Possessed by Truth
Taken from The Huffington Post
I am in seat 23 E on a flight from San Diego to Dallas. It's a middle seat. I'm trying to remain composed and tranquil; I am failing. As far as I can tell the baby behind me feels about the same way I do. I thumb through the airline magazine (my regular watering hole for current events), until I start to wonder what viscous substance stuck the pages of the magazine together in the first place. I put the magazine back, stretch into the seat, and rub a sore neck.
Out of nowhere, I am struck by a thought. A thought that has boundless implications. A thought that feels more important than the seat belt/life-vest exhibition. So I write the idea on the back of my hand:
"Maybe truth is not something that I can possess. Maybe truth is something which possesses me."
I look at the words now scrawled on the back of my hand. I think it over and look away. The clouds are turning colors, blue, grey, green, purple. The sun is setting off somewhere behind me. It's my favorite time of day. I look back at my hand and read the idea again.
"Maybe truth is something which possesses me."
To be possessed by truth rather than the other way round is a thought that goes against much of what I have been taught. In fact, most of my education has been presented as a growing accumulation of truth. Throughout public school, I was graded on my comprehension of the facts. The higher grades were awarded to those who really owned the material.
The idea that truth has no owner turns the whole arrangement on its head. Maybe the straight-A students were the ones who surrendered to the system. Maybe they became servants and allowed the information to become their master, devoting countless hours of study to prove their devotion. Perhaps I was too devoted to other things in high school; I was possessed by the Pacific, going surfing whenever I could. I would never say that I owned the ocean, but I would certainly say that the ocean owned me. I surrendered to its call and resisted the truth that high school had to offer.
We now have more information than thousands of years of humanity could ever dream of. Without any effort at all, we could know the weather anywhere around the world, the population of Taiwan, or the first lady's middle name (I'm going to look it up as soon as I get off the flight). With this sort of data at our fingertips, we truly possess more facts than past civilizations would ever hope for. And yet, the meaning of it all is just as elusive as ever. I'm still sitting on a plane unsure as to whether the middle seat is occupying me or the other way round.
The idea spins around in my head -- so I look to folks that are smarter than me. I turn my thoughts to Sir Isaac Newton and the physical law most commonly associated with his name: gravity. The basic idea of gravitational pull is simple to understand -- a clumsy step on the stairs could prove Newton right. And yet this awkward fall does not prove that I am now the proud owner of gravity. No, quite the opposite. I might have a bruise or worse to call my own, but gravity certainly possesses me. I am under the dominion of the truth of gravity whether I fully understand the law or not.
I look out at the fading hills and imagine someone driving home from work. He's going bald quicker than he thinks. He just bought himself a car that screams one thing: MiddleAgeCrisisSportsCar. He begins the drive he takes home from work everyday. The traffic lights, the cars around him, the flat tire...these are all facts that he encounters on the way home; this is the data that he is responding to. He is under the influence of the facts around him. It's not determinism; free will is still involved. And yet, rarely will he choose to ignore a red light or slam into the car next to him. He does not possess the facts, the facts possess him and he drives accordingly.
Our market economy is fueled by ownership. The water we drink, the land that we live on, even our ideas are referred to as intellectual property as our world becomes homogenized into merchandise. These products are to be bought or sold -- anyone's private possession for the right price. But from time to time we ask the question: Who owns who? Is the MiddleAgeCrisisSportsCar the possession of a man who's losing his hair? Or is our balding friend possessed by his MiddleAgeCrisisSportsCar? Does he give the car her identity, or does the MiddleAgeCrisisSportsCar with her sleek lines and bright red paint lend the gentleman her personality for a brief moment of remembered youth?
Yes, our possessions possess us far more than we'd like to admit. And yet, even in our capitalist culture, we don't think of our friends or family this way. Outside of the greek life at college, most relationships have nothing to do with money changing hands. Yes, you may possess friends, but you would never call these friends your possession. When we fall in love we fall under the spell of another. You might say that your buddy is whipped, "He is possessed. She owns him." The truth of the one you love is most certainly something that possesses you and not the other way round.
I come up for air as the lady next to me, in 23 F is rubbing the perfume from the magazine onto her wrists. Smelling her wrists. Then repeating. She is trying to keep the fragrance with her, to possess the essence of the advertisement. I feel a sneeze coming on. Yes. Here it comes. For a brief moment there, I possessed a sneeze. No, actually I think the sneeze possessed me.
The stewardess hands me my orange juice. She sees the writing on the back of my hand and throws me a Sarah Palin comment. Dang it. Chris Martin disclaimers were hard enough. I explain that I've been writing things on my hands for a long time. There, good. At least we have an understanding. Now she has the truth. I look back at my hand, even writing this particular truth down on the back of my hand is a reason to think: Do I now have possession of this truth, owning its understanding or am I now temporarily tattooed with this truth, subservient to its reality?
My thoughts drift to religion. These are the truths that people live by and hold dear. In many ways, these are the truths that inspire our best and worst moments. The truths that motivate Mother Theresa and start religious wars. How can this be? How can fresh water and salt water come from the same hose? Perhaps it has to do with this concept of possession. If I view the truth as my possession to keep safe, I might feel the need to protect my faith. But if I am possessed by the truth, perhaps this protection is no longer needed. Maybe I am set free from the need to defend the truth, rather the truth defends me.
The idea of defending an all-powerful deity feels a bit silly when it's put out in the wind like that. And yet, that sentiment seems to epitomize much of what religion has come to mean. After centuries of witch-hunts, inquisitions and holy wars, many are still fighting hard to defend their faith in an omnipotent God who has no need of our protection. Maybe we are still protecting our beliefs as though we were the owners of this truth.
If our faith is to be more than just a lit match in the powder-keg of differing beliefs, what role does religion play in our modern world? What would it mean to be possessed by truth rather than simply the proud owner of a particular denomination? Maybe we could start with the common ground that we all can call truth. In all of the major religions of the world I find the call to protect the less fortunate.
From the Torah:
"Learn to do right! Seek justice, encourage the oppressed. Defend the cause of the fatherless, plead the case of the widow."
Isaiah 1:17
From the Koran:
"Spend of your substance, out of love for Him, for your kin, for orphans, for the needy, for the wayfarer, for those who ask, for the ransom of slaves, to be steadfast in prayer and to practice regular charity."
83. Section 10
From the New Testament:
"Pure and genuine religion in the sight of God the Father means caring for orphans and widows in their distress and refusing to let the world corrupt you."
James 1:27
From Buddha:
"A generous heart, kind speech, and a life of service and compassion are the things which renew humanity."
The "truth" of loving those around me, the "truth" of seeking justice for the oppressed, the "truth" of a life of service -- these are truths to be possessed by: to be a slave in the service of the kingdom of the heavens, to be the servant of all. If the truths in this life have no owner then we are set free: free from the need to defend the truth, free to be possessed by this truth and simply live it out. Truth becomes much too large for me to possess; truth is the beauty and authenticity which possesses me.
Maybe the meaning of life is not something that I can control, but rather a reality which possesses me. Maybe there is no life guiding "fact" that I can put in my back pocket, as though I were the sole owner of the universe. Perhaps The-Meaning-of-Life-Himself is asking me the questions. When I look at a sunset, when I hear the songs of the ocean gulls, when I feel the warmth of family and friends, I am reminded of a story that is bigger than I am. Yes, this is my story but not mine alone. Truth was never mine alone. Truth is that which possesses me.
Oh and for the record, it's Michelle LaVaughn Obama. But I think that I might have already known that...
What's In A Word?
Taken from The Huffington Post
Communication is a pregnancy of sorts. In a speaker's mind, a thought is conceived, then spoken, heard, and then ultimately gives birth to new thought in the listener's mental landscape. For example, when I say "tree," a picture builds in your imagination, a new life-form within your mind; a platonic idea of oak or maple appears out of nothing within your thoughts. This mental icon represents your understanding of the word. (Incidentally, this apprehension is independent of the speaker's intentions).
In many ways, words are metaphors pointing to the objects they represent. The word "tree" is not a tree; it is simply a placeholder for the real thing. Our understanding of the world is built upon a deeper set of presuppositions. Meaning demands meaning. Reason demands reason: 1+1=2, only when we agree upon the meaning of these symbols. The same is true for words. Words are our framework of meaning. Every one is a metaphor reaching to something beyond it's simple spelling and articulation.
Words have incredible power. Words create worlds. The words we use define ourselves and the world around us. They shape our reality. Our words determine our ideologies.
In India there is a group of people who have been oppressed for over 3000 years. They are called the Dalit. They are relegated to the worst jobs, cleaning sewers and removing the bodies of dead animals from the roads. Even the cows, whose bodies they clean from the side of the road, are treated with far more respect. Over the coarse of time, the identity of the Dalit people group, (also called the "untouchables"), has been stripped of all dignity. "They have been oppressed not just economically or even physically, but also ideologically," states Jean- Luc Racine and Josiane Racine, who goes on to say that ultimate freedom will come when the Dalit's define themselves in a new way. According to the Racines the question becomes, "Which new identity will sustain the emancipation process?"¹
Words are the keepers of history. If the Dalit's handle of "untouchability" feels too foreign to our American ears, let us examine a few race-driven words within our own borders. These are words that I feel uncomfortable even putting into print. Nigger. Wetback. Red Neck. Cracker. Chinks. Spicks. These words are pregnant with incredible potency. These words do not have a history of tolerance, of acceptance, or compassion. No, these words tell the story of oppression -- of an American landscape of racism and mistrust. Without our past, these words have no negative connotations. Yet within our historical landscape of slavery and shame, these words have powerful implications.
Words are the foundation upon which we build our lives. This holds true even for wonderful words like Love, Light, Justice, Honor, Truth, Joy, Peace, Redemption, Happiness, or Beauty. These are beautiful words, yet they are words we know only in part.
We've seen glimpses of these entities on our planet, but only for a moment. How can we know the full meaning of justice on a planet where cruel power has the final say? How can we know peace against the backdrop of increasingly sophisticated war machines?
Today, thousands of six-year-olds around the world are hungry, wondering how they will get their next meal. Tragedy. Right now, thousands of innocent girls are being forced into prostitution. Tragedy. This very hour, millions of people are dying because of a lack of access to clean water. Tragedy.
Tragedy. Tragedy. Tragedy. And yet, if these are the simple facts, how can we call it tragic?
Hans Urs von Balthasar says that tragedy is dependent upon a belief system. "The meeting of these two words,'tragedy' and 'faith' is deeply significant, for what is broken in the tragic presupposes a faith in the unbroken totality."² Hope is believing in a world that does not exist yet, a concession towards the kingdom of the heavens. To hope is to believe that life could be better. It is ultimately our belief in this "unbroken totality" that allows for the potential of tragedy. For without this hope, tragedy is no longer tragedy -- it's simply expected. Without a belief that allows for a better world, the tragic is fact.
So we are given a choice at the edge of these two worlds. The choice between despair or hope. To be in despair is to deny that tragedy is tragedy. To be in despair is to disbelieve in the tragic and redefine it as acceptable, immutable, unchangeable. To hope is to call injustices and corruptions exactly what they are: tragic. Against all odds, against all that we know about this world, we could choose to hope for a better one -- to hope for love, for peace, for a form of contentment and solace that we have never fully realized. We choose to speak these worlds into being.
To create is to cosign the Maker's checks. In the Abrahamic beliefs, (Judaism, Christianity, and Islam) the Maker speaks things into existence. Light, darkness, day, night, water, land, plants and animals... these are spoken into being. In the Hindu scriptures, there is a similar creation story, in which the verbal command comes from Vishnu, "Create the world." In all of these belief systems, the Word has tremendous power. The Christian account of the creation makes virtually no distinction between God and Word in the beginning. John 1:1 states, "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God."
The artist is a bridge between despair and hope. The artist, more than anyone else is responsible for the re-creation, re-definition and re-thinking the world around us. Every poem, every song, every painting has tremendous possibility. Each of these creations could be a letter of resignation to The World That Is or a window into The World That Is Not. Each poem/painting/song could be a vehicle to a new reality, one in which the artist plays a part no matter how small. The artist paints a world into existence. The canvas, the paint, the brush--these known quantities of existence and reality are tools for stepping into the unknown. The notes of the song are a bridge from what is to what is not yet.
I don't write songs when I'm happy. When I'm content, I take my wife out to dinner, I go surfing. I hang out with my friends and play ridiculous cover tunes when I'm happy. But when I'm depressed, I turn to look for something beyond this life. When I'm lonely and nothing makes sense and the world has lost it's flavor I search for notes and words that usher in a transcendence that soars high above the tragedy. I look for to song to understand the present tragedy in the context of a hope for a better world. I look for words that remind me of a bigger story, for songs that acknowledge the tragedy and move beyond it. I look to artists who give me windows, words that provide for a new life to be birthed within me.
Is it escape? Is it a coping mechanism? Maybe a bit, but I feel that it is much more than that. The song becomes a hopeful defiance. A declaration that the injustices and absurdities of our postmodern existence are not the final downbeat. Music becomes a confession of disbelief in the world that surrounds me. A refusal to believe that these tragedies and horrors are the ultimate end. A refusal to accept the oppression of the Dalit's as anything other than tragic. A nonacceptance that the starving six year old is anything other than tragic. The song is written in defense of a world beyond this one, in defense of Truths that seldom make it to the front page of the newspaper. Words create worlds.
¹ Dalit Identities and The Dialectics of Oppression and Emancipation in a Changing India: The Tamil Case and Beyond -Jean-Luc Racine & Josiane Racine
² The von Bathasar reader p. 92
Goodness Precedes Greatness
Taken from The Huffington Post
I write songs for a living, which is to say that writing songs helps me to live. The song becomes a place where melody and tempo can cover some truly volatile topics. God, women, politics, sex, hatred, disillusionment- a song or a story can be a deeper vessel and more forgiving than most conversations. Poetry can get under the skin without your permission, and music can offer perspective or hope that might have been hidden before. And so the song becomes a vehicle to cover some serious ground.
These days I have a hard time writing a song that feels bright or hopeful. The unemployment rate is edging up even further and spending is down. Foreclosures are way up and stocks are down. Our headlines are full of war, natural disaster, and corruption. So I go looking for songs of hope and stories that remind me of the incredible privilege of living another day. I suppose I'm looking for a hero of sorts. Someone who rises above the situation and does something incredible.
Remember the guy who threw himself on top of the passenger who had suffered a seizure in the New York Subway? As the train was approaching he jumps down onto the tracks and risks his life to save the life of a complete stranger whose convulsions had thrown him into the path of an oncoming train. Incredible. Have you seen Team Hoyt, the dad who pushes his disabled son through all the marathons? They've even done the Iron Man competitions together as father and son, which makes me tear up. Or the story of Mother Teresa, a woman who gave her life to the less fortunate day after day after day. These are the stories that I want to sing about. These are stories of hope.
Such sacrifice, such patience and such goodness is rare and rightly called heroic. But these are not the heroes of our times. Wesley Autrey is not a household name and neither is Team Hoyt. If you want to know the heroes of our society, follow the money, look at the posters on the wall. We pay them seven digit salaries, we put their songs on our playlists, and follow them on Twitter. These are the heroes we emulate.
Let's face it. Mother Teresa doesn't look that good in a negligee. And Team Hoyt won't sell beer commercials to the networks. But when the ball players and the supermodels end up in rehab, we end up asking esoteric questions about what makes a hero. In the movies the good looking actor who gets the girl is easy to point to. But after he gets the girl, then the house, and then a few kids and then a divorce and then another girl. Then what? After all of the special effects are gone, we're left with an aging mortal who looks a bit awkward on the talk shows. Perhaps we've set our goals too low. Or perhaps we've got it backwards.
I would like to suggest that the best parts of our human nature can be seen in sacrifice or surrender. A mother sacrificing her time for her child, a teacher devoting her afternoons to help students off-the-clock. These are truly our most incredible moments as a species: moments of unmerited kindness. Goodness. Virtue. Nobility. Grace. Morality. These are the truly remarkable moments. Perhaps our current economic climate of debt needs a fresh perspective on worth and value. Maybe our monetary crisis indicates a broader loss of perspective.
We live in the land of plenty, the land of milk and honey, where the lottery of birth has given us the advantage of education, of wealth, and of opportunity. Ammon Hennessy puts it this way, "You came into the world armed to the teeth with... the weapons of privilege." A trip south of the border can be an incredible reminder. We are living in the land of entitlement, one of the wealthiest nations in the history of mankind. And yet, money cannot buy us the true wealth of happiness, or peace, or of a deeper form of a meaningful life.
Perhaps the current climate of uncertainty would be the appropriate time to ask the question: what are we aiming for? Our technological achievements as a species are impressive. Our cities, our advancements in flight and our iPhones are all fairly remarkable. But there is nothing heroic about my cell phone. There is nothing sacrificial about it. Where is the song that's worth singing? What is our measure of success? Renown psychiatrist Viktor E. Frankl says that "success, like happiness, cannot be pursued; it must ensue, and it only does so as the unintended side effect of one's personal dedication to a cause greater than oneself or as a byproduct of one's surrender to a person other than oneself."
Maybe the fix is not the money. Maybe two and a half hours in a theatre isn't enough time for a hero to be born. Maybe it takes a lifetime- a lifetime like John M. Perkins. John Perkins is a man who devoted his life to those around him in simple and profound ways. He was quick to forgive, quick to utilize resources to help those in need. He has been a tireless civil rights worker who has endured beatings, harassments, and even prison for what he believes. With the help of his wife, Vera Mae, and a few others, he founded a health center, leadership development program, thrift store, low-income housing development and training center in his hometown of Mendenhall, Mississippi. His is a story of reconciliation, of forgiveness, of patience. He endured the suffering, holding on to a cause greater than himself.
John Perkins has is a song I want to sing. A song of a great man, the story of a legend. How do you replicate this goodness? Do you monetize it? Do you subsidize it? No. It's bigger than Washington, it's bigger than Wall Street. And it looks better than Hollywood. His is the story of a hero, a song of hope. His is a story that reminds me of a goodness beneath the system. Though Perkins was a devout Christian, he was quick to point out that this goodness is bigger than stale religion. Mr. Perkins once said that "many congregations do nothing but outsource justice." John Perkins said it right- you can't outsource justice. You can't farm out goodness to someone else. Your life is yours alone. Those decisions are yours to make.
I am the system. You are the system. We, the system of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union, choose goodness. Yes, the system is flawed. Yes, the church is flawed. Yes, Wall Street and Hollywood Boulevard are all fatally flawed. Yes, there will always be those who take the easy way out. But that ain't your game. Your choice is yours alone. Goodness precedes greatness. Maybe the mother will always have more power than the atomic bomb. Maybe under the skin there is a song of hope and meaning waiting to break free. Or maybe not. It's our story. You and I decide with our actions. It can be as small as simple courtesy. Or get involved in your hometown. Find out what the local food bank looks like. Look up the local Habitat for Humanity. What is the world you want? You choose it with every breath.
In our current climate of fear and debt I am reminded of what I hold most valuable in this life: the human souls closest to me. We need each other. Human beings will always be the most valuable natural resource on the planet. The human story is still unfolding. We are telling it as we speak. The human song is still weaving its way towards a chorus, through the suffering, through the fear. We need each other. We need heroes. Let your life be a beautiful song. We need hope. Tell a good story with the way you live. What is the world you want?
Compassion vs. Consumption
Taken from The Huffington Post
I feel a strange sense of isolation when I'm on tour. During the part of the day that I spend off-stage and off-air a gloomy detachment begins to set in. I watch the towns fly by on the side of the road. I call home from a new city day after day. I feel lonely and yet I want to be alone for some reason. Sometimes I walk around a bit, find a coffee shop and observe. I watch young couples in love, a man walking his dog, people rushing through the traffic to get somewhere else. And for these brief moments of stillness I become the old man on the park bench watching life from the outside. During these quiet intervals of reflection I often see pieces of myself in the folks around me.
Today I have a day-off in Albuquerque. That's right, the town that never looks like it's spelled quite right. There's a chill in the air today. Allegedly it snowed a bit this morning. Even if the white stuff didn't stick, the styrofoam snowflakes are up in ribbons and bows to decorate the local shopping center near the hotel where our bus is parked. I sit in this caffeinated postmodern watering hole feeling completely disconnected from the yuletide trappings, almost irritated by the decor. Maybe my sentiment stems from my detached life on the road. Or perhaps, I feel this way simply because it's not even Thanksgiving yet and Christmas is more than a month away. Either way, as I sit here bracing myself for the pending shopping season. I read that last sentence and start to feel downright Grinchy. I hate feeling Grinchy...
From where I sit I can see a bearded man on the corner asking for change with his hand-made cardboard sign, "homeless, please help." Other more elaborate cardboard signs inside the coffee shop are also looking for my money -- advertising a warm glass of Christmas cheer for only a few bucks. The line moves briskly inside the coffee shop, full of interesting human specimens, every one of them a story in process. I try to read each one like a novel -- full of intentions, hopes, fears, dreams, and desires. The man outside on the corner has a story too. Where are his parents? Does he have any kids? I can identify with this bearded outcast more than than anyone in the coffee shop, but nobody else seems all too interested.
My mind starts to think about the economics of the situation. Are the coffee shop and my bearded friend outside in direct competition? Does he simply need a better product? Are we declaring his cause to be less valuable than a cup of coffee when tell the barista our choice? These people are lined up to buy coffee for the same reason that I'm here. This is a product that we know. We might complain about how expensive it is, but we prove that the warm beverage is "worth" our hard-earned pay by throwing our money down time and time again. In our free market economy, the man on the corner is offering an alternative use for the scarce resource of our currency. But his "product" is a bit more nebulous than even the most complex soy latte. Still this language of product and consumption just doesn't fit his situation. He's a human soul, and with a few unlucky turns I could easily see myself in his situation. My detached thoughts this morning feel stuck in the traffic, stuck at the corner of Consumption and Compassion.
At a mall during the Christmas Season the line gets pretty blurry between consumption and compassion. On the one hand, we are buying for others, what could be more compassionate!? And in these shaky economic times, we are told that our purchases are crucial. Our consumption helps to create jobs as the "invisible hand" of free economics helps to support the American economy. But what about my bearded friend outside the mall? I can hear Scrooge in my head: "He needs to get a job. He needs to stop freeloading off of the hardworking American Public. His situation is the simple justice of the free market economy." Maybe... but we all know that the story simply isn't that simple.
Even though the statistics only tell part of the story, they can help illuminate the complexities of the situation: One in five people in a soup kitchen line is a child. (America's Second Harvest, Hunger 1997: The Faces & Facts). Research indicates that 40% of homeless men have served in the armed forces. (Rosenheck, Robert, Homeless Veterans, in Homelessness in America, 1996). According to the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration, 20-25% of the homeless population in the United States suffers from some form of severe mental illness. These are daughters and sons, brothers and sisters. These are stories in need of hope.
We all need grace from time to time. I look back on my own life. I grew up in a stable home environment with a pretty good education and some solid friends. Over the years I have had incredible chances to achieve, to live, to learn. And even with all of this I have made some horrible decisions in my life. To a certain extent, justice means that I'm on the corner looking for change. No, we all need compassion that goes beyond the free market economy. And though it might be high on our wish list this Christmas compassion is not that easy to give away. Maybe Adam Smith, the father of modern economics might be able to shed some light on the line between compassion and justice.
"...we feel ourselves to be under a stricter obligation to act according to justice, than agreeably to friendship, charity, or generosity; that the practice of these last mentioned virtues seems to be left in some measure to our own choice, but that, somehow or other, we feel ourselves to be in a peculiar manner tied, bound, and obliged to the observation of justice." —Smith, A. (1759 The Theory of Moral Sentiments)
So justice and compassion are set into separate piles of thought. Justice becomes imperative, (bringing murderers and thieves to trial) but Scrooges are tolerated. Recent events on Wall Street might even make us question whether justice comes to the Scrooges who break the law... but that's a different story. Like I wrote about a few weeks ago, there are no law to regulate kindness.
I suppose there is even a sense of justice to the shopping mall. The consumer is judge and jury. Her money is hers alone. She, the autonomous individual weighs all of the evidence: the marketing dollars, the products reputation, the past experiences are all brought into the courtroom of the consumer. And then in a split moment of decision, the almighty consumer swings her gavel and chooses her verdict. The purchase is made. The exchange marks the karma of consumption, the justice of the free market system.
But the "justice" of this system enslaves millions around the world. The "justice" of industry destroys the weak, ignores the hungry, and disfigures our planet. Our consumption is not sustainable monetarily, ecologically, or spiritually. The illusion of the individual is equally flawed. I, the almighty American consumer did not grow this morning's coffee beans. I did not knit my socks or cut my own hair. In fact, I, the consumer actually know very little about the products that I consume. My entire world is facilitated by others in an ever shrinking global economy.
Wealth is a subjective term that compares one individual with the rest. As such, the concept of wealth is only possible in community. Our affluence is always relative to those around us. The average American is richer than most humans that have ever lived upon the planet. As such, wealth necessitates poverty. Scarcity is necessary for sales. Hunger is necessary for consumption. The consumer is restless- yearning to be satiated. But the consummation of the sale does not gratify our appetite for long.
Where do these desires come from? Certainly there are needs. Food, clothing, shelter, companionship. But we have deeper desires that are harder to explain. We want to be accepted, validated. We want to know that our lives have worth, that this day has meaning and purpose. We are searching for the meaning behind our physical existence. I walk through the hallowed halls of our times. I see good looking models smiling down at me, wearing colorful new sweater-vests and lingerie. I smell the food-court. I feel overwhelmed, like a fish staring at a million hooks. An endless palate of color, size, shape, style, marketing variations in the cathedral of consumption. All of this a few yards from the man on the corner with his simple request for change.
We are the target market, we are the demographic. The purchase adds to a bottom line that will help pay for the overhead of raw goods, rent, and human resources (a telling title), ultimately investing back into the machine of progress. A dog chasing his tail. The endless desire of the consumer, (me) fueling the fires of industry around the world. Our Cathedrals of Consumption are well stocked with the "justice" of the free market economy. And compassionate acts will always be in direct competition with my endless desire for novelty. Do we define our desires or do our desires define us? Do we define our purchases of do our purchases define us?
I am not looking for a redistribution of wealth. No, this would require a significant amount of trust in the political system that, quite frankly I do not have. No, I am not looking for a redistribution of wealth I am looking for a redefining of wealth. A new understanding of fulfillment, of satisfaction, of satiation, of joy that transcends the consuming transaction. A definition of wealth that accounts for more than the individual and looks to the community at large. Maybe this season's celebration, (a commercial season that I can't believe is already here) could be a chance to be more than a consumer, more than an individual. Maybe we could partake in community. Maybe we could befriend the outsider, feed the hungry, and be wealthy in ways we've never known. We could spend time together instead of throwing money at the mall.
I'm not saying to throw money at man on the corner. But I am saying that he is our brother. He is our father. He is our community. There is wealth hidden in his situation. It's not well lit or well advertised. There is wealth in giving him your respect. There is wealth in discovering his story. You might be able to trust him with your compassion. Yes, we are consumers. But we need not be consumed.
|
