Several years ago I had lunch with a friend of mine from church who, at the time, was working as a manager in the food services industry. This guy had a good heart for others, but had learned through life that he needed to recognize people's limitations as well. His experience was pockmarked with frustrations - missed shifts with little notice, false illnesses, and the general messiness and, well, drama of people's lives. All of this understandably played into and influenced his world view. And I was right there with him - like many I had worked as a waiter and bartender through college...I know my fair share of "drama" and was among those who could be far more casual than I should about missing a shift now and again.
One statement has stuck with me over the years from that lunch conversation. My friend, assessing all that he had to deal with, said something like, "I just have to remember that people are living the lives they've chosen - the lives that are a consequence of their choices. I even council them to that effect."
Basically the point my friend was making was this: the decisions we've made in our lives either open up possibilities or close doors (or perhaps both). That when we experience discontent about "our station in life" we need to at least recognize that our options, our limitations, our circumstance are a direct (and even cumulative) result of the decisions we've made along the way.
Makes sense, right? I think I tend to live this way most of the time. It gives me freedom to interact with others on the level playing field of life choices and circumstance. It provides "a reason" for the pecking order in life...for our stations and significance.
But is that the truth...according to the Gospel?
While, philosophically speaking, my friend's statement holds up - it now appears to me in direct opposition to the faith he would also hold dear...or, perhaps more important, it isn't. If I believe that faith is something I work at - that Christ's death and my acceptance of salvation is one "choice" in my history that puts me "in" or leaves me "out" of heaven...well than I suppose it makes sense. I am a sinner, I repent, I receive Christ, I am forgiven...now I go back to work.
But, even in that, isn't the whole point of His plan that we are rescued in the midst of our choices? That we can be...that we ARE...altered by the Lord?
And if you allow for that, for heaven's sake don't stop there. The big word I hear often is called "sanctification" and it seems to imply (or be applied so) that we have work to do to become more holy...a string of choices to make that continually winnow our options down until, presumably, holiness is the only thing we have left. But if the Lord rescues us from our choices the first time, why would we believe that he leaves us where he found us to move on from there?
Don't take me wrong here...I'm not saying we should throw our choices to the wind or that we have no choices to make. Romans 6:1 addresses this: "What shall we say then? Shall we go on sinning so that grace may increase?" (NIV) Nope. But do we approach this from the idea that we must simply try harder? Or do we approach this from the idea that we must passionately seek His altering of us. Not a repeated trip to the alter, but a life altered by the Lord.
You see I am writing this today as I look back on the choices I've made (repeatedly, often from a place of hurt, iteratively losing more and more ground) not to write another entry on this page. I'm staring at my last post from February and walking back through the days that felt like a slow slide away from the Lord, from myself, from creating and caring...and I'm more than a little self conscious about it. In fact the easiest culmination of my choices would simply be to fade away. And I just might be game for that, left on my own I mean.
Or I could be triumphant and man up and overcome...
But the Lord has other plans.
He chooses to alter me - not with shame or with an assignment...but by revitalizing my heart and giving me hope which sparks desire. Not something I did or solved or fixed...but something He is working in me. A healing of the heart...at least the beginning of it. So, forgetting what lies behind and reaching, stretching, yearning forward to the hope of my heart that lies ahead...I press on...
Good to be back;)
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Expectant Hope
I had an interesting conversation the other day about the nature of hope...the dangers of it, to be exact. Living a life that matters - life set against the backdrop of a larger story...His Story - is not without serious dangers. In fact, perhaps the most frequent reason that people live truncated lives (even Christians, mind you) appears to be the fear of hope. Clipping off the highs of life through limited expectations is a natural mechanism that helps us exert a sense of control (despite the truth: control is not within our grasp). Don't we all do this? Short circuiting hope in order to reign in expectations and prevent against the seemingly inevitable crushing defeats that life stands all-too-ready and willing to deliver.
Wow - suddenly that seems very harsh. Yet nonetheless true.
My theory on this topic was soundly rejected by the men I was with the other day. As a result I've turned the idea over and again in my mind only to end up exactly where I started. "I don't think it works," I said. More to the point, speaking to the opposite end of the puzzle, I pointed out, "I'm not sure that hoping more actually equates to hurting more."
"Of course it does," said my friend. And his logic seemed right. He pointed out that the larger story called for more faith, which engenders hope and leads to love...and that all of that was risky. Riskier, it would seem, than cutting hope short - although he went on to argue the merits of that risk. My friend would never suggest that anyone settle for a smaller life than the one Christ promises...and he trusts (through faith) that the risk of pain is worth the hope of something more.
At the time I agreed. I still do, regarding the risk I mean.
One quick note: I would certainly draw a distinct line between the idea of "hope" and that of "expectation." Expectations, of themselves, seem to indicate a point of view that understands and anticipates the best outcome - a point of view that we each lack given our perspective from "within" the story. Hope engenders a sense of wonder and faith that the Lord has something wonderful waiting for us in the midst of our circumstance...an "ever-increasingness" that might only be understood looking backward, with the benefit of new and better perspective (perhaps even outside of this life).
But I also feel like we can apply specific circumstances that blur the ideas of hope and expectation while still demonstrating that our risk in hope is not, necessarily, a greater fall than having not risked at all. Well, to e clear: not risking at all is the most terrible risk, in my opinion...so let's instead say "risking less" or living habitually with "truncated risk."
I've heard and read about men who climb mountains. I have no desire to follow in their footsteps, by the way. When these men take off on their expeditions they plan, pack and make their way to base camps where they map out and make final preparations for the ascent. As they make their way up the mountain, they establish new camps at higher elevations until, at some point, they reach the last post before the final climb. As they journey upward they continually set new baselines - foundations - upon which they climb to the next level...and the next.
Is not hope the same?
Marathon runners train for months in preparation of 26 miles. Rigorous training. Pacing. Even recruiting - I understand that many enlist the aid of companion runners who join them for the last 8 miles or so to help them finish strong. Each mile they run takes them closer to the finish line...or to failure. And every stride is taken in hope.
So what happens when failure strikes? When their bodies simply quit?
Given all the time, training and effort...all of the collective hope and, yes, even expectation. Would any of these people point to failure and, if they were forced to "graph" their experience, draw such a colossal drop at the end of the inexorable climb that it fell BELOW the original baseline? Even in death, I wonder if there is a recorded instance of a mountain climber falling LOWER than the original base camp...the literal foot of the mountain (or anything quite near it). Or, in the case of a collapsed marathon runner, (like the one featured in the Gatorade commercial, perhaps) dropping to his knees mere feet from the finish line...doesn't that still mean he's something like 25.8 miles further along? A tragic end, yes...but one that eclipses every step that went before it?
I know the hopes in our life aren't quite so clean as these. Nor are the disappointments. But I would make a simple plea against this idea of a proportional hope-to-loss ratio. In fact I think there is a strong argument for "loss" being a relative constant...while hope is more like a multiplier. I mean to say that our hopes build upon one another...hope begetting hope. Even when hope is so deeply entwined with expectation. As the hope piles up, our failings never fall so far as to reset our experience of life to something that approximates zero...or below.
Perhaps the metaphors and mathematical illustrations don't do this idea the justice it deserves. Perhaps the very idea of graphing hope is as foolish as the poetic graph students were told to rip from their textbooks in "Dead Poets Society."
Perhaps my friend is right when he says that hope is risk...but risk well worth taking.
But maybe the real danger lies in cutting hope short. Because when disappointment strikes and our foundations are shallow, we find ourselves far closer to truly "bottoming out" than we could ever have feared.
Wow - suddenly that seems very harsh. Yet nonetheless true.
My theory on this topic was soundly rejected by the men I was with the other day. As a result I've turned the idea over and again in my mind only to end up exactly where I started. "I don't think it works," I said. More to the point, speaking to the opposite end of the puzzle, I pointed out, "I'm not sure that hoping more actually equates to hurting more."
"Of course it does," said my friend. And his logic seemed right. He pointed out that the larger story called for more faith, which engenders hope and leads to love...and that all of that was risky. Riskier, it would seem, than cutting hope short - although he went on to argue the merits of that risk. My friend would never suggest that anyone settle for a smaller life than the one Christ promises...and he trusts (through faith) that the risk of pain is worth the hope of something more.
At the time I agreed. I still do, regarding the risk I mean.
One quick note: I would certainly draw a distinct line between the idea of "hope" and that of "expectation." Expectations, of themselves, seem to indicate a point of view that understands and anticipates the best outcome - a point of view that we each lack given our perspective from "within" the story. Hope engenders a sense of wonder and faith that the Lord has something wonderful waiting for us in the midst of our circumstance...an "ever-increasingness" that might only be understood looking backward, with the benefit of new and better perspective (perhaps even outside of this life).
But I also feel like we can apply specific circumstances that blur the ideas of hope and expectation while still demonstrating that our risk in hope is not, necessarily, a greater fall than having not risked at all. Well, to e clear: not risking at all is the most terrible risk, in my opinion...so let's instead say "risking less" or living habitually with "truncated risk."
I've heard and read about men who climb mountains. I have no desire to follow in their footsteps, by the way. When these men take off on their expeditions they plan, pack and make their way to base camps where they map out and make final preparations for the ascent. As they make their way up the mountain, they establish new camps at higher elevations until, at some point, they reach the last post before the final climb. As they journey upward they continually set new baselines - foundations - upon which they climb to the next level...and the next.
Is not hope the same?
Marathon runners train for months in preparation of 26 miles. Rigorous training. Pacing. Even recruiting - I understand that many enlist the aid of companion runners who join them for the last 8 miles or so to help them finish strong. Each mile they run takes them closer to the finish line...or to failure. And every stride is taken in hope.
So what happens when failure strikes? When their bodies simply quit?
Given all the time, training and effort...all of the collective hope and, yes, even expectation. Would any of these people point to failure and, if they were forced to "graph" their experience, draw such a colossal drop at the end of the inexorable climb that it fell BELOW the original baseline? Even in death, I wonder if there is a recorded instance of a mountain climber falling LOWER than the original base camp...the literal foot of the mountain (or anything quite near it). Or, in the case of a collapsed marathon runner, (like the one featured in the Gatorade commercial, perhaps) dropping to his knees mere feet from the finish line...doesn't that still mean he's something like 25.8 miles further along? A tragic end, yes...but one that eclipses every step that went before it?
I know the hopes in our life aren't quite so clean as these. Nor are the disappointments. But I would make a simple plea against this idea of a proportional hope-to-loss ratio. In fact I think there is a strong argument for "loss" being a relative constant...while hope is more like a multiplier. I mean to say that our hopes build upon one another...hope begetting hope. Even when hope is so deeply entwined with expectation. As the hope piles up, our failings never fall so far as to reset our experience of life to something that approximates zero...or below.
Perhaps the metaphors and mathematical illustrations don't do this idea the justice it deserves. Perhaps the very idea of graphing hope is as foolish as the poetic graph students were told to rip from their textbooks in "Dead Poets Society."
Perhaps my friend is right when he says that hope is risk...but risk well worth taking.
But maybe the real danger lies in cutting hope short. Because when disappointment strikes and our foundations are shallow, we find ourselves far closer to truly "bottoming out" than we could ever have feared.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
In the Shower
All of my best epiphanies seem to occur in the shower. Perhaps its the culmination of my thoughts and dreams the night before? Perhaps its just the reality of my life: I don't get much "down time" unless it includes water falling on my head!?
This morning featured an odd moment that is still resonating with me as the day passes: I washed my hair twice. Familiar at all? Or am I pretty much out on the limb by myself on this one...
I did not do this in the way that, so I've heard, women sometimes wash their hair...and rinse...and wash...and condition and whatever. I really don't have enough hair for all that. No...I just completely forgot, distracted by my own thoughts no doubt, that I'd done it already! Seriously. As I put a dollop of shampoo in my palm I experienced one moment of "have I done this already?" Then, as I lathered, I realized it: "yes, yes I have been here before...mere seconds ago, in fact!"
Now, this may be a great argument against multitasking in general (reports of which I've actually read lately from the scientific community - God help me if its true because, candidly, I'm multitasking right at this moment), but for me it shined an immediate spotlight on an uncomfortable truth about my walk with the Lord: rinse, wash, repeat.
Let me be clear: it is my desire to change and become a better man - a better "God Lover," I suppose - as I live each day after the next. And in some ways I live out that intent. In some ways I live toward the ever-increasing-ness that Christ has to offer. In some ways, in fact, I've stopped rinsing and washing and repeating the same old mistakes.
But in many ways I still live in the midst of that cycle.
And in most ways it seems to stem from my own distractedness more than from my intent.
And, one more, in ALL ways I believe it reflects the foundational mistake of "trying" as opposed to "being."
You see, when I try to live change by change...event by event...I inevitably fall into the habits with which I'm most comfortable. When I live changed my habits are a constant reflection of my foundational orientation and beliefs. One good friend of mine sums this up all the time with the help of Morpheus (from the Matrix trilogy):
"There is a difference between knowing the path and walking the path."
2 Corinthians 10:3-6 says it this way: "For though we live in the world, we do not wage war as the world does. The weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world. On the contrary, they have divine power to demolish strongholds. We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ."
I suppose those two quotes may not look quite the same. Not immediately, at least. And yes, I think the idea of "holding every thought captive to Christ" has never before sounded the same to me as the idea of "walking the path," either. But I'm beginning to believe that they really, really are...the same. Ultimately this is about BEING, not doing. Its about having faith that my actions will, inevitably, reflect (or betray) who I really am - not about policing my actions in spite of my faith.
Interesting to note: this idea of taking my thoughts captive comes in the context of a battle. Its like everyone in the world is engaged in a fight, and we are called to fight differently. Specifically, Paul urges this idea of obedience to Christ IN DIRECT OPPOSITION to the way in which the world wages war. It is a DIFFERENT weapon, he says. Not like "the world" but with the "divine power to demolish strongholds!"
So what does this have to do with the shower? With my persistent distraction and my unfortunate default setting: rinse, wash, repeat?
When the world desires change it begins with behavior. It begins with focused and persistent attention and some measure of aversion therapy. In the world I must be on constant watch to prevent myself from making the same mistake...and, in my case, that constant watch is hard to maintain.
When the Lord desires change, He invites us...to change. He invites us to borrow His authority and act in His divine power "to demolish strongholds" by resting in His knowledge and holding ourselves captive to Him. Even in the midst of typing that sentence, I so easily shift my focus to the way of the world: "must...hold...captive...must...grit...teeth...must...hold...on." But I don't believe that gritting my teeth is the promise - the promise is delivered in His power, in the reality of His ability to change...and in the power of LIVING changed.
If this is true then holding myself captive is really lived out in pursuit of Him, not in opposition to anything else.
So, to revisit the shower where I started...and to horribly twist the analogy (breaking it, I'm sure): if I could just get my mind around the idea that my hair is already clean (washed clean by Him)...I wouldn't wash it over and again no matter how distracted I became?
Yep, I knew it would break.
This morning featured an odd moment that is still resonating with me as the day passes: I washed my hair twice. Familiar at all? Or am I pretty much out on the limb by myself on this one...
I did not do this in the way that, so I've heard, women sometimes wash their hair...and rinse...and wash...and condition and whatever. I really don't have enough hair for all that. No...I just completely forgot, distracted by my own thoughts no doubt, that I'd done it already! Seriously. As I put a dollop of shampoo in my palm I experienced one moment of "have I done this already?" Then, as I lathered, I realized it: "yes, yes I have been here before...mere seconds ago, in fact!"
Now, this may be a great argument against multitasking in general (reports of which I've actually read lately from the scientific community - God help me if its true because, candidly, I'm multitasking right at this moment), but for me it shined an immediate spotlight on an uncomfortable truth about my walk with the Lord: rinse, wash, repeat.
Let me be clear: it is my desire to change and become a better man - a better "God Lover," I suppose - as I live each day after the next. And in some ways I live out that intent. In some ways I live toward the ever-increasing-ness that Christ has to offer. In some ways, in fact, I've stopped rinsing and washing and repeating the same old mistakes.
But in many ways I still live in the midst of that cycle.
And in most ways it seems to stem from my own distractedness more than from my intent.
And, one more, in ALL ways I believe it reflects the foundational mistake of "trying" as opposed to "being."
You see, when I try to live change by change...event by event...I inevitably fall into the habits with which I'm most comfortable. When I live changed my habits are a constant reflection of my foundational orientation and beliefs. One good friend of mine sums this up all the time with the help of Morpheus (from the Matrix trilogy):
"There is a difference between knowing the path and walking the path."
2 Corinthians 10:3-6 says it this way: "For though we live in the world, we do not wage war as the world does. The weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world. On the contrary, they have divine power to demolish strongholds. We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ."
I suppose those two quotes may not look quite the same. Not immediately, at least. And yes, I think the idea of "holding every thought captive to Christ" has never before sounded the same to me as the idea of "walking the path," either. But I'm beginning to believe that they really, really are...the same. Ultimately this is about BEING, not doing. Its about having faith that my actions will, inevitably, reflect (or betray) who I really am - not about policing my actions in spite of my faith.
Interesting to note: this idea of taking my thoughts captive comes in the context of a battle. Its like everyone in the world is engaged in a fight, and we are called to fight differently. Specifically, Paul urges this idea of obedience to Christ IN DIRECT OPPOSITION to the way in which the world wages war. It is a DIFFERENT weapon, he says. Not like "the world" but with the "divine power to demolish strongholds!"
So what does this have to do with the shower? With my persistent distraction and my unfortunate default setting: rinse, wash, repeat?
When the world desires change it begins with behavior. It begins with focused and persistent attention and some measure of aversion therapy. In the world I must be on constant watch to prevent myself from making the same mistake...and, in my case, that constant watch is hard to maintain.
When the Lord desires change, He invites us...to change. He invites us to borrow His authority and act in His divine power "to demolish strongholds" by resting in His knowledge and holding ourselves captive to Him. Even in the midst of typing that sentence, I so easily shift my focus to the way of the world: "must...hold...captive...must...grit...teeth...must...hold...on." But I don't believe that gritting my teeth is the promise - the promise is delivered in His power, in the reality of His ability to change...and in the power of LIVING changed.
If this is true then holding myself captive is really lived out in pursuit of Him, not in opposition to anything else.
So, to revisit the shower where I started...and to horribly twist the analogy (breaking it, I'm sure): if I could just get my mind around the idea that my hair is already clean (washed clean by Him)...I wouldn't wash it over and again no matter how distracted I became?
Yep, I knew it would break.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Mystery
I've been away and apologize. The holidays, the business of work, and much time, focus and effort spent on preparing for and then attending the men's retreat at Wintergreen earlier in January have all pulled me away from "Laying Hold." But it was well worth it...
"The best is perhaps what we understand the least," said C.S. Lewis. I've been embracing this idea of late...the idea of mystery in my life. I am, in most every regard I can think of, a puzzler. Better yet, a "solver." I enjoy looking at problems and tearing them apart and piecing them together and, ultimately, understanding them. I am often distracted or even spun into a cycle of frustration when confronted with an issue or problem that I can't quantify and contain. I play the "what if" game; visiting and revisiting the same scenario with new and different elements inserted as I try to predict how the outcome might change, for better or for worse.
And I hate not knowing. My gut reaction to not knowing or misunderstanding something is anger and fear.
Sounds almost scientific, doesn't it? Apart from the anger, I mean. For me it is almost exclusively social: my interactions with my boss or employees, my relationship with my pastor or my family, my understanding of an account and its problems or opportunities. Far from science it is much more assessment and, often, preparation. The real magic always happens "in the room" when live interaction and depth usurp every imagined possibility, replacing it with the truth of experience.
This past week I had the chance to exchange the cold and wet Roanoke Valley winter for a few days of summer sun in Vero Beach, FL. It was a great time away with the family. It also afforded me several opportunities to break out the salt fishing gear and wet my heavier-than-usual lines in the surf. Before we left I spent no small amount of time checking into the local area (Sebastian Inlet, a fishing mecca on the east coast, was less than five miles away from our hotel - a destination well worth researching for the variety of fish one can target) and "gearing up" for the trip. I found out what kinds of lures I should need, how to tie a bottom rig that might best attract Pompano, when the tides were High, Low or slack...all of the things that might best prepare me for a good catch.
But then I went fishing.
The glory of fishing, you see, is in the mystery of the catch. The research, preparation and even dreaming of the trip ahead are all vital. They are all of the things that I can know and understand based on my previous experience and the experience of others. But in the end I am left with bait or a lure somewhere under the surface of water in an environment that I can't really see or fully understand hoping and praying for a bite. And when it happens I get to enjoy the fun of bringing the line back in to find out just what I've hooked on the other side.
Mystery.
Not something I'm uninformed about. Not something that makes me "dumb" for not knowing. Far to the opposite, I enter prepared and informed and well provisioned. But there it is: something mysterious...and glorious. "The best," as Lewis says...
Have you seen the film "Shakespeare in Love?" It is a fantastic and fanciful journey back into the story of Romeo and Juliet. Well worth watching. The movie unfolds as a story inside a story...William Shakespeare is caught in a love affair that must end badly as he struggles to author and ultimately produce the infamous play (complete with its own tragic end). The producer of the show is a man named Philip Henslowe (played by Geoffrey Rush - probably best known for his role as Barbossa in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies). Mr. Henslowe, in a conversation with an investor who is growing deeply concerned about the liklihood of a profitable production ever coming to fruition, offers perhaps the best perspective on mystery, well, ever:
Philip Henslowe: Mr. Fennyman, allow me to explain about the theatre business. The natural condition is one of insurmountable obstacles on the road to imminent disaster.
Hugh Fennyman: So what do we do?
Philip Henslowe: Nothing. Strangely enough, it all turns out well.
Hugh Fennyman: How?
Philip Henslowe: I don't know. It's a mystery.
How remarkably freeing! And true. Mystery doesn't change my effort to understand things in my life: my role, my relationships, my hopes. It's not like I'll stop investing in my 401k and, with a shrug, turn to my wife and say, "I don't know how we'll retire...guess it's just a mystery!" But mystery does offer a strange and comforting hope that my effort, preparation and understanding are both necessary and good, yet ultimately limited. If Lewis is right, the best things in my life...even the best things about me...are those things I don't yet understand. The best things for and about me are hidden under the surface of that other world waiting to be discovered and fulfilled when the time is right.
"The best is perhaps what we understand the least," said C.S. Lewis. I've been embracing this idea of late...the idea of mystery in my life. I am, in most every regard I can think of, a puzzler. Better yet, a "solver." I enjoy looking at problems and tearing them apart and piecing them together and, ultimately, understanding them. I am often distracted or even spun into a cycle of frustration when confronted with an issue or problem that I can't quantify and contain. I play the "what if" game; visiting and revisiting the same scenario with new and different elements inserted as I try to predict how the outcome might change, for better or for worse.
And I hate not knowing. My gut reaction to not knowing or misunderstanding something is anger and fear.
Sounds almost scientific, doesn't it? Apart from the anger, I mean. For me it is almost exclusively social: my interactions with my boss or employees, my relationship with my pastor or my family, my understanding of an account and its problems or opportunities. Far from science it is much more assessment and, often, preparation. The real magic always happens "in the room" when live interaction and depth usurp every imagined possibility, replacing it with the truth of experience.
This past week I had the chance to exchange the cold and wet Roanoke Valley winter for a few days of summer sun in Vero Beach, FL. It was a great time away with the family. It also afforded me several opportunities to break out the salt fishing gear and wet my heavier-than-usual lines in the surf. Before we left I spent no small amount of time checking into the local area (Sebastian Inlet, a fishing mecca on the east coast, was less than five miles away from our hotel - a destination well worth researching for the variety of fish one can target) and "gearing up" for the trip. I found out what kinds of lures I should need, how to tie a bottom rig that might best attract Pompano, when the tides were High, Low or slack...all of the things that might best prepare me for a good catch.
But then I went fishing.
The glory of fishing, you see, is in the mystery of the catch. The research, preparation and even dreaming of the trip ahead are all vital. They are all of the things that I can know and understand based on my previous experience and the experience of others. But in the end I am left with bait or a lure somewhere under the surface of water in an environment that I can't really see or fully understand hoping and praying for a bite. And when it happens I get to enjoy the fun of bringing the line back in to find out just what I've hooked on the other side.
Mystery.
Not something I'm uninformed about. Not something that makes me "dumb" for not knowing. Far to the opposite, I enter prepared and informed and well provisioned. But there it is: something mysterious...and glorious. "The best," as Lewis says...
Have you seen the film "Shakespeare in Love?" It is a fantastic and fanciful journey back into the story of Romeo and Juliet. Well worth watching. The movie unfolds as a story inside a story...William Shakespeare is caught in a love affair that must end badly as he struggles to author and ultimately produce the infamous play (complete with its own tragic end). The producer of the show is a man named Philip Henslowe (played by Geoffrey Rush - probably best known for his role as Barbossa in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies). Mr. Henslowe, in a conversation with an investor who is growing deeply concerned about the liklihood of a profitable production ever coming to fruition, offers perhaps the best perspective on mystery, well, ever:
Philip Henslowe: Mr. Fennyman, allow me to explain about the theatre business. The natural condition is one of insurmountable obstacles on the road to imminent disaster.
Hugh Fennyman: So what do we do?
Philip Henslowe: Nothing. Strangely enough, it all turns out well.
Hugh Fennyman: How?
Philip Henslowe: I don't know. It's a mystery.
How remarkably freeing! And true. Mystery doesn't change my effort to understand things in my life: my role, my relationships, my hopes. It's not like I'll stop investing in my 401k and, with a shrug, turn to my wife and say, "I don't know how we'll retire...guess it's just a mystery!" But mystery does offer a strange and comforting hope that my effort, preparation and understanding are both necessary and good, yet ultimately limited. If Lewis is right, the best things in my life...even the best things about me...are those things I don't yet understand. The best things for and about me are hidden under the surface of that other world waiting to be discovered and fulfilled when the time is right.
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