Among a group of friends last night we talked about “living in the fullness of God.” If you don’t walk in evangelical Christian circles, the expression may not have any meaning for you. In the culture of my youth, it was the ultimate Earthly human goal. At one point during the discussion I asked, “How would one know he or she had reached the fullness of anything.” There is always one more thing to learn, one more refinement to whatever our life goal is. That next level may be beyond our reach; as loathe as I am to admit it, there are limits to my abilities. Unfortunately, there is no convenience light on life’s dashboard to tell you that you have reached the limit of your talent in a given area. No worthwhile goal is easily attained, so pressing toward it, striving with all that is within us while not having attained, is just a part of the process. We do it in faith that we will, eventually, attain. Lacking God’s omniscient qualities, I have no way of knowing with any degree of certainty that my faith in my own abilities is justified. The bottom line is just this; attaining doesn’t matter–striving does. Even when you look around and in all humility assess that you have surpassed everyone you know in a given area, you are not allowed to stop pressing on. It’s your personal best that counts, not how you measure up to others. It’s true in big cities, it’s true in farming communities, it’s true whether you’re trying to be the best swimmer, the best parent, the best harmonica player, or the best servant. “Are we there yet?” It doesn’t matter; in the words of the famous sports slogan, “Just do it!”
The theory that there are only 5 people between you and any other person on Earth has come under some criticism recently. Without passing on the soundness of the study that supported this theory, there are days where six degrees would seem a lot. A few weeks ago I opened a Facebook account in an attempt to create an informal discussion forum within a very limited community. Last week out of the blue I got a “friend request” from someone I hadn’t seen or talked to in more years than I care to remember asking, “Are you THE David Lee Short?” It’s hard not to respond to something like that. This week, one of his friends from that same era, sent me an invitation. It turns out that this person knows a fat handful of people I’ve lost track of. The ‘70’s are exploding all around me.
There is a prophecy in the 11th chapter of Revelation that always fascinated me. Two “witnesses” are preaching in Jerusalem. Eventually, they are killed, and “For three and a half days men from every people, tribe, language and nation will gaze on their bodies and refuse them burial.[1]” My engineering background used to ponder the logistics of even a token representation from every people, tribe, language and nation hearing of the death of these two men, making their way to Jerusalem, and viewing the bodies, all in three day’s time. I wonder no more. If I have instant communication with friends, old and new, scattered around the world, why would I be surprised that the whole world will access the late-breaking news, and encourage their friends to watch the latest video? Some prophecy only becomes plausible as the day approaches.
[1] Scripture quotations taken from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society®. Used by permission.
It’s been a mild winter, even at 6100 feet. Yesterday I sat gazing across the 6th fairway at the flag on the 7th green that had, inexplicably, been left in the hole all winter. The snow was gone, the sky was blue, and I seriously considered hitting a few out of the short rough behind my house. This morning the world was once again an unbroken blanket of white. Unlike many lost opportunities, this one will recur in a few days-weeks at the most. It’s those that will not recur that bother me. The desired object that was mine for the asking, had I asked. The word of comfort or encouragement that was on the tip of my tongue before the interruption.
I once bid on a perfectly beautiful bassoon in an auction. It would have been a decoration-my best instrument is the MP3 player. The price was right, I knew exactly where I would display it, I had already decided to buy it, but my mind suddenly decided to take a nap. It woke with a start to the auctioneer saying, “Sold!”…to someone else.
There is risk in seizing the day, and striking while the iron is hot, and all the other tired clichés; impulsive behavior can lead to an awful lot of decorative bassoons. Let me suggest that the risk is worth it. An unwanted bassoon can be sold at one’s leisure; a missed one can nag at you for years. As one gets older, the biggest enemy is inertia. So, as the auctioneer’s assistant holds yet one more bassoon over his head, I say to myself (you may listen in if your like) wake up, raise that right index finger and nod. Damn the torpedoes, (just to close with one final cliché) full speed ahead!