What God wants for Christmas

Wow, it's been a little while since I posted last. This past month has been crazy, to say the least.

This post is, fittingly, about Christmas. Call it my first annual Emotions and Photons Christmas post. And, also fittingly, it features lots of photons (aka light).

So my family has a wonderful tradition. Every year we have our biggest celebration not on Christmas, but four days earlier, on the 21^st of December. Why is that day significant? No, it’s not because we have long been celebrating the end of the world (everything’s supposed to come to an end this year on the 21^st). The 21^st is the winter solstice – a holiday with a long, venerable tradition in cultures around the world.

The solstice is a celebration of light. It also happens to be the shortest day of the year (the longest night), and the two are no coincidence. Northern European tradition is to fill your home with evergreen boughs (because they remain green despite the darkening days), light a host of candles, keep a bright fire burning, gather with friends and family, and dance and sing the whole night through. They believed that by so doing they could keep the night at bay. And if they reveled until the morning sun burst over the horizon, the nights would start to shorten again. The symbolism of this wonderful celebration was the triumph of light over darkness, of love over hate, of good over evil, of hope over despair.

It’s easy to see that the holiday we know as Christmas is a modern (and somewhat perverted) adaptation of the ancient winter solstice celebration. The Christmas tree (evergreen boughs) and electric lights (candles) have clear solstice roots. Even the timing is only four days shifted (to accommodate a Roman holiday, a festival to Jupiter – but we won’t get into that).

I would like to use the comparison of Christmas to the solstice to draw us back to what Christmas is really all about. It’s not about presents, deals, sales, tacky renditions of beaten-to-death tunes; it’s about light and love – and above all, it’s about the man who personifies and exemplifies them in both word and deed: Jesus Christ. Like the Sun (an apt homophone), he is an unbroken source of life-sustaining light. Without him, the days would keep getting shorter and shorter until a day came when the sun didn’t rise at all and night endured forever. His atoning sacrifice typifies the love we strive to offer to our beloved friends and family at this time of year: selfless, unconditional, pure, personal, intimate.

Which brings me to another modern practice with deep historical and symbolic roots: gift giving. In fact, Christmas, for most Americans, is little more than a ritual of gift giving and receiving. But where does the practice come from? From Jesus Christ, of course. In Gethsemane and on the cross he suffered for hours and sweat drops of blood on our behalf. And why? To earn the right to run to our rescue when we need him, when all other lights have gone out, and when no other help is available. Like he promised, he will make our burdens light and easy through the mercy and grace of his atonement.

But Christmas is about giving gifts, not just receiving them. If the gifts we receive symbolize the gift of the atoning sacrifice of the Savior, what do the gifts we give to others represent? What could we possibly offer our Heavenly King? What could he possibly want from us? The answer has ancient roots, once again. The people of God before Christ came to Earth were asked to sacrifice their first-born animals to God, in clear reference to the Father’s sacrifice of his first-born son. When Jesus had accomplished this great sacrifice, he changed the commandment. He no longer wanted the faithful to offer animals as sacrifices. The offering he wanted instead was much more personal – like his gift to us. “And you shall offer for a sacrifice unto me a broken heart and a contrite spirit” he said. The Savior’s gift to us is a sacrifice, and so is ours to him.

But what does it mean to give a broken heart, a contrite spirit? And why is it a sacrifice? And why is it what God wants from us on Christmas?

To find the answer, we have to dive into the scriptures – the Book of Mormon in particular – so stay with me. The answer is worth the effort, I promise. It will change the way you celebrate Christmas forever and open the windows of your soul to the light of Christ – the light that is the object of our celebration at this dark time of year.

 In the book of Second Nephi, chapter 31, the prophet Nephi gives a masterful lesson on the gospel of Jesus Christ. In particular, he speaks about baptism. He reminds us that, while baptism symbolizes being washed clean from sin and born anew, Jesus was baptized even though he had never sinned and didn’t need to be born again. So what could the ordinance of baptism have possibly meant for him? It is true that it reminds us of how much we need baptism, but I think the matter goes deeper than that. Nephi taught that, in being baptized, Jesus “humble[d] himself before the Father, and witnesse[d] unto the Father that he would be obedient unto him in keeping his commandments.” And in response to his humble promise of obedience, the Holy Ghost descended on him.

In what ways did Jesus obey his Heavenly Father? Well, he clearly didn’t do anything wrong, since he never committed any sin (he kept the “thou shalt not” commandments). But he did much more than avoid doing things that are wrong. He did a lot of things that were right, too (a second category of much more important commandments, the “thou shalts”). In fact, every day of his life was an example of what it means to obey the commandments of the Father, and gives us insight into what those commandments really are. When we think of commandments, we first think of the proscriptive rules: thou shalt not kill; thou shalt not commit adultery; thou shalt not steal; etc. Instead, Jesus taught a different set of prescriptive rules: thou shalt be humble and come unto me; thou shalt mourn with those that mourn, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort; thou shalt hunger and thirst after righteousness; thou shalt be peacemakers; thou shalt love each other as I have loved you; thou shalt love your enemies, pray for them that curse you, and do good to them that despitefully use you and persecute you. These are the commandments Nephi was referring to when he said Jesus promised to obey all his father’s commandments.

But what does baptism have to do with the sacrifice of a broken heart and a contrite spirit? Offering to God a broken heart and a contrite spirit means humbly promising to keep his commandments the way Jesus did, to follow in his footsteps in loving and serving and enlightening the way he did while he was on Earth – and the way he continues to do in each of our lives, to the degree that we will let him in. Jesus taught “whoso cometh unto me with a broken heart and a contrite spirit, him will I baptize with fire and with the Holy Ghost” – the same promise associated with baptism, and the promise that was realized after his baptism.

So what does Heavenly Father want for Christmas? What is Christmas really all about? It’s about discipleship; it’s about following Jesus and, to the best of our ability, emulating his life; it’s about exercising the ministry that he would have exercised were he here in our individual shoes today; it’s about loving our loved ones for him, and in his place; it’s about conveying his love for them through our love, in pure and simple terms; it’s seeking to fill others’ lives with light and love, the way he has filled ours.

So when you see the lights on the Christmas tree this year, think of the evergreen boughs and the candles; think of the light and life of the world; and think of the commandments of the Father that he taught us through the life of his Son – the ones that require us to reach out, to love, and to lift; and remember that what God wants for Christmas is for you to humbly live them – like his son did – each day of your life.

Facing fear

Alright, I promised a post on facing fear, so here it goes.

The way I see it, there are two basic responses to fear: either you avoid it, or you confront it. I would estimate (and I frankly admit this to be a Dan-fact) that roughly 99% of the time we deploy the former. I think we would be much better off employing the latter.

Our fears are with us every day, shadowing us wherever we go. They even invade our sleep. Yet, given their constant companionship, it is interesting to consider how poorly understood our fears are. Most are buried deep within our soul, and manifest themselves unconsciously. Even when they surface – as they sometimes do – we rarely think about them, much less expose them to prolonged scrutiny. Instead, we prefer to ignore them, retreating from situations where we may have to face them, and thus avoid the need to probe deeper into unknown territory.

Avoiding one’s fears is understandable. I personally can think of almost nothing in the whole world I dislike more than confronting my fears. Yet precisely for that reason it is essential that we do it – and regularly.

Why? Lots of reasons. Fears grow when you ignore them. They fester, and demand attention. I’m reminded of Noface, the rather scary character from Hayao Miyazaki’s Spirited Away, who when appeased only grows larger, angrier, and more insistent. Only when the protagonist – a little girl with enormous courage – quietly yet resolutely confronted Noface and told him “no,” did he begin to shrink down to his appropriate size and become innocuous.

Perhaps the most important reason we must face our fears is that they rob us of our agency. By ‘agency’ I mean the freedom to make choices, but also the power to determine our future – including the person we want to be and the life we want to lead. If left unchecked and unconfronted, fear will start to make our choices for us. By resorting to default and avoiding our fears, we limit the scope and range of our activities. If we’re not careful, we may look back and see that our entire life experience was colored and framed, not by agency (our conscious selections and choices), but by fear. That’s a chilling prospect.

 And the worst of it is that fear often operates below the radar of our conscious minds. Because our fears become engrained deeply in our psyche, they can limit our choices (or the way in which we interpret them) without our even realizing it. Indeed, fear is a stealthy, dangerous, and poorly-understood foe.

The solution is not a pleasant one, but it is simple: confront it head-on. The rest of this post is a cursory explanation of how exactly to do that. First, though, a huge disclaimer. I hate confronting my fears, as I said earlier. And I’m not very good at it either. So take what follows with a few (hundred thousand) grains of salt. If any of it is useful to you, I’ll consider this post a success.

The way I see it, facing your fears involve three crucial steps:

1.     Acknowledge

2.     Explore

3.     Let go

I personally hate step-by-step processes, and I like numbered lists even less. But I didn’t want any of these three parts to go unnoticed, so I gave in and listed them like that.

The first part, of course, is admitting you are afraid. We spend far too much time telling ourselves we’re fine, that we’re not afraid. Far from changing anything for the better, this just gives our fears even more leeway to run our lives. But acknowledging that we’re afraid isn’t enough. The crucial moment is when we say out loud exactly what it is we’re afraid of. Making a precise, verbal declaration of our fear is crucial.

Have you ever been wondering something, or looking for something, or stuck on a problem, and you’ve been going in circles inside your head for the longest time – then you finally find someone and ask your question out loud, and by the time you’ve finished saying it you know the answer? It happens all the time to me, and I think there’s a powerful principle at work. Until you’re ready to ask a question, you’re not ready to hear the answer; asking a question prepares your mind for the answer.

By the same token, declaring your fears prepares you to face them. You’re not ready to face them until you’re and willing to name them. In my experience, naming my fears leaves me feeling like I’ve already come halfway to facing them.

Second, is to explore. It’s like taking a flashlight with you and exploring an old, dark storage shed that no one’s been in for years. Evil things grow in the dark, and the quickest way to destroying and uprooting them is to shine light on them. Exploring your fears, however, is dangerous, risky, and scary. You never know what you might find in a dark, cobweb covered corner. What you find might influence the way you see yourself. In fact, I’ve often felt like this stage is akin to looking at yourself hard in a mirror after a long time without seeing your reflection.

The odd truth is that we can’t see ourselves very easily. Others can see us all the time, but we can only get a good look at ourselves by using a mirror. Facing your fears is one way of holding up a mirror to yourself – and you may not like what you see.

Two final comments on this stage of facing fear. First, really explore! It’s not enough to look for the obvious, surface level culprits – you have to really dig down to discover the tap roots of your fears. And they may surprise you. You may find out that you’re not really afraid of what you thought you were; that you’re afraid of something far more essential, something that cuts far closer to the bone – or the heart, as the case may be.

Second, while it’s important to explore thoroughly and carefully, it’s equally important to know when to leave the dark room and return to the daylight. Don’t stay too long in the dark trying to make sense of dusty old junk. In the process of exploration, you may become hung up on questions of “why?” The truth is we may never know in this life the answer to the deepest, most troubling “why?” questions. But it’s equally true that, in the end, they don’t matter nearly as much as the “what?” questions. In other words, asking why we are the way we are is not as important as asking what we should do about it, now that we know what we know.

Finally, you have to let go. What do I mean by this? Fear and hope grow together, remember? But feeling fear is one thing, and facing it is another. We begin to feel afraid when we can’t bear to contemplate a future where our hopes don’t come true – or where our fears do. Facing fear and letting go means being willing to accept a future where everything goes wrong.

I’m not saying you give up on our hopes. Rather, stop insisting on them. You have to be ok with a future that doesn’t realize them all. You have to be able to look your fear square in the eyes and say, “do your worst. I’ll be ok no matter what.” And no matter what happens, you face it calmly, with patience and grace.

The whole process is summarized in a short sequence near the end of the greatest animated series of all time, Cowboy Bebop. The main character, Spike, is on the verge of a very dangerous confrontation, and seeks advice and wisdom from his venerable native American friend, chief Red Bull. Spike is clearly afraid he might not come back, but chief Old Bull – rather than reassure him that he will survive, gives him this advice: “Do not fear death. It is always at our side. When we show fear, it jumps at us faster than light. But, if we do not show fear, it looks upon us gently and guides us into infinity.”

I’ve thought about that a great deal, but try as I might I can’t seem to say it any better, or clearer, than Old Bull.

Sorrow, suffering, embarrassment, hurt, disappointment, death – they are all just an arms length away. We live our lives in their shadow. But we need not be afraid, though fear is always there.

If we fear them, and consequently spend our lives trying to avoid them, not only will we fail to escape their influence, but we will find to our chagrin that we have, in the process, lost the chance to truly live.

Live deliberately. And let what happens, happen. If you do not show fear, the storms may rage but you will not be moved. And in the end you will see that it was the storm itself that made you who you are, and taught you to hope and have joy; and finally, it will guide you into infinity.

Sorry for waxing poetic there at the end, but Old Bull’s words to Spike really have the ring of truth to them. I hope we can learn to face our fears, that we may live deliberately, the way we always hoped we would.

It's hard to change the way you lose

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Have you ever wished you weren’t the person you are? That you could be someone else? Or maybe you just wish you could change some fundamental part of yourself. Have you ever felt hopeless against the overwhelming reality of who you are?

I’m a strong believer in our capacity to learn. And here it’s important to realize that we don’t always learn the right lessons. While I don’t think we come into this life a blank slate, it’s probably something pretty close to it. From day one, our mind is hard at work – observing, processing, learning. Our brain’s ultimate function and responsibility is to allow us to develop the skills necessary to cope with the experiences we face. The skills we learn determine our strengths and weaknesses – which in turn condition our experiences.

This feedback loop can be very powerful, limiting our lives to a very narrow slice of the possible.

Many if not most of our behaviors follow closely the relative skills we’ve learned, and are coping mechanisms – helping us deal with the situations we routinely face. Behaviors, as much as addictive substances, can be habit forming, and over time the experience of those behaviors – and the situations they were developed to cope with – condition our expectations. Before long, we don’t expect life to be any different than what we’ve always known, and we can scarcely imagine anything better. In this way, we’re each very much prisoners to our own selves, to the experiences that made (and make) us the way we are.

Most dangerous of all, over time our life experience prompts us to make an assumption – one that, although it sounds true, is in fact a lie: Our lives are the way they are because that’s what we deserve. The crushing implication is that, in the words of Stephen Chbosky, we can only “accept the love we think we deserve.”

In short, “it’s hard to change the way you lose if you think you’ve never won.” Props to Matt Nathanson for that one. It rings particularly true to me right now – almost like the church bells at the end of a requiem. Ok, maybe not that ominously or with quite that degree of finality. But it’s hard to argue against the reality it summarizes: that our lives are a beaten path that we rarely stray from. So rarely, in fact, that we can scarcely imagine scenery other than what we see each day.

Ok, so this post is getting pretty depressing. But it’s true – and for that reason alone it’s worth writing. But I’m not a fatalist, and I refuse to take a totally negative view on anything. There is always, in every truth, a kernel of hope.

So, is it possible to change the way you lose? Yes, it is. But doing so requires an enormous amount of faith, hope and courage.

Faith in yourself – that you have infinite potential and that you could learn everything you haven’t yet learned, if only you gave yourself the chance; that you could become everything you are not yet, if only you were faced with the experiences you need to mold your character – and the courage and strength to bear them with true patience.

Hope in a better future, a fuller, richer life. It’s not easy to hope when your past experiences tell you that hope is a dangerous lie, and that you get only what you deserve. It requires clear vision: the ability to see the future you want, the person you know you can be.

But above all, such hope requires courage – a god-like supply of it. Nothing is harder than facing down your own fears. Nothing makes you feel crazier than telling a lifetime of experience to shut the hell up as you embark on a journey that you have little reason to believe will end in anything but bitter tears and disappointment.

All that sounds like a little too much for one mere mortal to manage. If you feel that way too, you’re in good company. I don’t think anyone’s capable of it, on their own. Fortunately, while life can often feel hopelessly lonely, it’s been my experience that, from time to time, and when he’s convinced I’m ready to give up, God sends someone my way.

A friend can make all the difference in the world. When someone goes out of their way to love you and reach out to you of their own accord, it must mean that there’s still something about you worth fighting for, right? When you see no reason to believe in yourself, the love and confidence of a friend can reignite the spark of self worth. A true friend challenges what you've always assumed about yourself, and gives you the chance to expand your vision to realms you had already abandoned hope of achieving.

Such friends have, in my life, restored faith in who I am, hope in a happier future, and the courage to try and make it a reality.

Little is as disabling as loneliness. Nothing is as enabling as true friendship.

I won’t tell anyone that if you just grit your teeth hard enough and summon enough gumption you can overcome your demons. I’ve never found that to be true. But I do believe that where friendship and love are present, miracles can happen.

I thank my God for every good friend he has sent my way, who has crossed my path, who has restored my faith.

It is indeed hard to change the way you lose, which is why we desperately need friends to convince us we deserve more than the love we have come to expect. May God, in his mercy, grant you such friends when you need them most.

Of hope and fear

For those of you following the blog, I apologize for the long lapse between posts - life gets busy sometimes. I'll try to be more consistent and frequent in the future :)

This post is the result of a long process, inspired mostly by the thoughts and experiences others. It focuses on hope and fear – two concepts that wield a huge influence on our lives but that we rarely understand. Because they are predominantly emotions, we don’t often take the time to think about them in a relatively unimpassioned way, away from the heat of the moment. I guess this post is an attempt to do so, in the hopes that what is learned will be useful.

First, some definitions. Bear with me, it is actually crucial that we get them right.

Hope means looking forward for something good to happen in the future. You have no guarantee that it will occur, but you hope that it will. The opposite of hope is despair. It means that there is literally nothing that you want to happen in the future. You have given up on all of your hopes ever coming true.

You can’t live in a state of despair for long. What reason would you have to keep on living, other than the sheer momentum of your beating heart? In fact, I would define death to be living in a state of despair. Where hope brings life, despair extinguishes it.

Next, let’s define fear. Now, you might be thinking to yourself, “wait a minute! Isn’t fear the opposite of hope?” Yeah, I thought it was – until I was prompted by others to sit down and think about it. Turns out, fear is not the opposite of hope. As I said earlier, despair is hope’s opposite.

So what does that make fear? If you’re afraid, it means that you worry something good won’t happen, or that something bad will. Like hope, fear is related to events in the future, that haven’t occurred yet, but for which we have a definite preference. We hope that good things will happen; we fear that they won’t. We hope the bad ones won’t happen; we fear that they will.

Clearly, there is a relationship between hope and fear. But what is it, exactly?

Fear and hope are what I like to call an “opposition pair.” Now, this is a term I’ve coined because I’ve yet to come across a word in English that accurately captures the relationship between these two – though they are by no means the only opposition pair out there. An opposition pair are two objects that describe – through mutual opposition – one larger object. I know, that’s a crappy definition – I’m still struggling with the wording. Maybe some examples will help illustrate.

In Mathematics, it takes two directions (one positive, the other negative) to describe a single dimension. Think of a line – the classic one-dimensional object in math. It has two directions, but is comprises only one dimension. A two-dimensional object – a plane – requires four directions. Which is why there are four “quadrants” in the x-y plane, and four cardinal directions on a compass rose.

 In the Mathematics example, then, hope would be “+” while fear would be “-“.

But this example makes hope and fear seem like opposites again, so let me give you a better example from Physics. The physical world – as far as Physicists, a generally confused bunch, have a clue – is made up of particles. Each one, Physics teaches us, has an anti-particle associated with it, which has the same mass but most other characteristics (such as charge) are opposite those of the particle. Oh, and the anti-particle is made of ­anti-matter as well.

How does this apply? Well, in Physics there is a phenomenon known as pair creation whereby, via Einstein’s famous e = mc², pure energy can spontaneously condense and give rise to a pair of particles. This can happen for pairs of particles, but never for single particles by themselves. Why is this the case? The universe, it would seem, has a preference for symmetry, and there are a number of conservation laws that preserve it. So if you create an electron, you must also create an anti-electron (or “positron” as it is known) at the same time, moving in the exact opposite direction with exactly equal speed.

The Physics matches nicely with a concept taught in the Book of Mormon by a prophet by the name of Lehi – and here is where we finally make it back to hope and fear. Said Lehi, “for it must needs be that there is an opposition in all things” (2 Nephi 2:11).

Notice that he said “opposition in all things” and not to all things. It’s not that some omnipotent force is out there ensuring that everything we do is opposed. Rather, the universe was designed in such a way that the opposition is literally built into everything.

Like a positron and electron – or like two directions that together define a dimension – hope and fear are opposition pairs that together define something bigger. I’ll reveal later what I choose to call that bigger something.

The takeaway point here is that fear is not the opposite of hope so much as the reaction to it. Every time we begin to wish for something to occur in the future, we suffer the corollary fear that it won’t. When we extend our hopes, we extend the potential for disappointment – and, hence, fear. So hope and fear actually grow together, not at each other’s expense. I used to think – and I would argue it’s conventional wisdom – that the more you hope the less you fear, and vice versa. But in fact it’s not true – fear and hope grow together, like both directions of an expanding line segment, or particle pair creation.

But now wait, if hoping more only generates more fear, then why don’t we just conquer fear by ceasing to hope? Well, you can’t live without hope, as I pointed out earlier. As human beings, we’re bound to hope. It’s irrepressible! So that leaves us with no other option than to learn to manage our fears.

Which, of course, is no easy task. I mean, who enjoys facing their fears? I sure don’t. But this is mostly, I think, because fear is a poorly understood foe. And I have discovered, through my own experience, a general rule of thumb: the more you get to know your fears, the less scary they become.

Maybe, if I find the time, I’ll devote my next blog post to facing fear. But since I’ve made that promise in the past and not kept it, I’ll refrain from making the same mistake again. My next post will be on dealing with fear, In shah Allah.

Crossing to the other side

Life is a tall mountain range. We are on one side, and where we want to go is on the other. Life is so much better on that side; it is there that true happiness awaits us.

On the one hand we know we aren’t truly satisfied with where we are now, but on the other hand the mountains are so high and the path over them so long and hard. Is it really worth it – all that effort? Can we really make it? Do we have the strength and perseverance to make it all the way over?

We’re all secretly afraid of starting out and making it a long way up, only to realize we don’t have don’t have what it takes to reach the other side after all. Because sometimes, when you’re on that trail, anything seems better than going further. Sometimes we feel certain that nothing on the other side could possibly be worth this pain, this sweat and these tears.

After all, this side isn’t so bad, really. I mean, sure, it isn’t exactly as great as what’s on the far side, where we would really like to be. But it’s not exactly terrible either. It’s kind of comfortable, to be honest. We’re not particularly happy over here, but we’re comfortable. And it sure is easier than trying to cross those insurmountable mountains.

And what’s happiness anyway? Has anyone actually experienced it? Is there anything qualitatively different over there than what I have right here and now?

I mean, who’s good enough to make it over those mountains anyway? Certainly not alone – no one could possibly make it alone. And even with someone else helping you there’s no guarantee you’ll make it. You know what? After all is said and done, I think I’d rather stay on this side, thanks. I’ll leave the heroism and the “true happiness” (whatever that even means) to other people. Meanwhile, I’ll be enjoying my unhappy yet completely comfortable life right where I am now.

That’s the kicker. We fear losing comfort; we fear pain, disappointment, hardship, heartache. And we let those fears decide for us. Above all, though, we fear failure. We don’t want to come up against the limits of our ability, our strength, our goodness, and realize just how weak and ignoble we are. As long as life is comfortable and doesn’t make any real demands of us, we can go on giving ourselves the benefit of the doubt: assuming we’re better than we really are.

Growing hurts. Learning often comes with an ample dose of pain. Trying often leads to failing. Especially when we try to do it alone. But anything that is truly worthwhile is on the other side of those mountains. And don’t think that this an unfortunate coincidence. It’s that way by law of nature. Only after the climb are the views spectacular.

Wherever it is you would rather be, are you willing to give up your comfortable life to get there? Is the happiness worth the discomfort, the frustration, the unfairness, the pain? Are you worried you’ll fail?

My advice: give it everything you’ve got – literally everything – and don't give up. Oh, and one more thing: don’t do it alone.

Getting into heaven

Before I left Jordan a few weeks ago, I had a cool experience that I wanted to share on this blog. I’m interested in sharing it because it helps illustrate the truth behind one of religion’s most controversial issues: how “to get into heaven.”

So, most religions make claims of an afterlife – something after death. Basically, we go on living in some state or another after we die, and religions generally make an attempt to describe that state. That there is indeed an afterlife I am certain. Not 100% scientifically certain, but then again not even scientists are 100% certain of anything. There is always an error term, no matter how small. Suffice it to say that I’m pretty sure that this life isn’t the end of the road. But there’s a common understanding of the monotheistic description of the afterlife that doesn’t sit right with me.

To put it simply, most major world religions – and certainly all three of the monotheistic ones (Islam, Judaism, Christianity) – claim there are two worlds that exist, heaven and hell, and that we will all be sent to one or the other after we die. Heaven is a good place – you want to go there. Hell is not. You don’t want to go there. How do I know which one I’m destined for? Well, religions try to answer that question, and basically it comes down to this: if you’re a member of the correct religion (i.e. ‘ours’), and you’re a reasonably good person, you go to heaven. Otherwise, you’re hell-bound.

It’s as if there are certain conditions you have to fill – like boxes you have to check off on a “to-do list” – in order for some austere God to let you pass the “gates of heaven.” It’s almost like God is an immigrations officer at an airport, carefully checking your passport for all the requisite stamps, visas, etc, and making sure you haven’t been to Las Vegas too often, before letting you into the country.

Some of my friends have asked me how such a view of God is consistent with the often-heard claim that he is loving, caring, compassionate, and devoid of any hateful feelings or desire to harm. How can such a being thrust someone down to hell?  I mean, isn’t hell endless torment? I wouldn’t wish that on anybody, so how could a loving God do such a thing?

These are very good questions. My recent experience might provide some illumination.

So I lived in Amman, Jordan, during this past summer. Jordan is a predominantly Muslim country – though there are a few Christians and other religious minorities too. The Muslims in Jordan tend to be quite conservative and practice their religion, at least more faithfully than many Christians in the West do. Anyway, the month of Ramadan was ongoing at the time, which means that Muslims don’t eat or drink from sunup to sundown each day. As soon as the sun goes down, they have a huge meal called iftar, after which they sit around for hours enjoying their favorite vices (coffee, cigarettes, etc – many of them don’t drink, as it’s forbidden in Islam) while generally shooting the breeze and relaxing. It’s fairly challenging to fast all day for an entire month, so as soon as the sun goes down Muslims tend to reward themselves for their abstinence with a larger-than-normal amount of their favorite pleasures – food, coffee, tea, sweets, cigarettes, talking, joking, sitting around and generally relaxing.

I got invited to iftar by a couple generous brothers – both about my age – whom I had met just the day before. There were a number of young men at their house – maybe 15 or 20 of us in all – and we were sitting outside in the garden shooting the breeze after the meal was finished. The house was quite large, especially for Jordan (a relatively poor country); my friends’ father was clearly someone important and influential.

I didn’t have to wait long to learn more about him though, as he soon entered the garden from the street. As soon as he did, the atmosphere changed completely. Everyone put out their cigarettes, set down their coffee, and stood up. There was complete silence, except the quiet sound of this man’s steps as he approached our group. I have never experienced the word “patriarch” quite like this before. He was a middle aged man, dressed in a long white robe (a ‘dishdash’ in the local dialect) which came up to a collar that buttoned at his neck. His arms were hidden in his billowing sleeves, so that all you could see of his body were his face, hands, and sandal-clad feet.

He had a kind, pleasant face with a bright smile, and he greeted each of us in turn, shaking our hands. All of us remained completely silent while this was going on, and only sat down when he finally did. In a quiet voice (he didn’t need to speak loudly, as there were no other sounds to speak over) he politely asked about those of us whom he didn’t yet know. No one spoke unless spoken to, and then each responded quietly, modestly, and respectfully. After inquiring about iftar and wishing us a happy evening, he arose and entered the house.

The change in the atmosphere was again as sudden as when he had entered the garden. It felt as if the very air had been holding its breath, trying not to make a sound, out of respect for this man; as if his presence required everything around him to exist in perfect order and peace; as if he couldn’t tolerate disorder or chaos, and wherever he went these things fled, or else were temporarily held in obedience.

After he left, you could almost feel the group of us sigh in relief, slouch down in our seats a little more, light up cigarettes again, and resume our casual jokes and conversation.

As soon as things went back to normal, the thought crossed my mind that what had just happened was somewhat analgous to being in God’s presence, in heaven.

I want to make a few observations that I think are pivotal to understanding this concept of “getting into heaven.” First, there was nothing compulsory, or forceful, about my friends’ father. To use a favorite phrase of mine from the Doctrine and Covenants (a book of scripture of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints), his effect on us occurred “without compulsory means” (D&C 121:46). He didn’t force us to stop talking, put out our cigarettes (I’m speaking for the group – I don’t actually smoke), and stand up as he walked over. He didn’t even ask us to. We did it naturally, on our own. We chose to behave that way out of respect for the kind of man he was.

Second, being in this man’s presence was ennobling. It brought out the best in each of us, and made us wish we were nobler than we were. it also made us wish we had more to show for our twenty-some-odd years on Earth. It was clear that my friends’ father was evaluating what we had done with our lives so far. This judgment was anything but severe – he inquired respectfully about each person he didn’t know and never expressed disapproval. But the sense of assessment, of evaluation, was unshakable.

Finally, being around that man was hard. What exactly do I mean by that? Well, as I said before, being around him made us want to be our best – and that takes hard work! It really does. It means you have to suppress decisively the impulse to settle for something less than what you’re capable of. When he left, the collective sigh of relief was quite audible (after he was out of earshot, of course). We each slumped back down to the mediocre state we spend most of our lives living in.

It was kind of like an electron in an excited state. An electron in an excited state has more energy – and therefore more potential – than it does in the ground state, but it doesn’t last there for long. Nature prefers lower energy states (the lower the better), and systems tend to move that direction over time in the absence of an external source of energy.

Similarly, you and I have more energy to be the kind of person we know we should be – and that, deep down, we really want to be – when we’re under the influence of an ennobling force. But it takes real effort to remain there, fighting the urge to just accept mediocrity and give up on excellence. To be honest, our group of twenty-somethings was perfectly happy to slide back down to our ground state, so to speak, as soon as the patriarch left.

So what does all this have to do with “getting into heaven”? Quite simply this: there are no walls around heaven designed to keep people out. If there are walls and a gate, they are purely cosmetic – and the gate is open 24/7. Anyone who wants to come to heaven can, and no one will stop her – except, perhaps, herself. You see, the catch is this: to live in heaven, you have to be able to endure it.

It isn’t easy living with God. He brings out the best in us, and giving him anything less is unacceptable. Not because he would expel us if we didn’t, but because we would expel ourselves before we dared. Anything that isn’t pure, honest, virtuous, kind, true, and noble can’t endure God’s presence and would rather flee than be less than he knows we can be.

So we have two simple choices: conform to the holy order that his presence requires, or live according to our own personal preferrences somewhere else. Those who don’t live in heaven don’t live there because they chose not to live there. In fact, God begs, persuades, and cajoles all of us to come to heaven, and throws the gates wide open. But some of us will decide that they would rather live elsewhere – because they can’t live up to the caliber of man that he is, and couldn’t possibly feel comfortable being anything less around him.

There is a simple principle taught in the Doctrine and Covenants that beautifully summarizes what I’ve tried to explain. And small wonder: it’s the reason I believe what I do. “For he who is not able to abide the law of a celestial kingdom cannot abide a celestial glory.”

I guess I’ll finish with one final question and answer as food for thought: how do we become able to abide a celestial glory? We learn how here, on Earth. The things we experience here, during our mortal lives, are preparing us to be able to endure the loving, ennobling, glorious presence of God.

Some thoughts on misery and faith

Warning: this post doesn't claim to solve any mysteries or make any grand claims. I hope it doesn't sound preachy. I only wanted to venture some insights on what is for some a very difficult, painful topic.

I have recently been reflecting on misery. I’m not talking about having a rough day, or a string of bad luck, here. I mean real misery – the kind that doesn’t go away, that doggedly follows you all your life; the kind of misery that makes you want to scream out, “Why am I like this?! What possible purpose could this serve?!” I’m talking about the kind of misery and the kind of trials that you’re dead sure are far worse than what most people go through, and that are so huge and insurmountable that they make you want to just give up.

Let me restate the principle question that got my wheels turning: What possible purpose could such immovable, unconquerable, overwhelming trials serve? This is, in my humble opinion, one of the most difficult questions of life. And I don’t pretend to have the answer, though many have been offered over the years, and I am sure there is some truth to most of them.

Still, they always seem a little insufficient. I mean, if we’re talking about questions like: why do people have to suffer? Or: why isn’t the world perfect? Or: what is the role of trials in life? Then yeah, most standard answers are usually sufficient and can provide enough context and perspective to help people deal with day-to-day hardships, or even a hard week or month or year. But what we’re dealing with here are the types of problems that probably won’t go away for the duration of one’s mortal experience. Someone who longs to find a life companion but who spends his or her entire life single and lonely; those who suffered abuse in childhood and must live with the scars for the rest of their life; those who feel endlessly confused or conflicted about their gender or sexual orientation; someone who cannot, no matter how hard he or she tries, overcome or change a debilitating personality trait or habit; those who suffer from severe, chronic depression; and the list goes on.

These trials are different in that they can severly impair one’s ability to find joy and happiness in life; and also in their longevity – most of them cannot be banished forever, and can only be moderated with the greatest of effort and personal exertion. They’re the kinds of problems that you do battle with every single day, and never feel like you’re making progress. They aren’t accurately described as a “rainy day”, or month, or year. They are the thorns in our sides that God sees fit, in some wisdom privy only to himself, not to remove.

It’s really hard to know why these kinds of trials, and the misery they inflict, are “allowed” in life. It seems they are simply too hard, too hurtful, too impairing, too unfair to be inflicted on anyone, no matter how you spin it. I don’t intend in this post to offer the magic response that will make everyone feel better, heave a big sigh, and say, “Ah, so that’s why!” Instead, I only want to offer an insight (or a series of them) that I’ve had recently that shed further light on the issue for me, that led me to a greater (if still very incomplete) understanding.

Through interactions and conversations with several friends over the past few months, I’ve come to recognize – slowly – that the key principles underlying this mystery are probably agency, grace, and faith – in order of importance. By agency I mean the freedom God grants us to choose what kind of life we will lead, and how we will act (or react) to what life throws at us. By grace, I mean the divine strength and enabling power that comes from Jesus Christ by virtue of his atonement in the garden of Gethsemane and on the cross. And by faith, I mean the active choice to believe in God, despite everything.

Agency is one of the fundamental principles on which this life operates. It sets us apart as individuals, in that we are – thanks to agency – the ultimate masters of our souls. On this board of directors there is only one member, who also happens to be the CEO. Agency gives us the freedom to decide who we are and who we want to become.

But it also sets limits on the ways and the extent to which God can intervene in our lives. This is because agency (the freedom and ability to choose between opposing options) is essential if we want to learn and grow. If our heavenly Father wants us to mature, he has to give us the necessary space – even if it makes us feel alone at times.

This conundrum isn’t unique to God: every parent faces it, in fact. Think of a parent with a toddler who is learning to walk. At first, the child’s father holds her hand, helping her gain a sense of balance and preventing her from falling. But there comes a time when the father has to let go and allow his daughter the space to try it on her own. If he doesn’t, she will always rely on him and never learn. But if he lets go, she is bound to fall and tears are inevitable. It is easy to see the fear, frustration, discouragement on the face of a toddler after a couple of falls.

A casual observer might characterize the father as uncaring, since he let his daughter fall and cry when it was clearly within his power to prevent it from happening. Obviously, he allowed his daughter to suffer. But in reality, the father’s helping hand was limiting her agency; she needed the freedom and space to try to walk on her own.

So then, if this analogy is appropriate, are we destined to go through life alone? No. Because the same principle that sets us on our own and makes us feel alone also provides the key to gaining God’s grace: his help, strength, and love. Again, it is agency – through the medium of faith.

And again, the analogy to the child learning to walk is instuctive: while the father must eventually let go and give his daughter space to learn (and fall) on her own two feet, he is never far away. In fact, he is as close as he can be without interfering with his daughter’s growth and impairing her ability to mature. And, if she looks to him and trusts him and listens to his encouragement, he can become an enormous source of strength and support, enabling her to get through this (from her perspective, at least) trying experience. And he does this without diminishing her agency.

The father’s help, support, and encouragement are analogous to God’s grace, except that the latter is infinite; it is an endowment that Jesus gained when he chose (again, agency at work) to suffer for us and in our place in Gethsemane and on the cross.

So why doesn’t he grant us infinite strength to vanquish our demons? Because receiving grace is conditioned on our asking for it, and God will never violate our agency. In other words, God cannot intervene in our lives until we invite him to do so. This requires we use our agency – asking him to help us is a conscious act – but in a specific way. We have to choose to believe in God, to trust that he will hear our prayers and answer them, and come to our aid when we most need him – even when he won’t give us proof of his existence and it’s sometimes hard to see his hand in our lives.

I guess what I’m trying to get at here, in a nutshell, is that trials – like them or not – force us to exercise faith. And exercising faith is an extremely important part of what life is about.

A word about faith here. I won’t try to delve deeply into the topic, as it’s worthy of volumes. But I want to point out something that often gets lost in our understanding of faith: it is an extremely active phenomenon, by its very nature. Exercising faith is very much that: it’s a workout. A spiritual workout. And often an emotional and mental (and sometimes physical) workout too. You don’t exercise faith simply by thinking – you have to act, and it requires a great deal of trust, diligence, determination, and – above all –  patience. Building faith is like building cardio-vascular endurance or muscle strength – it requires consistent effort, couple with the firm belief that what you’re doing will pay off, that it’s working.

Ironically, faith is what you most need when you feel like you have the least of it. When you’re at the end of your rope; when you can’t see much past the end of today; when you’ve just about lost all hope of ever being happy again, and the future has nothing in it worth living for; that is precisely when you need faith the most. The bright side is that you don’t need any faith to start building it. Just like building muscle strength, no one is so weak that they’re incapable of getting stronger. What you need, at first, is nothing more or less than a desire to believe. If that’s all you can muster, then act on it.

Again, faith is the key to accessing grace. And grace is the only thing that will get you through the kinds of trials I mentioned earlier.

So, to return to where I started: why are debilitating, insoluble, chronic, crushing trials and burdens allowed? And what purpose could they possibly serve? I don’t pretend to have a decisive answer. But one thing I know for sure: they provide us the opportunity (if we will choose to take it) to exercise faith and call on the grace of God constantly, daily, with everything we have.

This may not seem like a compelling reason, and it may not make you feel grateful to be dealing with what you’re facing. But at least consider this: developing that spiritual strength and maturity is crucial – now and in the future. It’s one of the major reasons we are here on Earth right now, instead of with God in heaven, where we were before. But that, of course, is a matter for a different post.

Dealing with pain: becoming like little children

Previously, I wrote a post about the link between pain and anger. I would like to add an insight I recently had on this subject, since it strikes at the heart of what it means to be human.

In that previous post, I asserted that anger arises from pain, and that humans react to pain by becoming angry. We do this because it distracts us from the pain and restores a sense of power following a moment of powerlessnes. Anger is a reaction, and I feel that all reactions are inherently inferior to actions, which are consciously enacted by an agent – someone who possesses the freedom and knowledge necessary to make her own choices. Actions stand in stark contrast to reactions, which are simply responses to stimuli. After all, you don’t even need a simple nerve net to react: plants and bacteria react all the time. Humans are unique in all the universe in their ability to act, yet we often forgo its usage and spend our lives reacting, like lesser creatures.

Anger is, in fact, one of the most destructive and harmful reactions of all. As I said earlier, pain inspires both sympathy and empathy, and urges others around you to come to your aid. Anger drives others away at precisely the moment you most need comfort and consolation. And I haven’t even mentioned the enormous damage you can inflict on others (and yourself) when you lash out in anger.

The alternative, however, is to endure the pain quietly and humbly, without seeking revenge or blaming others for your suffering, as if discovering who is at fault will make the pain magically dissipate.

This is terribly difficult, of course. Turning the other cheek is one of Jesus’ most controversial and difficult commandments. A wise friend of mine once asked me, “what do you do if you just can’t take it anymore? Sometimes the pain is just too much to bear.”

I’ve thought a lot about what my friend said, and was struck by a thought I had while taking a walk this morning. I realized that resorting to anger as a knee-jerk response to pain is a learned behavior. This isn’t something that we’re born with – we learn it as we go through life. It’s those damn offenses that we suffer every day, both small and not-so-small, that teach us to react that way.

The reason is fear: we’re afraid of pain, so we react in anger because we have learned that it lessens the pain and removes the awful sense of powerlessnes and hurt that comes when someone offends you – and by “offense” I am referring broadly to any action that causes someone hurt or pain. There are few teachers in life more effective than pain, and fear is the result of lessons learned. We learn to fear the things that caused us pain, and we develop strategies to cope with it; anger is one of the most powerful of these strategies.

So what am I trying to get at? I have always been fascinated, and even somewhat confused, by Jesus’ teaching to become like a little child. In both the New Testament and the Book of Mormon, he repeatedly insists that conversion to his way of life is tantamount to becoming like a child again, that it is a rebirth – involving necessarily an unlearning of some of the things we learned as we grew up and became adults. (See, for example, 3 Nephi 11:37 in the Book of Mormon, or Matthew 18:3-4).

Thinking about children and offenses (incidentally, right after exhorting his disciples to become as little children, Jesus goes on to teach about offenses), I realized that children react to offense without anger and without apportioning blame on others. They simply absorb the pain, and often simple sit down and cry. They don’t try to discover the cause of the pain, but rather to deal with the pain itself. A child knows no other way to react than to cry it out, and to reach out for his mom or his dad, or someone else nearby, to comfort him and help him make it through.

I realize now that Jesus’ words were more profoud than I had thought – that in this sense, we truly do need to become as children. And I would like to take children as our examples of how to deal with pain, in an attempt to respond to my friend’s question.

First of all, children teach us that the way to deal with pain is to cry it out, so to speak. I’m not advocating literally crying everytime we endure an offense of any kind. Nor am I trying to discourage understanding the painful situation in an attempt to minimize needless painful encounters in the future. But the ability to cry is cathartic and healthy, and in moments of serious pain there is nothing wrong with shedding tears. One of my greatest fears is to some day become so stone-hearted, so covered in callouses and scars that I lose the ability to cry. Of course, those who know me well know that this is an unlikely eventuality ;)

But far more important than simply crying it out, we need to learn how to reach out to others when we’re in pain, the way children do. Instead of focusing on who we can blame, we should focus on who we can ask for understanding and comfort. Despite being individuals, and even though life has a powerful tendency to isolate us from one another, we were not meant to go through this life alone. No one is strong enough to bear their burdens alone. We all need help. Indeed, I think one of the reasons God has created a world in which offenses abound is to give us the opportunity and need to reach out and help each other when we’re hurting.

Like the command to endure offenses well, without anger or retaliation (the “turn the other cheek” principle), the act of helping others through their trials and pain is also a core part of the Jesus’ teachings, and personifies the very heart and soul of Christianity. The parabol of the Good Samaritan in the New Testament, and the prophet Alma’s sermon at the waters of Mormon in the Book of Mormon are two examples. In the later case, Alma teaches that all Christians must be willing to bear one another’s burdens, mourn with those that mourn, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort.

We don’t need to endure life’s pain, trials, and agonies alone. We shouldn’t try. Children don’t, they always reach out for loving arms in times of distress. We should reach out, first and foremost, to God, who possesses not only an infinite love for us, but also the power to heal our wounds and pour in balm. But we must not neglect our friends, either – many of whom stand willing to help if we but ask. In fact, it is often in wading through pain together that we learn to love and ties of friendship are strengthened. It is in being there for each other that relationships sink deep roots, allowing what might otherwise have stayed a superficial relationship to develop into real friendship.

Perhaps most of all, it is in serving one another, in being there for each other, and by reaching out to others when we need comfort, as little children do, that we slowly transform into true Christians – the kind of transformation Jesus was talking about when he urged his disciples to become as little children.    

The ultimate virtue

It is common, during moments when our patience is sorely tried, to hear someone say, admonishingly, “patience is a virtue.” I would like to rephrase this wise statement slightly: patience is the virtue.

Or perhaps, stated another way, patience is the ultimate virtue. With it, every other virtue becomes attainable, every trial is conquerable, and true strength is found. Without it, every virtue disappears, strength withers, and vices of all kinds, shapes, and flavors take their place.

Franz Kafka put it best. He said (and I paraphrase somewhat): “there is only one major sin: impatience. Because of impatience we lost the Garden of Eden, and because of impatience we may never return.”

I first began to see the connection between patience and every other virtue – and its converse correlation: impatience’s link to every kind of sin – while thinking about the story of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. Kafka must have noticed the same connection, because his quote resonated strongly in my mind when I read it.

This ancient and well-known story has never seemed quite complete to me, and I don’t think we generally understand it. As it is commonly told, God gave Adam and Eve two commands: not to eat the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil; and to have children. But there is a contradiction in the two commandments – as they were stated above, Adam and Eve could not obey both forever. As long as they kept one, they could not keep the other.

Let me explain. Members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (myself included) believe that before we were born here on Earth, each of us lived with God as a spirit; the soul, in other words, existed long before it was joined with a mortal body through birth. It was God’s plan that we each obtain a physical body in addition to our spiritual one, and this was to happen by being born to a mother and father here on Earth. Adam and Eve were the first couple, and all the rest of us would gain a physical body through them or their children. Hence, the commandment to multiply and have children. So far, so good.

But unless they ate the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, Adam and Eve would remain in their innocent state, not able to tell the difference between good and evil. They were like little children, who have no comprehension of sex and the process of reproduction, let alone the mental, physical, and emotional maturity necessary to be a parent and raise children. So if they didn’t eat the fruit (commandment #1) then they would never be able to have children of their own (commandment #2).

Why would God give contradictory commandments? The answer is quite simple: he wouldn’t. He’s not dumb, and he doesn’t give commandments that are impossible to obey. Clearly, the story is not telling us everything – we’re only getting part of the picture. What I think God actually told Adam and Eve was: don’t eat the fruit of the tree yet. He knew perfectly well that Adam and Eve would eventually need to be able to comprehend good from evil. That was, after all, a core part of the whole plan he had put together. Understanding good and evil and learning to choose the good is at the core of what this life is all about. So why would God forbid it absolutely? It makes no sense. It seems pretty clear to me that God fully intended for Adam and Eve to eat the fruit eventually, but not right away.

Why couldn’t they eat the fruit right away? Good question. And I don’t know the answer for sure. But I have a couple guesses.

First, Adam and Eve needed to grow and increase in understanding before they could eat the fruit. You might be thinking, “wait a second! I thought you told me they couldn’t grow in understanding until they ate the fruit.” Good point. But just as a child grows in understanding very gradually at first, so perhaps did Adam and Eve. Even though a one-year-old doesn’t fully grasp what good and evil are, and has a very limited understanding of the world, he certainly knows and understands more than an infant who is, say, only one week old. Perhaps Adam and Eve needed a similar growth period before they could understand the consequences of eating the fruit of the tree. I mean, it would change their world forever – opposition would enter the story and the perfect world they had inhabited would become the imperfect one we all know so well. The God I know would never force anyone – let alone his own children – to make that choice without understanding what it meant. If Adam and Eve ate the fruit of the tree, it would be because they chose to do so.

Second, perhaps patience was the very lesson God was trying to teach Adam and Eve by telling them not to eat the fruit just yet. In essence, he was testing their ability to wait. After all, the fruit was delicious, and some of the consequences at least were very desirable. I mean, if someone else knows something that you don’t, it makes you want to know too, doesn’t it? Adam and (especially) Eve realized that there was a lot more to life than what they knew, and that eating the fruit was the key to discovering what that was. I even believe that God may have told them that eating the fruit was a good and necessary step for the plan to unfold – but that they were to wait until later to eat it.

What does all this have to do with patience, virtue, and vice? In essence, Eve’s sin – the first of all and, I believe, the archetype of all sin – was impatience. When she ate the fruit from Satan’s hand, she was saying to God, “I want this, and I want it now. I’m not willing to wait for you to give it to me when you think the timing is right.”

Similarly, nearly all our sins are impatience in some form or another. Take immorality, for instance. Sexual desire is neither virtue nor vice, in and of itself. It all depends on how and when it is acted upon. And it’s primarily a question of timing: sex with someone with whom you have not made sacred, solemn commitments is a serious sin; sex with that same person after making those solemn commitments (i.e. the commitments entailed in the marriage covenant) is not. Sexual sin, therefore, is fundamentally a matter of impatience. By the same token, virtue – immorality’s opposite – can only be found where there is patience enough to wait until marriage vows have been made.

Our ability to forsake sin and return to God’s presence after this life is predicated on cultivating patience. Without patience, we will never be able to return home to the paradise with God our Father that the Garden of Eden represents.

But patience isn’t only necessary to forsake sin. It is also essential to cultivate every virtue that we have a name for. This is in part because we are all imprefect beings and overcoming  our weaknesses and cultivating virtues in their place is a painstaking, slow process that requires persistent effort over time. In effect, it requires patience. But even more than that, every virtue incorporates patience into its very essence. Patience is the very fabric out of which each virtue is woven.

It’s like energy: almost every form of energy man knows how to exploit is, in essence, solar energy. Obviously photovoltaic solar panels use solar energy, but nearly all the other forms we’re familiar with do as well. Take wind power, for instance. The sun heats up the land masses and seas of the Earth at different speeds. This is because the specific heat of water is higher than that of rock or earth – meaning that during the day the land heats up faster than the oceans and seas, while at night the land cools faster. This temperature difference between land and sea gives rise to a corresponding temperature difference in the air directly above them, and masses of air with different temperatures have different pressures also. It is this pressure difference in adjacent masses of air that gives rise to wind, which we harvest for energy using wind turbines. So even wind energy is, essentially, solar energy. Similar arguments can be made for oil and natural gas too, which are solar energies at heart.

In the same way, all virtues are patience in essence, but in a different form. Take hope, for instance – in my mind one of the greatest virtues. Hope is more than mere wishing, it is believing in good things, and believing that good things will come. The realization of our hope is not instantaneous, obviously, or else there would be no need to hope at all. To hope, then, is to be patient. It is to accept a delay between our good, noble decisions, and the consequences that we firmly believe will follow from them. One cannot hope, therefore, without patience. And patience brings hope within reach.

With all the numerous ways in which we can do evil and hurt or harm others; and with the equally numerous virtues we can and must cultivate, it can seem overwhelming and even impossible to lead a good life by forsaking sin and cultivating virtue. Our attention is pulled in too many directions at once, and we never seem to make any real progress in any of them. So, for me at least, it’s comforting to greatly reduce the complexity of the picture and simply focus on one virtue and on discovering its applications in all areas of life.

Patience is the ultimate virtue.

Catching a cab in Amman

Life is like trying to catch a cab in Amman during rush hour.

This epiphany struck me just the other day while I was trying to just that. For those of you who haven’t been there, Amman in the capital city of Jordan, a small desert kingdom in the Middle East, definitely a developing country without oil or water or much of anything else to support itself. The city itself is a sprawl of similarly constructed buildings without any discernible planning or organization. There is no mass transit to speak of – the buses have no published routes or scheduled times, nor are there any official bus stops. You just figure out generally where they go and hail one that you think is headed in your direction, and get off when it seems to have decided to go elsewhere.

I don’t use the bus; I prefer taxis. They are extremely cheap compared to American cabs, and they are ubiquitous throughout the city. But they have their problems too. They are very well-used, since there is little alternative to getting around, and thus during rush hour 99% of them are full. And their drivers are a diverse and eccentric lot, to say the least. I met one who was a Canadian-educated engineer who spoke perfect English (don’t ask me why he was driving a cab); I’ve had many others tell me to cross the street and get a cab over there because I was headed in that direction and they didn’t want to have to turn around. Others have been alternately friendly, full of advice or admonition, or just plain rude. Many have tried to cheat me out of a lot of money (up to 10 times what the fare should have been), taking advantage of the fact that I was new to the city and didn’t know the ins and outs of cabs and where everything is located in the city. In brief, in four short weeks I have had the gamut of experiences with cabs in Amman.

One more thing about getting a cab in Amman. During rush hour, like I said, the cabs are nearly all full. And those who aren’t full typically don’t want to pick you up. I have no idea why. Plenty of guesses, but no real answers. The real answers probably vary widely anyway. The upshot is that you can wait – along a busy road, even – for 30 minutes or more with your hand out before a cab will stop to pick you up. I have seen literally hundreds if not thousands of cabs drive past me before one stopped to take me back to my apartment. And very often, after stopping, as soon as the driver sees who I am and hears me tell him where I want to go in my imperfect Modern Standard Arabic (rather than the local dialect, which I am only slowly picking up and have never studied) he shakes his heads, waves his hands at me and drives away, leaving me standing there like a fool who has no idea what just happened or why.

Let me share something about myself: I don’t like being rejected; I don’t like being made to look like a fool, or like I got duped because I’m some naïve, kid who is easily taken advantage of. But what I hate most of all is to have that happen while lots of other people are watching. I think everyone fears rejection, but I fear it more than most, and I’m absolutely terrified of others watching me get rejected.

The reason I’m telling you this is that I have to face exactly this fear every day after class when I want to go home. I’m tired, somewhat depressed from a hard day learning a hard language, and I want to retreat to the quiet, contemplative sanctuary of my apartment. Instead, I have to stand on the side of a very busy road with my hand out getting rejected by literally hundreds of taxis – all the while getting gawked at by everyone – those in their cars, those in the cabs, and those walking past me along the road. I mean, I’m the foreigner who looks lost and probably doesn’t know his way around – an easy target for stares.

It’s hard. Let me tell you, there are times when I wonder if I will ever get a cab, if this ordeal will ever end and I’ll ever get home. And when I finally do catch a cab (thirty long minutes later), I never know if I’m going to have to fight tooth and nail in a language I don’t speak well not to get totally ripped off and cheated. You just never know what’s going to happen when you try to catch a cab in Amman.

So how is this like life? In lots of ways. First off, it requires serenity of spirit and mind, and a great deal of patience. I remember a day when I lacked both, and after 10 emotionally abusive minutes in which several cabs rudely and condescendingly told me to cross the street because their cars happened to be pointed the wrong way at the moment, I stormed away, angry and hurt, to find some meager degree of privacy where I could recover and get ready to try again. Other days I’ve had serenity and patience, but boy could I feel how much I was using and needing both.

Getting a cab in Amman is also unpredictable, just like life. You never know what kind of cab driver you’ll end up with – could be a jerk; could be completely indifferent and silent; could be extroverted and talkative; could be friendly, caring, and interested. He could try to cheat you for all your worth. Or he could treat you with perfect fairness – or more.

Some of these experiences are unpleasant or downright hurtful. I hate being cheated, but far more than that I hate the feeling I get when I know the person across from me is trying to cheat me – that he or she has malicious, hurtful intent, and that it doesn’t even bother them to feel that way about me, someone they have never met before. I hate having to get in their face, stand my ground, and call them out on their lies and mean-spiritedness. I hate calling people out on their bad behavior – it embarrasses them and therefore embarrasses me.

So I’ve come to hate taking taxis in Amman, because I’m afraid of those hurtful situations. I’m afraid of the public rejection and I’m afraid of interacting with people who bear me ill will – who are actively trying to hurt me and treat me poorly. In fact, I dread going to class in the morning (when it’s much easier to get a cab, and they tend to be nicer) because I know that if I do I will have to go through the ordeal of trying to get a cab home in the evening.

Getting a cab in Amman has therefore taught me this life lesson: because life is unpredictable and you never know when you’re going to have a hurtful encounter you have to put some space between your feelings and others’ actions. Even if the person across from you is trying to hurt your feelings, you can’t let them. You have to create a buffer between their intent and your reaction that absorbs the venom and neutralizes it before it reaches your heart. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself fearing and avoiding life because of the fear of being hurt. What a tragedy that would be, fearing life while living it!

Finally, getting a cab in Amman during rush hour has reminded me that life isn’t all bad! The other day, after 20 or 30 minutes of watching people stare at me as I stood there with my hand out, supplicating for a taxi, one finally stopped. When I got in, I immediately knew I had lucked out. He understood my less-than-perfect Arabic, knew where I wanted to go, and then asked me where I was from. We had a friendly conversation for the length of the ride. It was obvious he was doing more than making conversation; he was legitimately interested, and I could feel the goodness of his intentions. He corrected my Arabic mistakes and told me about himself as well. When we reached my apartment he asked for no more than what the fare ought to have been. I had a broad smile on my face and said a sincere “thank you.” He said goodbye using my name, and really meant it.

I had a glow in my heart that after that encounter that lasted all evening and that erased all the weariness and uncertainty of the day. Life is like that. You have to take it as it comes. But there are wonderful encounters ahead of you, mixed in with less pleasant ones. The trick is not to fear, but rather to hope. It is in becoming strong enough to endure the offenses of life, with an attitude of hope for the marvelous encounters that fill it with light, that makes life beautiful.