Let me know my end, Lord. How many days do I have left? I want to know how brief my time is. (Psalm 39:4 CEB
Stop wasting time. Your earthly life is finite, its end both inevitable and unpredictable. Don’t use your limited time poorly.
I get it.
You’re productive. You don’t waste your time. You’re important and always do important things. Continue reading »
“Therefore, to keep me from being too elated, a thorn was given me in the flesh, a messenger of Satan to torment me, to keep me from being too elated.”
Saint Paul, who cannot be accused of overabundant elation, in 2 Corinthians 12:7
I love him, but Saint Paul has always come across to me as a bit of a grump. I admit I could be biased. Or maybe I just have read Galatians a few times. I firmly believe he is a saint, but he hardly strikes me as a ray of sunshine walking into each room he entered. While contemporary pop culture idealises, and a bit idolises, the cheery disposition (c.f. Joel Osteen’s permasmile).
Saint Paul was a Holy crank. And for good reason. God, Saint Paul tells us, either gave or allowed Satan to give him a “thorn” “in the flesh.” Continue reading »
I used to be Mormon, or Latter-day Saint, as we sometimes preferred to call ourselves. And while religion is not entirely quantifiable, I tried to be very Mormon. I had a convert’s zeal instead of pioneer ancestors, and there was plenty of social pressure to overcompensate. I would be rebellious against Mormon cultural norms that were not official (or at least not enforced) doctrine: I’d wear blue dress shirts to church or sport a beard or vote Democrat or be a vegetarian; but when it came to the rules and the expectations, I “knew” Mormonism was “true” and I was trying to “endure to the end”–to use the cultural lingo.
I served as a missionary to San Diego. I accepted and loved my callings (assigned, never requested, church responsibilities). I spent two of the happiest summers of my life working for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints youth conference programme, EFY. I married a fellow EFY counsellor in the Newport Beach Temple. I worked for the seminaries and institutes. I was as all in as I knew how to be. I said my daily prayers. I read the Book of Mormon. I wore my temple garments day and night. I kept the Word of Wisdom (Mormon prohibitions on alcohol, tobacco, coffee, tea, and maybe, but probably, not caffeinated soda pop; I erred on the side of safety). I paid my often impoverished tithing. I obeyed the law of chastity. I went to the temple at least monthly.
In the depths of my devotion, I, like so many Mormons, saw those who left the church as less valiant, perhaps easily offended or perhaps morally weak or perhaps exhausted from righteousness. In Mormonism, there seem to be two colossal failures one can achieve: divorce and apostasy. I had already committed suburbia’s greatest failing–dropping out of high school, so I had to double down and get these right. No matter what. Continue reading »
Last week, I drove from Québec to Connecticut. It is something I do fairly often, and one of the joys of that five-to-six-hour-journey is that I have to stop and explain why to a federal agent with a gun.
“What is the purpose of your trip?”
“I am visiting two friends.”
“When are you coming back?”
“You’re driving all that way just to be with these friends for an afternoon? Is one of them a girlfriend?”
“They are both women, but no.”
“But you must be hoping for something to happen there to drive so long…” Customs agent creepily winks…
Our culture so desperately undervalues friendship and overvalues sex that my ability to freely and quickly cross the American-Canadian border depends on my playing along. Act like getting laid is my number one motivation in life, and there’s nothing suspicious. Explain, “No, actually, I just enjoy long drives and profoundly value talking with and being with people with whom I share common interests,” and get delayed. Our border guards recommend travellers to secondary inspections for being suspiciously chaste: that is the sexually-charged culture we live in. Young men who aren’t horny must be hiding something. Search the car. Continue reading »