"We humans have chosen speed,"

        writes James Gleick in his recent book 

                titled "Faster: The Acceleration of Just About Everything."

"And we thrive on it – 

        more than we generally admit.

Our ability to work fast and play fast gives us power.

It thrills us.

If we have learned the name of just one hormone,

        it is adrenaline.

No wonder we call sudden exhilaration a rush."

 

He suggests – not so gently – that we love it.

"Admit it – you do!" he teases.

"Still, you have not truly explored the consequences of haste

        in our culture and in our daily lives," he goes on.

"You hardly perceive the acceleration of art and entertainment:

        the changing pace of media

                from cinema to television commercials,

                        which reflect and condition a changing pace in our psyches.

 

"Instantaneity," Gleick continues,

        "rules in the network and in our emotional lives:

                instant coffee, 

                        instant intimacy,

                                instant replay,

                                        and instant gratification.

Pollers use electronic devices during political speeches

        to measure opinions on the wing,

                before they have been fully formed.

Like missiles spawning MIRVs,

        fast-food restaurants add express lanes.

If we do not understand time,

        we become its victims."

 

And many would say we are victims already.

Our desire for speed has generated some unhealthy habits.

One journalist has compared fast food restaurants

        to the tobacco industry,

                perpetrating lethal obesity on consumers

                        and paying workers something less than a living wage.

Happy Meals they are not.

 

I read in the newspaper recently

        that a theologian from Italy, naturally,

                has declared that fast food is not Catholic.

He argued that proper Catholic meals are consumed 

        by families sitting together at a table,

                over time,

                        with reverence for their maker.

He was making the theological point

        that speed can undermine a spiritual life.

 

The problem is that few people can afford to live 

        as if they agree.

Those who do are anachronistic throwbacks to slower times,

        or children, like our little Pepita, 

                from this morning's story.

The writer Wendell Berry, 

        who has explored in his work 

                the themes of culture and agriculture,

                        commented once in an interview 

                                that speed is just an illusion to the farmer.

"When you farm," Berry said,

        "it doesn't make any difference how wound up you are.

If you are going to grow corn,

        you have got to slow down 

                to the speed of corn."

 

Berry adds that he refuses to write on a computer.

He says that he writes as well as he can

        at the rate of two or three pages a day.

"If I wrote more than that," he declares,

        "my work would be worse, not better.

The refusal to speed up,

        to hitch yourself to those mechanisms 

                that impose speed on you,

                        is simply a way of staying within real time –

                                the time in which things grow,

                                        in which good work is done."

 

But to most of us, such "real time" is a luxury.

We live, out of necessity,

        in the land of fast food and computers.

Time is a commodity, not a gift,

        and those who live at the "speed of corn,"

                to use Berry's image,                           

                        are either very rich or very poor.

 

Everyone must learn, as Pepita does, 

        that time has a value.

She lives unconsciously and contemplatively,

        unaware of time,

                insisting that being late doesn’t hurt anyone.

Brother Juan complains that Pepita "takes time away" from people,

        making them wait and start over for her 

                when she finally arrives.

She learns her lesson at last when being late

        actually does hurt someone, 

                her best friend Sonya.

Then she understands that paying attention to time

        is a way of caring about other people.

 

Time has value.

Being punctual is how we show 

        that we care about others.

And yet, we are frequently late. 

Here in Los Angeles, 

        with unpredictable traffic delays and great distances to cover,

                we don't take it personally.

A few sticklers drawn the line somewhere.

One lawyer friend claims that there are two appointments 

        for which he is never late:

                to appear in court 

                        and to attend a wedding.

I can tell you that when it comes to weddings, anyway,

        he is an exception.

 

We may crave speed,

        but we have little control over when we arrive.

We have chosen the accelerated life,

        but it does not take us where we need to go.

And we can never master time.

Even "Faster," James Gleick’s 1999 book,

        with its many references to technology and media,

                may seem dated today.

It was obsolete in an instant.

 

And yet, the book poses questions we need to answer.

We all need to bring some degree of intentionality

        to the way we live in our accelerated culture.

A healthy life needs time for reflection,

        for leisure,

                for slowing down.

And like the Italian priest who condemned fast food,

        we may make some judgments of our own

                about the spiritual value of speed.

 

I have not mastered time very well.

Few people have, and ultimately, no one can.

But I have found joy in a few small victories along the way.

 

I used to have an appointment book 

        in which each day opened up in two pages

                of fifteen minute increments.

Now I have a larger book that shows a whole month on two pages.

Each day is a little box.

What I can fit into each little box

        is the right amount of work for me to do.

It's not the "speed of corn,"

        but I've moved in the right direction.

I've honored the truth that the quality of my work

        depends on taking the time to do it 

                without feeling rushed.

Still, just like everyone else with a job,

        I have expectations about my productivity:              

And I tend to measure it 

        by the number of things I check off my list,

                by the speed of my response,

                        by the quantity of meetings, events, and appointments 

                                I can jam into a week.

Sometimes I have to.

Even ministry has some quantitative goals.

 

Unlike Wendell Berry,

        my work has improved because of advances in technology.

I write better on a computer.

Email messages have increased the amount of contact

        I have with many of you,

                and I think that's good.

Doing research on the internet

        saves me from driving my car to the library 

                in search of a single fact.

 

I don't want to go back to the old ways!

Rather, I want to combine 

        the contemplative pace of a spiritual life

                with the efficiency of technology.

I don't want fast food,

        but I do want to buy ingredients flown in from Italy

                to a market on Lincoln Boulevard.

They wouldn't make it without speed, lots of it.

"Speed is like light,"

        writes James Gleick.

"Something we crave …

        and something that can obscure

                as well as illuminate."

To live in these accelerating times,

        we need to know the difference between what obscures

                and what illuminates;

                        we need to develop the capacity to judge

                                what is good for us

                                        and what is not.

We need to view time as a gift to be valued,

        not as a commodity to be exploited.

 

As a child, I did not have Pepita's capacity for contemplation,

        but I did have unhurried days and a lot of free time.

A summer can feel like an eternity at a certain age.

Having nothing to do is a formative state;

        we grow and move in directions no one prescribes for us;

                we make something out of nothing;

                        we are free.

I remember days from childhood

        that felt like that, 

                so slow as to be almost timeless.

Those days are the closest I can come 

        to an image of spiritual peace.

I want more days like that now.

 

Sebastian de Grazia, an advocate of leisure, wrote, 

        "Perhaps you can judge the inner health of a land

                by the capacity of its people to do nothing."

The person who can do nothing, de Grazia adds,

        is at peace.

Well, I have a way to go on that.

I may crave days of doing nothing,

        but the laptop computer I wanted so badly

                now allows me to take work with me anywhere I go.

That's why I wanted it.

I find it easier to relax

        if I'm not worried about missing something important.

Somewhere in the counterpoint between catching up

        and letting go,

                pockets of empty time appear,

                        to cushion the day

                                and calm my soul.

 

In a little book called "Time and the Art of Living,"

        Robert Grudin outlines the perfect day.

It consists of little other than sleeping, eating, reading, and enjoying the outdoors.

Building a fire and making a meal 

        are the only things resembling work in it.

What is perfect about such a day –

        for him, a sunny day in California on vacation with his family –

                is not simply because it is filled with pleasure,

                        but also, he says, "because of the large dimensions of time,

                                time opening up spatially into vistas of clear hours;

                                        and in the greater distance,

                                                banks of clear days opening up

                                                        both past and future."

Clear hours and the time to indulge each activity to its natural fullness

        are what make the day so perfect.

 

The human heart craves the fullness of time

        as deeply as it demands speed.

Living fully does not always mean 

        that we move at the speed of light,

                however productive and profitable such moves might be.

Living fully also means that we break away

        and find a different pace,

                try a few hours moving at the "speed of corn,"

                        to restore the soul and calm the mind.

We all know it.

So when will we do it?

References used to prepare this sermon include Faster: The Acceleration of Just About Everything, by James Gleick (Vintage Books, 1999); Time and the Art of Living, by Robert Grudin (Harper & Row, 1982); The Art of Place, in NPQ, Spring, 1992.

 

Copyright 2000, Rev. Judith E. Meyer

This text is for personal use only, and may not be copied

or distributed without the permission of the author.