A NOMAD IN THE BASEMENT

THE SITUATION OF OUR SITUATION

Joy is the infallible sign of the presence of God. —Madeleine L'Engle

Sometimes it feels as though we are living out a life sentence....

I'm not an academic, a professional theologian, or the pastor of some Godzilla-sized mega-church. I began writing this book because, like many of you, I am often so preoccupied with securing a perfect ending that I can't seem to move forward. In a culture of "don't ask/don't tell" spirituality, my need for transformation, the urge written deep in my DNA to participate in creation's natural motion of progress, and my deficit of joy drove me to the confines of my basement—of all places—to write and reflect. In the intestines of my home, surrounded by the clutter of years, cast-off feelings, and boxes of hidden grief, I sat wrestling for a faith that seemed to hang in the balance like shoddy wiring strung loosely across the unfinished ceilings.

I had a silly theory when I was younger that there are five places where the realities of our lives are clear, our needs acutely evident; where we speak in the candid language of our true self; where the "condition our condition is in" is obscenely apparent: train stations, airports, weddings, funerals, and of course, here in the dark confines of life's storerooms. All of our energies working to convince the world (like Will Ferrell's Anchorman) that we are a pretty big deal mean little when we arrive at one of these ground zeroes. Now I know life provides scores of these places. I guess most of us at times occupy some sort of dull cell magnifying the hollowness of our systems and the futility of our pursuits.

Stacked next to my makeshift desk were photo albums of loved ones who had passed on. Close by, boxes of trophies, prizes from various "achievements," and keepsakes of my children's accomplishments shared shelf space with volumes of poems, letters, and stories now trivial and long forgotten. The dim and naked light bulb burned just bright enough to heighten the rawness of pink insulation crammed between rows of unpainted wood beams along the ceiling. The water heater griped and moaned. The air was stale and the cursor on my computer blinked rhythmically in a taunting action accentuating the lifelessness of the dingy space.

If this were a movie, I might be tied to my chair unable to move, with an inquisitor aggressively circling me, assailing me with questions. "What does your faith really matter? How are you moving forward? You are tethered to the inconsequential, left high and dry by the buoyancy of pursuits that end up decaying in this dreary place. Where is your joy?"

Maybe I am just a casualty of consumer culture, of broken relationships, of bad religion.

I once saw a forty-year-old dad of three on television in tears recalling the loss of his own father when he was only six. It was profound to me how he had allowed that experience to be the singular architect of his identity and desire. It seems we are all victims of circumstance, slaves to our longing to be somebody, fashioned by the nature of life's cold realities.

A picture book on the basement shelf reminded me of my seven-year-old's exasperation with the Sunday school story of Eve eating forbidden fruit from a tree: "If God knew that Adam and Eve were going to eat the bad fruit and get in trouble, why didn't he just destroy the tree before they could mess it all up?" Jake's grandma responded, "Well, I suppose that God let them mess up because he wants us to have a choice." I often disagree with a professor who conjectures that people don't really want freedom (despite what they say), and I wonder if this is accurate in our spiritual lives too. I think that's the new "religion" of coming years, an idea that we don't genuinely have a choice in what we believe or how we live or what molds us. Scientists talk about how our decisions are dictated by genetic codes, and our religion is a tribal superstition we've been conditioned to accept; we're biologically wired to live certain patterns. Change and forward motion are a big-time exception to the rule. Joy seems in short supply.

As I said before, it feels as though we are living out a life sentence.

I looked toward a fractured mirror with enough glass to catch my reflection leaning in a vacant space of stone gray wall. Mirrors cast honesty about ourselves that we cannot escape. I noticed a forgotten watercolor painting sheltered snugly behind the antique. Between jagged edges of my reflection, I could make out the picture of a dusty path through wilderness at the base of the tattered canvas. A road was winding upward toward the lone character in the piece. At the center of the brushstrokes was a rugged looking nomad in dirty robes. He was cresting a steep hill toward blue skies and untamed territories. With the painting shrouded behind the cracked mirror, I could scarcely see the lightly shaded footprints of his upward march.

Midthought I was interrupted by a loud thud on the ceiling, the rumble of feet across the kitchen floor above, and the voices of my children laughing and wrestling, and my wife scolding them. The sound of living, the echo of moving, of action, a tiny reverberation of real life ... the disturbance led my attention back to those footprints veiled beyond my broken reflection. The energy and progression above me seemed to accompany the painting, and I sensed a symphony of joy in the route of those footprints.... I imagined placing my feet on his path.... I could hear a voice beckoning me in a familiar...