  You can drive around at night without your headlights on.  And of course, you're much busier than usual.  These are all signs that it's the Christmas season, 21st century style.

In observance of the season, it might be possible to cram in a church service, social service or Christmas show.  Maybe even all three.  Who needs sleep anyway, IT'S CHRISTMAS!  Each of these with varying degrees of success, will likely beckon you away from the frenzy at some point with whispers about "the true meaning of Christmas."  Its' good to console yourself with that thought as you're fighting for a parking spot outside the church you're trying to get into. 

Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol" will be on TV at multiple times for your viewing convenience.  My favorite version of this Christmas classic is, of course, "Scrooged." The story is about the intrinsic superiority of generosity over selfishness and greed.  There's a Christmas goose in it.  There's a mom too but as far as I know, no apple pie.

I'm not sure we needed convincing that avarice, greed and consuming self interest are not good as being...well...good, but Dickens and a few thousand other people over the intervening years since he wrote the novella have made an awful lot of filthy lucre telling us that's true so there must be something to it.
What is wildly ironic about this feel good spending/eating/doing frenzy is that it happens during Advent. I haven't observed the church calendar for most of my life but I've been paying it a little more attention to it over the last few years. Advent is a season of quiet.

Advent is the first season of the new church year.  It's purpose is to prepare us to receive the Christ child.  It was surprising to me to learn that Advent for about 2000 years, has been considered the second most penitential season on the church calendar after Lent.  And it's considered a pretty close second.  Virtually any discipline you'd pursue for Lent (fasting, silence, etc.) is considered fit for the Advent season.

The point of this deprivation is to make us a little less focused on ourselves and a little more focused on the one who created us and redeemed us.  Advent's been good for that up until the last 150 years or so.

All of this points to the fact that there is no "true meaning" to Christmas.  Christmas is not about meaning at all. It is about the incarnation of Christ, both on earth and in our lives.  He is good, generous, loving and kind, so Christmas has those attributes.  However, to celebrate those attributes without Christ is a bit like standing a good ways from the fire and expecting the smoke to keep you warm. 

There is I think there is a still deeper truth in Advent.  It's a truth buried deep in us.  We were wired for this season.  We were made for a time of slowing down and remembering the shepherds, the wise men and the star.  Something down very deep in us cries out for the still small voice we first heard in the moment we were spoken. 

And that's why, when Linus steps out into "A Charlie Brown Christmas" and recites Luke 2: 8-14 about the birth of Christ, there is a celebration of silence.  It's what we wanted all along.

Christmas is almost here, all 12 days of it.  The joy to come is easy to see from the place of quiet.

Long Time No See - Squirrel

It's been a while since I posted last.  All the usual suspects are responsible.  This includes all flavors of busy and a muse that likes to play hard to get.  A few people mentioned the absence. And yup, I noticed it too. 

There is one thing in particular that has contributed to my silence.  I've had a lot of partial thoughts, fragments, but nothing that of itself drove me to the keyboard.  Years ago, these would have become poems or maybe songs after being jotted down and revisited later.  Single thoughts, images that grab the eyes of mind or soul with enough power to slowly pull complimentary thoughts, one from the other.  (With apologies to Noyes and his "Highwayman," my own favorite poem/lyric of mine was composed while driving home past a foggy grave yard under full moon.  I never wrote it down.)

In response to the nothing, I've decided to do something.  Here's the something I'm going to do:  Anything.  Yes, I may even commit poetry at some point.  Don't tell the authorities. 

Following is one possible example of things to come:

 Item one, containing some rather blunt ideas:  Jesus isn't defined by who you want him to be, what your morals, desires and aspirations are at any given moment.  He's not swayed by things you think should be right or acceptable and pay close attention here, your sense of social justice.  Over the years, I've discovered that Jesus makes you very uncomfortable at times.  Physically, spiritually, socially, in every way.  His life passion and work is to fulfill himself and each one of us and to have each one of us fulfilled in him.  He's very very brave in that he's willing to endure and risk everything (and risk and risk and risk) to make that happen.  He doesn't need another street march, protest sign, FB meme, or Snopes patrol to finish his work.  On the cross, he has already leveraged the fulcrum of his intent.  We must choose each day to work with him to live out our lives with him, to in turn be moved by him, the lever of the spirit.

Item two, endurance:  My impression is that we usually think of endurance as gutting or grinding it out.  This is a misunderstanding.  You might gut out a meeting.  You might grind out a home work paper.  You don't gut out a roller coaster ride and holding down your stomach contents doesn't count for gutting it out...or in.  Never the less, you do endure it.  I get motion sick some.  I went to a go-cart type of recreation day  with work years ago.  I made myself nauseous driving as fast as I could.  Did I endure the nausea so I could have the fun?  Not really, they were both wound up together.  They were inseparable.  Endurance is more about picking an endpoint and pushing through to it regardless of interim consequences than it is toughing it out.

Item three, completely unrelated and completely related - rules:  These were (and the good ones still are) intended for our good rather than as a prescription of things to (not) do.  Man, do we get confused about this.  Following or not following rules isn't and never has been the salient point of life or Christianity.  Rules can be good boundaries.  However, they aren't the road and they certainly aren't the journey.  Rules can be very very important but they should not be confused with the core.  The key arguments about good evil are about the destination and the identity we want to own; that is, who we want to be when we grow up.  The journey is beautiful, terrible, humbling, fulfilling and filled with good and bad consequence.  It's amazing.  Rules are just rules, serving to show us where the road lies.

Item four, a child under a tree in Africa:  I don't remember whether she read it somewhere or came up with it on her own but my wife has a wonderful image she trots out from time to time that I find helpful.  In considering the goodness or badness of your circumstances or the circumstances of others, think about a child playing under a tree in an arid grassland in Africa.  The child is nearly naked, completely poor, at least a little hungry but still happy.  How valuable is that child?  How valuable is her life?  What will she grow up to be?  Is your circumstance better or worse than that child's?  If you have to consult your checking account to answer that question, you have your answer.  Now imagine that child unhappy, crying.  Same questions.  There's an awful lot here but certainly one component is this:  It has much more to do with the person we're considering and how we value them than it does with either their circumstances or ours. People are raging beautiful creations of the living God.  We're honored to be among them.  And they are honored to know us.

And finally, Squirrel:  As I write this, there is a squirrel on top of a telephone pole across the street.  He's been there about 20 minutes. It's a pole with no cross bar, just a vertical pole.  His head hangs over one side and his tail down the other.  Every now and then the wind catches is tail and blows it around a little.  I think the little beast is just relaxing and catching some sun.  Apparently, the squirrel FDA and/or OSHA has not informed him of the imminent hazard of squirrel sun bathing in a neighborhood where birds of prey live, not to mention fur burn from high tension wires. As I finished that last sentence, the squirrel climbed down off the pole, probably off to complete his many self-appointed tasks.  Miraculously, he successfully navigated his sun bath without being molested by those wishing him harm or by those wishing him safety.  He just carried on, largely oblivious to all.  It is a good day to be a squirrel.

Are We There Yet?

My mother (a single mom) learned to drive around the time I learned to talk.  She bought a used '55 Chevy a little bit before that.  A neighbor went with her to look over the car and drive her home.  He later taught her how to drive.  We started taking weekend trips and drive 'till you drop vacations almost immediately thereafter.

As we lived in the Los Angeles area (Huntington Park...not Beach), it was at least an hour in any direction to get out of town or for that matter to get to Huntington Beach.  If you are younger than 40 and don't have easy access to a Way Back Machine (Google "Mr. Peabody and Sherman"), you won't remember that cars didn't have more things then they actually had.  There were no FM radios (there was barely any FM), no clock, no power steering, the dash boards were made of steel and there were no seat belts.  On the up side, there was a rather primitive AM radio.  When you're 4 and you can't watch Star Wars on the iWhatever as you travel, just getting out of town in this context can be tedious.

There are 3 general directions to escape L.A.  All of them, depending on time of year, are hot.  Early on, our primary destinations were the Southern reaches of the Sierra.  This included Sequoia on the West side of the range and the Owens Valley/Mammoth Lakes area on the East.  (Mammoth didn't have a gondola in those days.  What is now the main street was a bad dirt road.)

I clearly remember the first time I said "Are we there yet?"  It was in the Owens Valley around Lone Pine.  It was hot as stink, the radio wouldn't get anything and we'd sung all the songs I knew a couple times.  Worst of all, it was too hot to nap.  I repeated it a few times, varying the theme a bit.  "Are we there yet?"  "Are we closer?"  "Will it be long?"

My mother was patient at first.  Gradually though, I wore her down.  She was hot and relatively miserable too.  Finally she snapped at me, telling me to not ask anymore under threat of spanking or being slapped in the face.  It immediately became clear to me that I'd come to the end of that particular line of inquiry.

As the years went by, through a combination of practice and maturing I learned how to tolerate and even enjoy the ride.  As we drove up the Owens Valley with the Sierras to the West and the White Mountains to the East, my mind would travel on the dirt tracks that vanished up into the valleys of those mountains.  In time, I learned to love the journey as much as I loved and enjoyed the destination.  Later on, we actually followed some of the less traveled roads into those mountains to lakes and forests that were only minutes away from US 395.

As I was adapting to travel, I had no idea that the experiences and lessons would apply to the whole scope of my life.  For example, my impatience usually gives way to resignation.  Eventually, my mind wanders off somewhere and I would forget all together the current moment of discomfort.  

There's a difference though.  The lessons of childhood usually have boundaries.  Our parents provide them.  Usually, our joys and our pains happen within the lines of what our parents provide for us.  Sometimes this is out of our control altogether and sometimes its even out of theirs.  Even so, as children we seem to always have a base level of comfort or hope derived from our parents even when they're broken and afraid themselves.

From any one moment, our adult lives stretch out before us as a plane of possibility that encompasses the totality of human experience, from fatigue to enthusiasm, from joy to terror, from fear to love.  Sometimes our steps are intentional.  Sometimes we stumble as if pushed from behind.  Sometimes we stagger under the weight of all we've imagined will soothe and protect us on our trip.  Sometimes in sadness or fatigue or both, we just lay down.  Even then though, the small steps intrinsic in each moment carry us forward to someplace that contains at least some part of our choosing.  We may or may not reach the destination of our choosing but we can never escape the journey.

The journey is a joyful thing...if the choice of joy is made.  If God is invited into as many moments as we can remember, as our eyes cast around for the thing of beauty that plays discord to the mundane background.

The journey is love...if need is admitted and forgiveness given freely if God is invited into to both our woundings and triumphs.

The journey is peace...if love and joy attend.

My mother introduced me to these ideas and modeled them.  She failed sometimes but always seemed to be able to be mostly upbeat, leaning into the joy and love offered in each moment.  Because of her, it was easier for me to see these things in God.  However, I've also learned this: the God of love and grace so far transcends any human expression of love and joy that any human model is never more than an introduction to the depth of all that God is.

So I sit in the passenger seat.  Some days it's an easy ride.  Some days the sun is hot, the air conditioning broken and the destination too far.  Even so, I count the shadows of phone poles racing by.  My eyes wander to the distant mountains and the dirt tracks that reach into them.  There must be lakes and coolness and water up there.  And then I realize, if there was no journey there would be no destination.  There would be no rushing shadows, sunrises or sunsets or imaginings of distant possibility.  It will be fun when we get there but the ride is beautiful.

A Voice in the Wilderness

Years ago on a trip to Wyoming, our family camped at Dinosaur National Monument.  We had a camp site on the edge of the Green River.  It was across from a sheer cliff that rose out of the water.  The geology was dramatic and unique and resulted in a near perfect echo.  Our boys who were something less than ten at the time were consumed by their new toy.  I remember them shouting at the wall and then waiting to hear their own voice returned to them in a way that technology can't hope to match.

When I was small, my mother took me hiking all over the Sierras and later in the Pacific Northwest as well as in Arizona and the Rockies.  Vacation was pretty much an excuse to live outdoors someplace beautiful.  From one of those early trips, I vaguely remember my first encounter with an echo.  It wasn't much as echoes go.  It was just a little rattle after a loud shout that didn't fit my expectation of how my shout should sound.  It gave me an excuse to make noise though and my mom used it to teach me about sound waves traveling though air.

Wilderness is very good at teaching us how loud the quiet can be and how easy it is to ignore the noise.  Eventually, you start to recognize the sounds of where you are and to reflexively sort the unique from the background. 

Listening and hearing are much harder to do in the day to day of going back and forth to work, maintaining social relationships and delivering children to the their destinations.  Often or even usually, some kind of audio media player is on, blaring noise that was designed to entertain us.  Kids in the car usually up the volume a little so the radio or whatever has to be dialed up some...or a lot.  And then of course, some one calls on your hands free phone.  At this point, if you are able to remember where you are, where you're going, who you're talking to and which of the miscreants in the back seat is responsible for the crying erupting from that vicinity, you may congratulate yourself on having successfully navigated the important skill of multitasking, crucial to existence in post modern society.  If you're familiar with this scenario you probably should make a note to add your mental health professional to your hands free speed dialing appliance.  Little details like that are what makes post modern life worthwhile.

This is all quite unwilderness like.  It isn't necessarily clear who to listen to or who to listen to most when everything makes claim to being our top priority. 

If though, as we move through Advent our goal is to slow down and listen for the presence of God in our lives, we can look to someone who lived in the wilderness to accomplish the same.  In this way we can pick out a bit more of the small voice that whispers, "The King is Coming."

John the Baptist was born a few months before Jesus.  When he began his ministry, he moved out of town to live under the stars, telling people about the coming of Christ.  Several New Testament books mention him and the historian Josephus mentions him as well.  He was pretty popular in his own right and time. For Advent, there are some things worth noting about John the Baptist and his wilderness ministry.

John didn't really have a message of his own.  His function was simple.  It was to announce that the world we live in and even our very lives if we would allow it, were about to change drastically for the better.  It is a "better" that transcends circumstance, even to the point of bodily existence.  It is so extreme that the only idea that can capture it is the concept of rebirth.  The day we are anticipating is the day of the beginning of the human manifestation of God that John was born to proclaim. 

John was outside the ebb and flow of society.  People had to go out of town and presumably out of their way to hear him.  To move toward understanding this season and the coming Epiphany, we're probably going to have to pull ourselves some distance from the river of activity that carries us through the Christmas season.  It's possible we might even get tired or a little sore from the trip.  Merry Christmas.  That particular soreness is part of the original message.

John had a pretty different diet. He ate locust and honey.  ("Would you like locust with your honey or honey with your locust?")  One of our children was in the military and at one point learned to eat bugs, including grass hoppers (locust wannabe).  There's a specific instruction or two that helps get them down, or at least helps them stay down.  Even so, it's worth nothing the dearth of locust based cuisine currently available.  John denied himself "real" food in order to focus himself and to bring focus to the imminent ministry of Christ.  Likely, this was a combination of aspiration and obedience rather than one or the other.  It might be worth messing with our diet here and there during Advent.  A walk along the beach with a growling stomach isn't living in the wilderness but if we let it, it can point us in that direction.  If we let it, it can whisper to us of the voice in the wilderness. 

John's message included a heavy dose of repentance; that is of desiring to change and of actually changing the direction of one's life.  This isn't a bad idea for any season but as we move through Advent to Epiphany it's worth remembering both what has been given and what we're asked to give.  I heard a Catholic priest a couple days ago saying that for 2000 years the only season more penitential than Advent is Lent.  As of yet, I haven't heard that repeated in any department store music tracks.  Since that's part of the season, we're going to have to spend some time in the wilderness of repentance to fully embrace Christmas.

If this doesn't sound like the usual dose of "God bless us everyone,"  well good.  There's plenty of that already and just maybe even that message would benefit all the more from a little wilderness.  Let's leave the furious activity behind for just a moment, step into the wilderness and listen to voice there, calling us to love, repentance and the coming King.     

Fasting Slowly

Modern Christmas has been modern for a while now.

The big lament in modern Christmas as evidenced by Christmas movies is usually that it's is too commercial, too fast paced and just too out of control to capture the "true meaning" it holds.  If we throw in newspaper articles and editorials, we have a history of at least a hundred of years of contrasting what Christmas has become as opposed to what it's supposed to be.  We love the idea; we just don't like living it out.  And yet year in and year out, we continue to celebrate it in the same way anyway.  I think this century old conundrum points to one of the "true meanings" of Christmas, namely hope.

Generally, we don't like denying ourselves much of anything.  (I suppose I didn't have to say "generally.")  At Christmas time, that affection for indulgence is elevated to religious importance.  I include in this definition of self indulgence, our seasonal generosity to our kids.  After all they're our kids and they need all the stuff, experiences and "joy of the season" we can inflict on them...probably.  As a result, we wind up doing all the really important seasonal things until we're exhausted and broke.  We mean well, nothing bu the best really.  Hiding under this all too often failing is another "true meaning" of Christmas.  This true meaning is about generosity of heart and spirit.  It is giving to the point of sacrifice.

We will also likely bend, break borrow and steal everything necessary to be with some component of our extended family.  I love my family and I love spending time with them.  I can't remember a Christmas season in which we didn't travel somewhere to be with someone; in some cases we have even traveled good distances on Christmas day.  I can honestly say that in every case this was, at least on balance, wonderful.  Never the less, it is tiring, can be expensive and can lead to the occasional uncomfortable moments that only those truly close to us can provide.  And here we run full into what is certainly the greatest of the "true meanings" of Christmas.  Love.

 At Christmas time, we're carried away from the hope, generosity and love of the reality of God and his love incarnate in the person of Christ, on a raging river of seasonal activity and expectation.  We can't change the fact of this unpleasant circumstance by riding the current.  We're going to have to do something about it...on purpose.

We can and probably should commit to slowing down some, paring back the activities and commitments.  However, just about any change in behavior can't be limited to subtraction.  Something has to be added back in place of the original offense.  We not only need to prepare for the stuff of Christmas, we need to prepare for what we are remembering.  And most of all, we need to prepare ourselves.

Redeemer Anglican church is intentionally preparing for Christmas in what might seem to be a counter intuitive way.  They offer a day a week fast, concluding by receiving the Eucharist.   The middle of the week (fasting day is Wednesday) becomes a speed bump, slowing us down and hopefully jarring us a little, returning us to the reason we're celebrating.  One day of the week, meals are left behind (yea verily, even very excellent Christmas candy) allowing the rumbling stomach to pull us back to the place where Christ lives as the center of our thought and prayer.  The place where unless all movies and articles do lie, we've always wanted to be.  While it might be counter intuitive, it never the less makes sense doesn't it?  After all, it's chasing after the Christmas for which we were created.

We're preparing one more time, to experience the hope, generosity, joy and love of the greatest gift ever given.  Praise God, Merry Christmas and "may God bless us, every one." 

Things that go Bump in the Night

We all have things we worry about.  If we don't, we worry about not having things to worry about.  Sometimes we worry about things that no one else would understand or believe.  It's probably easier though if we actually have universally accepted things about which we can worry.  Then we can just pony up and worry about them and no one questions our furrowed brows and raised shoulders.

A lot of times our worry will send us off to the web or even a bookstore to research worry, hoping to find help, self help.  We might pick up books on peace and contentment, we might pick up books on worry or we might even pick up both.  If we do pick up both, we worry about which one we should read first.  At some point in our self-help reading, we're likely to stumble over the pronouncement that worry is bad for us.  Then of course, we start worrying about worrying about worry.

The universally recognized worst time (or best if you're a fan of worry) for worry is the middle of the night.  Something brings you awake and suddenly, almost reflexively the pressing problem du jour is the only and biggest thing in the world.  This might be the result of hormones or dreams or even a spiritual attack.  It really doesn't matter because regardless of how big or real or small or irrelevant the issue might actually be, the worry is very real, heart attack real.

Over the years I've tried all manner of responses to this sort of worry.  I've had varying degrees of succes, well actually failure I guess, with everything from watching TV, reading, praying and thinking about fun things.  What's interesting is that for all that might be wrong with worry it has one huge characteristic that makes it unique in it's strength and purity. Namely, it's as persistent as hell, literally. 

Lately I've added a Catholic radio station to my car radio buttons.  In the mornings they play a segment in which the Lord's Prayer (the Our Father in Catholic parlance) and the Hail Mary are recited over and over.  I've heard this practice demeaned a good bit over the years by well meaning people who imagine that because something is repeated that it's necessarily done mindlessly or even soullessly.  That's probably not true.  For myself, I've decided that it's probably a bad idea to criticize people for praying scripture, even if they repeat themselves in profound violation of our tastes. 

I've spent the last year adding a substantial component of rhytmic practice to my life with Christ.  This centers around the church calendar and the Anglican Liturgy.  (Liturgy used to be something I'd worry about.  To wit: Is it right?  Is it boring?  Is it hip(ster) enough?  When I realized it's about 85% scripture, I stopped worrying.  I wouldn't apply those standards to scripture, so why worry about it?)  

Some place in all this, I was reminded of something I was taught decades ago but had long forgotten.  Namely, the Psalms aren't just another book of the bible.  The Psalms are a book of prayers. They were the  prayers of an ancient people. A people who loved God.  These are prayers born from the total spectrum of human emotion including joy, desperation and even loathing. They were written to be repeated. They are passionate, beautiful, fierce and frightening.  I heard Dallas Willard make an off hand statement once to effect that if you want to understand the heart of God, pray and meditate on the Psalms. Yes; I do think so.

These days when I wake up in the middle of the night and the real or imagined crisis of the day threatens to rob me of sleep, one thing comes to mind.  "The Lord is my shepherd.  I shall not want..."  It seems that the 23rd Psalm is where worry goes to die.  "...He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters..." And many nights I can't even remember the entire Psalm or get the order right.  But I don't worry about it.  "...He restoreth my soul:..."  The night noises both outside and inside my head might seem more real for the deep dark of the late night but so does the peace and completion of salvation. "he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake..."  And if you aren't yet asleep, here's the rest of it:

4     Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil: for thou art with me;
thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
5     Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:
thou anointest my head with oil;
my cup runneth over.
6     Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:
and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.

Good night. Sleep well.

Of Roller Coasters and Have You Seen My Keys?

Wouldn't you think you'd get better at most everything over the course of your life? 

After living a half century I think by now I should be over losing things.  Whether it's socks, shoes, keys or whatever the critical component of getting out the door is, it seems like I ought to have mastered it by now.  However, while I have generally gotten better at putting things where they go and reaping all the benefits that implies, somehow life always seems to object to my organizational aspirations. 

When something new gets added to my schedule, particularly something that requires me to carry a new piece of hardware out the door in the morning, the apples all seem to spill from the organization cart.  When I focus intently on the new thing, then my old routine suffers. 

About a month ago, I locked myself out of the house.  I had a new thing to take with me that day.  I had the thing in my hand but as a result had forgotten to check my pockets to make sure I had my keys.  We have a contingency at our house for this sort of error.  Since I hadn't used it for years (the good news), I wasn't altogether clear on where all the parts were.  Eventually I found them.  Of course I was late to my appointment...revealing my disorganization.

I'm finding it clearer than ever that time doesn't offer any guarantee of improvement.  If you're like me, you're probably thinking something profound right now, like "DUH."  However, consider how you think about the future.  You assume your kids will get older, better, nicer.  You assume your financial situation will improve.  You assume your health will either remain as it is or you'll get everything fixed in short order.  This is a very short list when compared against the real possibilities and yet look at all the potential for derailment.

Here are some contrary and ugly realities to consider.  Over the next few years, you and people you love are going to experience varying degrees of sickness.  Over the same period, you or your spouse will likely incur a financial set back.  Then there's the kids... The possibilities here are almost endless.  However, since I don't want you to think I'm trying to get even with you because you dismissively said "DUH" earlier, I'll stop.  You can fill in your own gaps if you like.  Just be advised though, the word for that is called "worry" and it is seldom helpful.

When we think positive thoughts about the future, we usually refer to those kind of thoughts as hopeful or optimistic.  Hope and optimism are good and helpful.  However, they can quite often fall prey to the bad things that eventually come to all flesh.  Then of course, we resort to worry.  Over time, if we're really dedicated to "doing better," we wrap ourselves around optimism and hope.  Eventually, something or even a few somethings positive happen.  Then we go back to assuming that good things will always follow.  Wash, rinse, repeat. 

This idea is not new.  The earliest developed version I know of is found in the biblical book, Ecclesiastes.  In fact, entire systems of thought and value have been built on this conundrum.  I would add that so has much of Western Civilization.  We assume that more information has made us smarter and better able to handle life.  While I do think information and learning has improved our physical lot considerably, I think we might actually handle the business of living not quite as well as we have in times past. 

I think the fallacies in this construct are found in focusing on the wrong things and looking too far ahead; all this driven by the vain imagining that all those "things" are out there (i.e. separated from us).   The truth is this, while you might make small and/or temporary differences in what's going to happen next through carefully made plans, tomorrow is going to take care of itself with or without you, one way or another. 

The worst part is that the pessimistic/optimistic construct hides the beautiful truth at the center of it all.  You.  You're not detached from the roller coaster.  You're on it.  You're not the tracks, the wheels or the cart but you are definitely riding, hanging on and leaning into every turn.  And even more, you're the reason the ride is there at all. You can't hide from it, control more than your own place or jump off.  As long as your alive, you ride.  And by the way, we are only given as much control of the ride in any moment as God allows.

Sometimes I ask for changes in the ride.  Sometimes they are granted.  However, even then it's not my will being done.  It's someone else adjusting there's to mine even as I work to adjust mine to theirs. 

I am slowly learning to go with the ride God gave me and to see his reality in all of the roller coaster.  It goes up and down and makes stupid, wild turns.  It goes really fast sometimes and sometimes it's just the clunk clunk clunk up the long grade.  The g-force, turn angle and even the speed don't matter.  Still, how I engage it all counts for everything.

Now you'll have to excuse me.  I have to go find my keys.