We live in a flash-bang world. Buy now, pay later, twenty minute trends, thirty second youtube videos, CGI, 3-d, streaming music on demand, computer in hand, swipe to pay, fast action, version 18.104.22.168.4, hyper-connectivity, 10,000 texts in a month, facebook updates, like, like, comment, share, immediate response; 140 characters-or-less to explain tragedy, famine, shootings, what Beyonce wore, who Miley will be dating today, or tomorrow, or which pastor we think is spouting heresy today. Forgive me for playing the curmudgeon, but the pace reaches beyond our ability to catch up to the fact that our list of innovations have produced a whole new list of and syndromes, phobias, and -isms. Hyperconnectivity is transforming our relationships to others, to reality, to crisis, even God, in imponderable ways. If our culture is flash-bang, the most important parts of God must be as well.
What we overlook are still –slow –places. A mountain creek where water ripples by with no particular place to go, catching in small stone alcoves, circling in back out then on to the next, rolling over rocks, rubbing gently against and taking away small particulates from places their parents had been and their parents parents, and their watery parents before them. Over millenia doing their mundane part to carve a canyon path for generations to come. It flows gently to the sea, tosses massive ships, houses life, is pulled up by the sun where takes it's sweet little time in the air until falling gently on mountains again, waiting for spring to start the journey all over.
There are rythms in life and faith that are slow, sure, mundane things that just so happen to hold the universe together.
The Bible, speaking of men and women attuned to the maker, agrees.
"He will be like a tree planted by streams of water, that bears its fruit in season."
In my arrogance I've usurped the power of slow faith, slow life, in the name of a work ethic, efficiency, and productivity. And it has worn down my soul.