The Manner To Which We Are Accustomed

Yesterday, as my ten-year-old came home from school, I watched him scamper past the front door and around to the carport.  He knew our van was in the shop, and that meant there would be a different car in the driveway.  And he, unlike my big guy, shares his dad's mostly unrequited love of cars.  A new car, a different car, well, that's something.

I watched him circle it.  I watched him smile and mutter something to himself and shake his head.  Then he burst through the side door, and with a tone of mocking exasperation, he proclaimed: 

"DAA-AAAD!  You got a COBALT?  A COBALT?"

Which I did.   A two-thousand-and-whatever Chevy Cobalt LT, as bland and nondescript a vehicle as can be imagined, the archetypal rental car.  It was red, which is just about the only thing even vaguely interesting about it.  It was permeated with that rental car smell, which I think comes from having someone apply a milliliter of cigarette-and-stress-sweat infusion to the carpets every other week.  The fabric of the seats was rough and ugly, the plastic hard and cheap and ill-fitting.   My boys, used now to the technological doodaddery of our Prius and the La-Z-Boy comforts of our aging but functional minivan, both observed this lowliest of cars with complete disdain.

It's a sad little car.  But I have a long memory, my memory of cars goes easily back to when I was ten.

Back in the halycon days of 1979, if you were the mack daddy, the J.R. Ewing oozing petrodollars across eight lanes of Texas oilscape blacktop, you'd be rolling up to the pah-tay in a shiny new red Cadillac El Dorado Biarritz.  It'd have set you back $16 grand, and those were 1979 dollars.

So...let's look at these two cars side by side.  Both are red.  Both likely smell like tobacco smoke.  The Caddy puts 170 horse to the ground, as opposed to the 125-ish of the Cobalt, but performance is essentially the same given the Caddy's considerable mass.  The El Dorado is quieter, but the Cobalt handles better, and has more interior room.  Both have the full suite of 1979 luxury must haves.  Dimming internal lights.  Power windows/locks/mirrors.  The Caddy has better seats, great pillowy things.  The Cobalt comes right back with four convenient cupholders, of which the Caddy has exactly none.  The El Dorado is arguably better looking, although much less sleek.  But then the Cobalt has a sound system that blows the Caddy's eight-track out of the water.

By pretty much every 1979 standard, the Cobalt is a luxury car.  Yeah, a bit noisy and not terribly well put together...but back in the late 70's, the only thing Americans could successfully put together was our feathered back hair.  Ten year old me would have been impressed.

We are strangely oblivious to how much we have.  Our culture serves up a cornucopia of riches, surrounding us with luxuries that would be mindblowing a generation ago, and the realm of science fiction the generation before that.   Even our humblest things would have been the reserve of the wealthy and the spoiled and the elite.

And yet we are never satisfied, never happy.  Am I alone in feeling this isn't a good thing?

Glo and the Word

That I have the title "Pastor" means that I am a fat tasty demographic target for products and services targeted to Jesus people. Whenever a new Vacation Bible School or seminar or Big Venue Revival comes churning out of the factories of AmeriChrist, Inc., I'm on their list to get a heads up. Promotional materials and glossy brochures show up on my desk regularly.

Most I just ignore and drop into my recycling bin, from whence they are removed, transported to an industrial facility, pulped, reconstituted into paper, sold, printed upon, and transported back to my mail box, from where they are put right back into the recycling. It's sorta like the Circle of Life, only with less blood and considerably less purpose.

Sometimes, though, a new Jesus product strikes my eye. That thing is the new Glo Bible. What is striking about this AmeriChrist offering is just how intensely awesome the buzz around it is. It isn't just appearing in my in-box. I've read articles about it in the Washington Post. Fast Company, the ne plus ultra outlet of corporate hipness, featured it. It's a big deal, by any product standard.

The purpose of the Glo Bible is, according to its creators, to make the Bible accessible to a generation that doesn't like paper. Or, for that matter, anything that is just text. It's computer-based and "multimedia," meaning the text is supplemented by a vast array of images and videos, all in HD. Having reviewed their extensive promotional material, I have both positive and negative reactions.

First, the positive. Glo has a crazy awesome interface. It's as slickity slick as they come. It seems intuitive, elegantly designed, and bustin' chock full of shiny shiny goodness. Seamless transitions between menus and texts are brilliantly presented and animated. Videos and images and walkthroughs are seriously purty. The whole package glistens and sparkles. I've used online Bibles and computer based Bible software packages since the dawn of the computer era, and this is far and away the most impressive eye candy e-Bible I've yet seen. Of course, you need a high-end computer to run it, but we Jesus people are always willing to plunk down another 1,500 bucks to really explore God's Word.

But it ain't just a pretty face. It's an NIV, meaning the translation has integrity. It's got what appear to be lay-accessible but well-crafted study guides. It's got a vast array of "helps," including the capacity to pitch out scriptures that match your mood for the day. It tracks everything you read, every response you have, charting your spiritual progress. It feels very practical. Very efficient.

Now, to the flip side. Honestly, something about it feels spiritually off. In one of the elegantly produced promo videos, a soothing, non-threatening woman's voice describes the intuitive navigation through Glo. It is, she hums, so very easy to explore content in the product. The words "exploring content in the product" just...well...they stick in my craw.

I know, I know. They're just trying to sound corporate-cutting-edge. Very professional. Very businesslike. Very competent. But that sort of terminology has pretty much nothing to do with the way that the Bible needs to be experienced if we're using it the way it is intended. The Bible is a collection of ancient stories that illuminate our experience of God. They are a sacred narrative, a story in which we participate and through which we are transformed. When we begin to think of our interactions with those texts as interactions with "content" and "product," something is badly wrong.

I also struggle with the way in which Glo is structured. It is what it promises to be. It's a Bible that is radically in step with our culture. Finding the heart of Christ in the Bible is like being changed by the hearing of a story told by a master storyteller. You have to learn to sit still. To listen. To reflect. To think.

But Glo encourages flitting across the surface of the text, reading a verse here that responds to a key-word, and then looking at a picture, and then watching a bit of video, and then flitting back again to another verse. While it could be a useful tool in the hands of the spiritually mature, it panders to low-attention span Christianity. Rather than encouraging patience, and developing a mindset that is open to taking time with a text, it could easily serve up more of the churning, endlessly distracted, click-and-scroll busyness that is the enemy of contemplation and reflection and spiritual growth.

Glo is, without question, what we want. But I am not at all sure it is what we need.

Should you get Glo? Maybe. It's certainly an amazing product, made by some really creative people. It is certainly cool. It might be fun to play with. Assuming, of course, you don't use a Mac, 'cause it ain't Mac compatible.

Ah well. Guess I'm out of luck.

The Enemy of Capitalism

With the arrival of the new iPhone, I find myself musing about whether or not I should get one. Yeah, it's got a better screen. And two cameras. And video chat, albeit only iPhone to iPhone and only on WiFi. It's pretty cool.

On the other hand, there's nothing wrong with my current iPhone. Which is also my third iPhone, after my first had a cybernetic aneurysm and my second picked a fight with the tile floor in my kitchen. I really and truly don't need anything other than the phone I have. I find myself thinking that way about a whole bunch of the objects I use.

My eight-year old Honda minivan, for example. It's got around 90,000 miles on the clock. It's got a few dings in it. But it still fits our family plus three. It still carries around a crazy amount of stuff. It's not as efficient as I'd like, but it's just as practical today as it was back in 2002 when it rolled off a factory line in Ohio. It was wonderfully designed and engineered, and I will, after cleaning and vacuuming it out, sometimes just marvel at what an amazing job folks did creating something so useful. It's also comfortable, riding smoother and quieter than the shiniest new Coupe DeVille that ever sat on a dealer's lot when I was a kid. I have no need for anything better.

Then there's my motorcycle. It's ten years old. It's got about 38,000 miles on it, which is a whole bunch for a sportbike. It is, shall we say, "cosmetically imperfect," at least as much so as the guy who rides it. It's reaching the point where it can be accurately described as a ratbike. In a brief fit of madness earlier this year, I thought I might be rid of it. But then I rode it again, on a beautiful Spring day. As air snarled through the intake, and the bike sprang forward, I realized that in every way, it meets my motorized two-wheeled transportation needs. I do not need to replace it. More importantly, I have no desire to replace it.

Our house? Much the same. I am content with it. While there are always things that need to be replaced, and things that can be improved upon, I find that with most of the things in my life, I am content with what I have so long as it works.

I fear that might make me dangerous. Lingering contentment, a pervasive sense of being at peace, and quiet, lasting happiness are the enemies of global capitalism.

I Have Had Enough

Although things seem to be turning around a tick, I find myself wondering if I am responsible for the recent economic downturn. Not me personally, mind you. But my attitude towards both money and possessions.

It isn't that I don't like stuff. Stuff is cool. I enjoy stuff. But I seem congenitally incapable of wanting things that are somehow better than the things I already have. Take motorcycles, for instance. I ride a 2000 Yamaha YZF600R. It's a bit aged, and looks more and more like a Mad Max ratbike as the years slip by. But when I bought it used a few years back, it was only after very carefully considering everything I was looking for in a bike. Fast? Check. Decent looking? Check. Fuel efficient? Very. Comfortable? Reasonably. It has a touring range that puts big touring Beemers and Gold Wings to shame...I've seen over 300 miles on a single tank. It's exactly the bike I wanted. And it still is. New bikes are appealing in the abstract, but there really is no reason to get one so long as my current ride is still running well.

So I fail an entire industry.

Or take our van. It's a seven year old Honda, again bought used. Though it's starting to show it's age, I still marvel at just how thoroughly it meets our needs. So I fail the struggling automotive industry. Or our house, which is a rumpled little hobbit-hole rambler built back in the early 60s. Sure, things need to be fixed and replaced...but it's not a starter home. It's plenty of space for the four of us. It always will be. We just don't need or want anything more, and so I fail the housing industry.

And I fail at that task willfully. Joyously, even.

Yesterday during my walking meditation, right before things got intense, the Hebrew word dayenu fluttered down and alighted in my consciousness.

It's a part of the Passover celebration, and is typically recited as a way of giving thanks for all of God's blessings. It means, roughly, "it would have been enough." During the Passover meal, that term is said over and over again, as the participants give thanks for each of the ways in which Israel was delivered from slavery. Each of them alone is enough to merit joy and thanksgiving, even if none of the rest of them had occurred. It is an expression of basic satisfaction.

Dayenu is, I think, the greatest enemy of consumer culture. Having that as one's attitude towards the life in which we find ourselves is a liberation the endless grasping acquisitiveness of our society. It is a counterbalance against that gnawing, desperate sense that we are not good enough, or smart enough, or rich enough, or pretty enough, and that we must constantly struggle with one another to prove our worth.

This is a particularly useful thing for a pastor to grasp. So what if my church doesn't seat 4,500 in each of our five Sunday services? So what if I'm flagrantly imperfect? For those ways my church is a joy, and for the ways I am able to make a difference, it is better not to fret and anguish and scheme. It's better to just say, dayenu, and let that attitude of gratefulness define all else.