Last week I was guest lecturing at McMurry University talking to a class about my research regarding Summer and Winter Christians. During the discussion we got into a conversation about Paul Jones' notion of theological worlds.

The first part of Jones' thesis is that our spiritual lives are characterized by an obsessio and an epiphania. Here is how Jones describes our obsessio:

An obsessio is whatever functions deeply and pervasively in one’s life as a defining quandary, a conundrum, a boggling of the mind, a hemorrhaging of the soul, a wound that bewilders healing, a mystification than renders one’s life cryptic. Whatever inadequate words one might choose to describe it, an obsessio is that which so gets its teeth into a person that it establishes one’s life as plot. It is a memory which, as resident image, becomes so congealed as Question that all else in one’s experience is sifted in terms of its promise as Answer. Put another way, an obsessio is whatever threatens to deadlock Yeses with No. It is one horn that establishes life as dilemma…The etymology of the word says it well: obsessio means “to be besieged."

Basically, the obsessio is the Question of your existence, theologically speaking. What's the location of brokenness in the world or in your life?

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In my posts on unhappiness last week I talked about how relative comparisons with our peers can lead to unhappiness. I saw an interesting example of that dynamic this week over at Slate.

In her piece The Anti-Social Network Libby Copeland reviews a recent study published psychologist Alex Jordan and others in Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin. The study examined how we tend to unfavorably compare our lives to others and how Facebook exacerbates these comparisions. From Copeland's article:

...the researchers found that their subjects consistently underestimated how dejected others were–and likely wound up feeling more dejected as a result. Jordan got the idea for the inquiry after observing his friends' reactions to Facebook: He noticed that they seemed to feel particularly crummy about themselves after logging onto the site and scrolling through others' attractive photos, accomplished bios, and chipper status updates. "They were convinced that everyone else was leading a perfect life," he told me.

The human habit of overestimating other people's happiness is nothing new, of course. Jordan points to a quote by Montesquieu: "If we only wanted to be happy it would be easy; but we want to be happier than other people, which is almost always difficult, since we think them happier than they are." But social networking may be making this tendency worse. Jordan's research doesn't look at Facebook explicitly, but if his conclusions are correct, it follows that the site would have a special power to make us sadder and lonelier. By showcasing the most witty, joyful, bullet-pointed versions of people's lives, and inviting constant comparisons in which we tend to see ourselves as the losers, Facebook appears to exploit an Achilles' heel of human nature...

The whole article is worth a read.

Growing up in my little church I often heard in my Sunday School classes that there was a difference between happiness and joy. It's a pretty ubiquitous Christian meme. I'm sure you've heard it before. But what does it mean?

When I probed this formulation as a child I found that illumination wasn't often forthcoming. Happiness, I was told, was immediate, hedonic, and fleeting. Joy, by contrast, was sturdy and enduring, even in the most difficult of circumstances. The point being that, when life gets tough, you can still have joy while not being happy.

Fair enough, but who, exactly, in the world thinks happiness of this sort is better than joy? If you're using happiness as a synonym for instant gratification then just say so. But, then, if all you're saying is that joy is better than instant gratification I can't see this as a particularly profound, or even uniquely Christian, observation. It's a straw man dressed up as wisdom.

My sense is that, when most people say they want to be happy they are, in fact, saying they want joy. I think happiness and joy are pretty much synonymous.

True, the word "happy" has been degraded a bit. But so has the word love. But that doesn't mean that happiness is distinct from joy, just that when we use the word happy (or love) we take the time to clarify that we are not using its degraded meaning ("Have a happy day!" or "I love peanut butter!"). Ways I see people do this is by adding an adverb to happy. I am truly happy. Deeply happy. When someone tells me they are truly and deeply happy I know they are not talking about instant gratification. They are talking about joy.

Still, when we talk about being truly happy we are often making a commentary about our environment. When we inquire as to why someone might be truly happy my guess is that they would report that the important things in life are all in order: Loved ones are close and safe, friendships are rich, work and other pursuits are rewarding and fulfilling. We look over this scene and sigh, "I am truly happy."

But what if life isn't going well? Where is happiness, even true happiness, during difficult times?

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I saw this video over at my preacher's blog. I'd not heard of the band Gungor. The lyric about Republicans is predictable (a lot of Christian bands seem to be tweaking their evangelical base). But the comments about anthropomorphism, consumerism and nationalism are astute. And the end of the song is very provocative in articulating the scandal of Matthew 5.44.

Last week I said I'd write some posts about the possibility of happiness. I want to be clear that I'm not sitting on any wisdom. Nor are my reflections going to be systematic. So, unlike my posts on unhappiness these will feel like (because they are) a series of scattered reflections.

So let's start with what every series on happiness should start with: Jungian archetypes.

Happiness is, at root, a hero's journey. Consequently, the hero archetype reveals the secret of happiness. Or, at the very least, the hero archetype maps out the path before us.

Think about hero myths. Think about Spiderman 2 or Rocky III. In each of these myths the journey is the same. Early in the story the hero fights an enemy. And the hero fails. This is due to the fact that the hero is spiritually unprepared. The hero is afraid, prideful, or selfish. This spiritual flaw prevents the hero from defeating the enemy. So in the middle of the story the hero goes on a spiritual, largely internal, quest. The hero overcomes fear, or learns humility, or becomes loving and sacrificial. At this point the enemy returns and a second battle begins. But this time there is no doubt about who will win. The hero, now spiritually whole, wins the victory. Or, if the hero dies, there will be a transcendent victory that even an external defeat cannot overcome.

Most hero stories have a story arc like this: Failure, Spiritual Quest, Victory. And the fact that this pattern occurs over and over again in human mythology and story telling qualifies it as a archetype, a recurring symbol of wisdom shared across space and time. And what does this archetype teach us?

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There are times when I struggle with how some Christians appropriate various spiritual disciplines. The one I struggle with the most is Sabbath.

Sabbath, it seems, can mean just about anything. And more often than not, when I hear people talk about Sabbath they are saying something like this: "I'm too busy. I need to take some time to relax, unwind, and recuperate." No doubt God "rested" after six days of "work." But it seems that many Christians are using the notion of Sabbath to provide spiritual cover for a period of self-focus. It's horribly judgmental of me to say this, but much of what passes for "Sabbath" in Christian circles seems to be case of self-indulgence. A means, for example, to get a little peace and quiet away from the family, to justify time set aside for the self.

So I've never really been interested in practicing Sabbath. I've just never been impressed with how I saw Sabbath practiced by the Christians around me. If I'm tired I take a nap. If I need to relax I engage in recreation. If I need some time alone I ask for time alone. But I don't need to slap the word Sabbath on any of this.

But my views of Sabbath are changing.

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In the last post we discussed how happiness achieved is found to be fragile, transitory, and fleeting. But let's say you're lucky and happiness sticks around for awhile. Let's again grant you everything we've been talking about in Parts 1-4:

1. You know what you want.
2. You've chosen wisely.
3. You've not succumbed to short-term temptation.
4. And the happiness you've found seems relatively enduring.

It seems, then, that you've arrived. But let's pause a moment and look back at this path of frustration and failure. How many people ever get to this point? Some people get stuck at Stage 1, confused about who they are, what they are good at, and what they want out of life. Their pursuit of happiness ends up looking like random lunges in the dark. And even if people do know, with clarity and certainty, what they want they often choose the wrong things. We trade in befuddlement for disappointment.

And if we do choose well we often end up shooting ourselves in the foot. We are our own worst enemies. Perversely self-defeating creatures. Time and time again we trade in the Greater for the Lesser, mainly because the Lesser gratifies us now and we don't have to work or wait for it. So we trade in disappointment for frustration.

And if, by some miracle, we actually get to a good place in life we find that happiness is fleeting, like a mist. Too many things can come along and burst the bubble. We trade in frustration for a feeling of deflation.

Few, ever, get to where we are right now in the series. But some do. Some find themselves in a happy place and this happiness proves to be sturdy and robust. It sticks around. It doesn't burst. So we are happy for weeks, then months, then years. Seems like we've got this thing licked.

Or do we?

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Amnesia

The children were released
into the large open space,
given a respite
from the ordering of their day--
the lining up,
the counting off,
the sitting still,
the demand for quietness.
They looked, now free,
like doves taking to the sky,
like the fluff of dandelions
caught and scattered by the wind.
They ran
and ran,
here to there, and back again.
Their only destination
the movement itself,
kinesthetic joy
and salvation.
There is wisdom here,
I thought.
A truth,
but I could not remember it.

Okay, let's say we grant you all of the following from Parts 1-3 of this series. Let's get you all the way to happiness:

1. You know what you want.
2. You've chosen wisely.
3. You haven't given in to short-term craving or temptation. Your will stays firm and you reach your long-term goal.

Congratulations! You're happy!

But there's a problem. It won't last long.

This is the fourth obstacle to happiness, the fact that happiness is very, very fragile. It's like a balloon that keeps getting popped or an egg that keeps getting dropped. (Hey, that kinda rhymes.)

Why is happiness so fragile and transitory? There's lots of reasons for this, I'd just like to meditate on one psychological dynamic.

It's a perverse peculiarity of human psychology that we tend to make personal and social comparisons that are relative rather than absolute. That is, when we think about our abilities, status, income, homes, clothing, or cars we tend to compare ourselves to our peers, family members, co-workers, and next door neighbors. As they say, the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.

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In light of MLK Day yesterday, I thought I'd announce that the Civil Rights class I've been dreaming about is now a reality. The following poster is now live on the ACU campus:

Excerpts from Martin Luther King Jr.'s Letter from a Birmingham Jail:

16 April 1963

My Dear Fellow Clergymen:

While confined here in the Birmingham city jail, I came across your recent statement calling my present activities "unwise and untimely." Seldom do I pause to answer criticism of my work and ideas...But since I feel that you are men of genuine good will and that your criticisms are sincerely set forth, I want to try to answer your statement in what I hope will be patient and reasonable terms.

I think I should indicate why I am here in Birmingham...basically, I am in Birmingham because injustice is here. Just as the prophets of the eighth century B.C. left their villages and carried their "thus saith the Lord" far beyond the boundaries of their home towns, and just as the Apostle Paul left his village of Tarsus and carried the gospel of Jesus Christ to the far corners of the Greco Roman world, so am I compelled to carry the gospel of freedom beyond my own home town. Like Paul, I must constantly respond to the Macedonian call for aid.

Moreover, I am cognizant of the interrelatedness of all communities and states. I cannot sit idly by in Atlanta and not be concerned about what happens in Birmingham. Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly...

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Last year we started taking Jana out to dinner to celebrate Epiphany. This year Jana wanted to go to the Clyde Pizza House. Clyde is about 12 miles away from Abilene, but we think the Clyde Pizza House has some of the best pizza we've ever had. Plus, on weekends they often have local bands playing live, old school (very old school) country music.

Anyway, last week on the drive out to Clyde Jana and I had the following conversation. It's a story for all you math teachers out there:

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Today I was at a civic-oriented lunch function. As a part of the lunch we said the Pledge of Allegiance and sang God Bless America. And as I stood among the crowd I was taken with, and moved by, the passion with which the audience participated in these patriotic displays (they were an older crowd). I watched the emotions rise in my own soul and I thought about my love of this country and its history.

I can talk with some authority about Thomas Jefferson. I can give you a guided tour of the Gettysburg battlefield. I can be moved to tears thinking of my grandfather, wounded in France, when I hear about World War II. I can even inflict a Civil Rights tour on my family during the summer of 2010.

I've read biographies about George Washington, John Adams, Benjamin Franklin, Abraham Lincoln, JFK, and Bobby Kennedy. I've spend hours on Revolutionary and Civil War battlefields. I've taken my family to Washington DC and stood in line to look at the Bill of Rights. I've cried at the Vietnam Memorial. Colonial Williamsburg is one of my favorites places to visit.

But as I stood there today, with those familiar feelings swelling, a little voice whispered in my head: Can you be patriotic and a be Christian?

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As I think more about the sadness in Arizona I was struck this morning by this poem from Mary Oliver (recall that I'm reading through her New and Selected Poems, Volume One).

The title of the poem is Beyond the Snow Belt. It's a meditation on a snow storm, news, death, and our affections. The poem begins with the news where Over the local stations, one by one/Announcers list disasters like dark poems. But the storm has missed Oliver's town: But once again the storm has passed us by/Lovely and moderate, the snow lies down/While shouting children hurry back to play. But north of them the news brings the story that people have died in the storm: Two counties north the storm has taken lives.

The poem then goes on to struggle with how this news leaves her town (and herself) unaffected, how we/Forget with ease each far mortality. Today this strikes me as similar to how we hear and react to tragedies such as the one this weekend in Arizona. These sad events seem very far away. Two counties north, to us, is far away/A land of trees, a wing upon a map/A wild place never visited. Consequently, due to a preoccupation with our own lives, we don't seem affected by the distant news of lost life.

The poem ends with a confession that this preoccupation with our own lives, in light of the troubles elsewhere, is a "fault." But our response is predictable as articulated in the final lines: except as we have loved/All news arrives as from a distant land.

That, to me, is the challenge. A challenge to expand our love so that there are no distant lands in our hearts.

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We've discussed Reason #1 and Reason #2 about why happiness is so elusive: We don't know what we want and even if we did know we frequently choose the wrong things.

But let's say you choose wisely. Let's say you know what you want and you've chosen well. Your goal, if reached, will make you happier.

So far so good. And congratulations! Few people ever get this far. But I'm not done with you yet.

Having successfully gotten past the first two obstacles you now run into a third:

Even if we know what we want and have chosen well more often than not we give in to short term craving/temptation, thwarting our long-term objectives.

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A few weeks ago I devoted a couple of posts--here and here--to the Sermon on the Mount and its centrality to the Christian life.

I recently found out about a blog that will be documenting the journey of some individuals who are going to spend this upcoming year in a deep and intentional engagement with the Sermon.

You can follow their progress over the year on their blog A Year with the Sermon on the Mount where in their opening post they write:

This blog will be our journal for 2011 as we dive into The Sermon on the Mount. Our goal will be to chronicle our experiences, our discoveries, and our difficulties as we try to live what Jesus taught.

I'd like to highlight some of the commitments of the group:

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In Part 1 I argued that one of the reasons we struggle with happiness is that we don't know what we want. We're often confused by ourselves, self-deceived, or in two minds. I end up looking in the mirror and asking myself, "Richard, what do you really want? What do you think will make you happy or more content?" and coming away with very few answers. I'm not sure what I want. So I guess, write down some goals, and head off into the darkness. Not surprisingly I end up tripping over myself or walking in circles

That's Reason #1 why happiness is "impossible": We don't know what we want.

But let's say you do, through honest introspection, come to know, with some clarity, what you want. You now know what you want. But having overcome this first challenge we immediately face a second problem, Reason #2 for why happiness is impossible: You've chosen poorly. You want the wrong thing.

In short, people can come to want X with some assurance and clarity. But that's no guarantee that X will move you toward happiness. And more often than not, it doesn't.

We all know this. How many times have we reached some goal only to find that its attainment really doesn't satisfy?

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Sorry for all the poetry. I guess it's kind of like eating Oreos. Once you eat/write one you can't stop.

Seeing Like My Dog

Wikipedia tells me
that my dog--
Canis lupus familiaris--
"is a domesticated form
of the grey wolf."
Which is shocking to me
given the size of my dog.
Regardless, the animal behaviorists tell me
that there is something
in the hearts and minds and instincts
of Canis lupus familiaris
that finds me,
as a representative of Homo sapiens sapiens,
to be a marvel,
an astounding curiosity,
a miracle walking on earth.
I've observed this.
My dog sees me (and he's alone in this regard)
as utterly fascinating.
When I move or walk
he watches and follows,
joyous, in his eyes, about this inexplicable turn of events.
When I scratch my face
or stand in the bathroom shaving in the mirror
he looks on
as if he were gazing at cherubim dancing in the Holy of Holies.
When I make my coffee in the morning,
bleary-eyed, shuffling, and blowing my nose,
he tilts his head
gazing at this High Priest and these sacred rituals,
as if my measuring the grounds
or washing out the pot
has taken him to the streets of Zion.
Whatever I do draws from him
(and he's alone in this regard)
no commentary, judgment or snicker.
Only happy attention and contemplation,
like a prayer.
My simple existence
his mindfulness and mantra.

And I find myself pleading
that I might come to see this life--
like that leaf hanging,
right there, red
with sunshine upon it--
and you beside me,
especially you,
in our shared banal, quotidian moment,
standing next to me in Aisle 6 as you buy SpaghettiOs for your children at Walmart--
that I might come to see you,
each one of you,
here with me in Aisle 6, on this street of Zion,
to see you finally
as this dog
sitting at my feet
sees me.

Speaking of New Year's resolutions, if I have one this year it just might be this poem from Mary Oliver. Over the holidays I purchased Oliver's New and Selected Poems, Volume One. When I read the poem "When Death Comes" I was blown away.

When Death Comes

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measles-pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it is over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

It's that time of year, the time for making New Year's resolutions. Have you made a list yet?

In light of all this goal-making and drive toward self-improvement I thought I'd write some posts on the topic "On the Impossibility of Happiness."

The title is half-meant to be a joke. Of course you can be happy. But through exaggeration I'm trying to highlight how difficult it can be to find happiness, contentment, and joy. About why all these New Year's resolutions, and self-improvement efforts like them, often fail, leaving us feeling guilty, frustrated, or demoralized. So I want to write about the elusiveness of happiness and, in writing about its "impossibility," to find in the details of our failures some insight that might actually be helpful to us. This series will be a very sad story, a tale of defeat and failure. But amidst the wreckage I hope to find some wisdom, or at least a cautionary tale.

Why is it so hard to find happiness? And why is happiness, once we grasp it, so fragile and fleeting? These are the questions I'd like to try to answer.

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Happy New Year!

Well, 2010 was quite a year for this blog. Thanks to all of you who read this blog and took the time to interact with and comment on the posts and series. Year after year I'm amazed at the quality--in both content and spirit--of the conversations we have here. More, week after week I learn so much from you. Thank you very, very much.

I had a hard time narrowing down my ten favorite posts/series from 2010. I started out with twenty and have finally narrowed it down. If I wrote something in 2010 that you felt should have made the list please feel free to plug it in the comments.

Without further adieu or self-indulgence, here it is, the best of 2010:

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