As the tall story laid out horizontally goes, the prophet Abraham lived until the over-ripe age of one hundred and seventy-five. Heck, he didn’t even start a family until he was ninety-nine (and they call Gretzky “The Great One.” Ha!). We thought his nickname—”Father Abraham”—was a term of respect when all along they were jerking him around, joking and poking and having their fun at the expense of the old herdsman. But Ol’ Abe got the last laugh as he became one of the first influencers getting his big break as a pitchman for Geritol (look it up, kids).

Enoch, the antediluvian biblical figure and patriarch (come on, how often do you get to use the word antediluvian in a sentence? Look it up adults) was said to have lived three hundred and sixty-five years when, according to Genesis, “God took him.” Ever since then, people talk about the recently deceased as if God were a no-good, self-centered, insensitive burglar: “Why did God have to take her so young? Why didn’t God take that bitty-old bat three doors down instead?” Blame it on Enoch who overstayed his welcome, got greedy, and wouldn’t make the Final Crossing. I’m guessing God just got impatient and sent one of his angels to walk him home.

If we think Enoch had a long tenure here on earth, what do we have to say about his son Methuselah who lived to be nine hundred and sixty-nine years old? Maybe: “They don’t make ’em the way they used to,” or “Well, it’s about time.” And those are not dog years either. Last Sunday, Ted Koppel interviewed the prolific screenwriter and producer Norman Lear who turned one hundred. He’s still heavily involved in six different projects. I thought that was impressive. But leaned up next to Methuselah, Lear’s years seem downright puny. I’m guessing Methuselah’s skin looked like the bark of a mature Sierra redwood tree. So, it’s kind of a trade-off. Good skin or long life. One can only imagine what it was in his past that made him put off meeting his maker for so long.

♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦

How times have changed. That was then. This is now. Today, it’s a dead giveaway when an optimistic person turns into a delusional one: it’s when those of us who are in our 60s call ourselves “middle-aged.” Ha! Who are we kidding? Who do we think we are—the second coming of (a) Abraham (b) Enoch (c) Methuselah?

I’m not cocksure of much, but if I know anything for certain it’s that I have fewer days in front of my nose than behind my head. I will not be deluded by what Kellyanne Conway would no doubt call the “alternative facts” of Abraham or be taken in by the conspiracy theories of moon-faced Enoch and the Enoch Phenomenon or fall prey to the Methuselah Syndrome. Every religious tradition has a way of promulgating the message that—as the psalmist said,—”Humans are like a breath; their days are like a passing shadow.” (144:4) The Christian author of the Epistle of James put it this way: “You do not know what tomorrow will bring. What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes.” (4:14)

And so, the free advice from the wise ones who have gone before us marked with the sign of faith: DON’T PUT IT OFF! Spend your days spending your time and “your one wild and precious life” on what and who are worthy of the investment of your life.

Knowing the truth of these statements all the way down to his toes, St. Benedict instructed even his novices with peach-fuzzed faces to “Keep death always before your eyes.” He wasn’t saying this because he was a killjoy or an Eeyore-like party pooper. He was saying it so that his monks—and now us—would greet each day as if it were our last. Why? Because it might be. Why? To depress us? To pile negativity atop pessimism? No. He counseled this counter-cultural orientation to life so that we would not sleepwalk through our days or years or neighborhoods or friendships or loves acting as if we have the lifespan of Abraham or Enoch or Methuselah. He said it so that we would take nothing—neither a boon nor a burden—and no one—neither a prince nor a pauper—for granted.

He said it so we would learn to savor every moment, cherish every sip, be fully alive in every situation—good or bad—be grateful for the seemingly insignificant, enjoy every encounter, every relationship, every revelry no matter how small, celebrate the sacrament of the present moment (whatever that moment holds), and take conscious delight in the incomprehensible surprise of living. WAKE UP! All that we wake to each morning need not have been. ROUSE YOURSELF FROM YOUR SLEEP! We need not have been.

Benedict schooled the monks in this discipline so they would learn to be fully present to the Real Presence, so that they would not see a field flooded with tulips or a toddler dancing or the autumnal turning of the leaves from green to gold, scarlet red, and yellow-orange or a man lying wounded in a ditch and say, “Whatever,” then cross the road to get to the other side.

“WHATEVER.” #indifference #apathy #arrogance #ignorance #ennui #thewalkingdead.

If you are like me, it is easy to slip into somnolence, to lose sight of the fact that all this—and every last bit of it— is sheer gift, even the seemingly insufferable aspects of being alive. William Faulkner once said, If I had to choose to feel pain or to feel nothing at all, I would choose pain. What would you choose? What would I? Rabbi Heschel said,

“Just to be is a blessing. Just to live is holy. And yet being alive is no answer to the problems of living. To be or not to be is not the question. The vital question is: how to be and how not to be?”

And of course, one of the most important, humble—and yes—transformative answers to how to be is Be Grateful. It’s hard for me to type those two words because even gratitude has been coopted by the dominant culture for commercial purposes and financial gain. I heard someone the other day say “gratitude is kind of cliche.” I hope not. Because it is true. It is essential. It is oxygen for the soul. It is the walkway to deep peace, satisfaction, and contentment. To be human—authentically, deeply, fully human—is to be grateful. To be grateful is to be like Mary of Nazareth who, when carrying the Christ-child, was recognized by Elizabeth as being full of grace. Which means what? To be full of grace means the Lord is with thee. It means the Holy One is with us, with you, and with me. But Mary KNEW IT.

To be grateful is to be fully aware of the Divine Presence that is wildly but deliberately strewn about this earth for those who have the eyes (of the heart) to see it and to be exceedingly grateful for it. Being full of grace is different than being full of blue mud as my mom used to say. How so? Well, any person who is full of blue mud according to Mother Miller is usually responsible for the mud therein. But to be full of grace is not something we can bring about or make happen on our own. We don’t fill ourselves with grace.

In other words, even being grateful is a gift. Even gratefulness is not something that begins with us or is self-generated. It is Spirit-evoked. All we can do in faithful responsiveness is to create a space for grace (as opposed to blue mud). Grace is an alias for God or Divine Presence. To be grateful at the break of dawn and to be full of grace as nightfall pulls down its shade is to know the sacredness of all reality, to grasp the gratuitousness of life, to experience the blessing of our own aliveness, to appreciate the transience of our earthly days and the imminence of our deaths, and to be attuned to the presence of God. Again, “Just to be is a blessing. Just to live is holy.”

It’s all gift. It’s all grace because there’s not one among us who made our lives happen, who did anything to conjure up life, who did anything to earn it, win it, achieve it, deserve it. It’s all gravy. And gravy is just another name for grace as the short story writer and poet Raymond Carver discovered before it was too late to jump on the gravy train. Carver captures all this in his poem “Gravy.”

No other word will do. For that’s what it was.
Gravy.
Gravy, these past ten years.
Alive, sober, working, loving, and
being loved by a good woman. Eleven years
ago he was told he had six months to live
at the rate he was going. And he was going
nowhere but down. So he changed his ways
somehow. He quit drinking! And the rest?
After that it was all gravy, every minute
of it, up to and including when he was told about,
well, some things that were breaking down and
building up inside his head. “Don’t weep for me,”
he said to his friends. “I’m a lucky man.
I’ve had ten years longer than I or anyone
expected. Pure Gravy. And don’t forget it.

The key to a vital spiritual life is not to wait for a grave diagnosis that signals a terminal illness to wake us up to the munificence of life, the gratuitousness of God, the resplendence of the earth, the sheer gift of friendship and love, and our innate need to give thanks. This is the sure path to joy. A great way to re-member ourselves to all this is to use Carver’s words as a prayer of gratefulness to prevent forgetfulness, as an intermittent mantra throughout our day:

“Pure Gravy. Pure Gravy. [It’s all] Pure Gravy.”

♣ GOODPEOPLE ♣ ARE YOU INTERESTED IN SPIRITUAL DIRECTION ONLINE? Would you benefit from having a trustworthy companion to listen with you to your hopes, struggles, yearnings, burning questions? Someone who will hold space for you and pay attention with you to your quiet desire to cultivate a life of spiritual depth and meaning, as well as to deepen your connection to the One from whom all wonder, joy, and blessings flow? I am offering spiritual direction online. If you, or someone you know, are interested in beginning or returning to spiritual guidance CLICK HERE where you will find both practical information and explanations of spiritual direction. I’d be honored to hear and hold your unfolding story.