That’s right. Put
down the chocolate bunny. Back away from
the brightly colored eggs. Put a wrinkle
or two into your frilly spring dress bought special for today. Get serious.
What’s the deal with hope?
For starters, it’s your mind playing a sinister seduction
trick on you. You’re telling yourself
that there’s another condition – a better job, a more loving family, a nicer
house, a purpose for… uh…. (more on that later) – that is remote from the
present. And isn’t it somewhat ironic
that our perception gets objectively overridden by the exact same set of
neurons which shape our view of the present and then convince us that an indeterminant,
unobservable “other” will be “better” than the fully apprehendable “now”?
And why did I pick today to write this post? Quite simple.
Because the power of myth – the animating impulse for judging the
present to be inferior to some other, some later, some “out there” – is
enormously animated by the way we tell the story of Easter. And don’t think you can dodge the bullet my
Jewish friends – Passover is no different.
Remember, we got to Egypt because Joseph was exiled by his
family and sent to a far-off country where he provisioned the very family that
rejected him! Sure, we can all remember
the story of slavery but we assiduously deleted the story about how we got
there. And a few weeks into 40 years, remember
how we longed for the good ole days in Egypt?
But I digress.
Hope exists because we are taught to want. Want exists because we are conditioned to
compare. And all of these dynamics are
fundamentally pathologic because they ALWAYS rob the present of its
completeness, its adequacy, yes, even its abundance. In mathematical terms, hope is the imaginary
error in our unexplained variance. And
more insidiously, it’s an admission that we’ve elected contempt for the present
over our unfounded notion that we could concoct a “better”. And how seductive is that? We get to “believe” (once again, a
self-referential delusion) that we can architect a more palatable scenario than
the whatever situation we’re in at the moment.
I love the Easter story that the Christian faith doesn’t
explain very well. It’s the one of Mary
Magdalene. Yeah, that Mary. The one who was living her grief, sorrow,
love, and passion when she went to visit the tomb of the man she loved and
followed. Sanctioned history
approximates her pouring perfume on her beloved’s feet before the
crucifixion. And on that morning, she’s
just doing what she knows to do as an expression of love – coming with
fragrances to anoint her beloved once again.
She’s not hoping. She’s not
believing. She’s doing. And on the way to the tomb, sure she’s
probably thinking, “Why did he have to be so damn stubborn?” “Why did he have to piss so many people
off?” “Why couldn’t we have just lived a
normal life like everybody else?” “Why
couldn’t he have seen how much I loved him?”
“Why wasn’t my life good enough to convince him to stay and let go of
the mission?” Cut the pious crap. She wasn’t singing Easter songs. She was crying. She was mad.
But she was doing what she knew how do do – show love. And when she found the empty tomb of the
story, she even turns to Jesus and thinks he’s a gardner. It’s not until he says her name – “Mary” –
that she recognizes the man that just three days earlier was the center of her
world. And there’s the problem with the
mind that manufactures “hope”. It
doesn’t slow down and recognize that the impulse that animates the unconsidered
reflex of hope could be the very same impulse to say, “slow down and
observe.” “You’re missing something
that’s standing right beside you.”
The Easter story is as much about this tender reunion as it
is about death and life. And we miss the
point when we fail to see that in the sanctioned story, the Jesus who could
fly, walk through walls, appear and disappear, that Jesus, stayed at the tomb to
meet Mary. No one talks about this. Did he hope she would come? Did he believe she would come? Nope.
He knew that Mary wouldn’t miss a chance to anoint him and he waited for
her to come. Easter is NOT a story about
hope. Easter is not a story about
belief. It’s a story about certainty.
Now by now you’re probably thinking – what’s this got to do
with economics. Well here’s the dirty
little secret. Hope, want, and belief
are GREAT for business. Relationships
end, great! Hire lawyers to get what you
deserve, counselors, therapists.
Drink. Drown your sorrows. Buy new clothes. Change everything to rid your world of those
memories. Take down his pictures. Need the house or car, great! Spend more time at the office, drown yourself
in so much work that you have to eat out, fly, drive, stay in hotels. Today sucks!
Great! We’ve got a pill for that,
we’ve got the dream vacation that will give you all you can eat and drink
all-inclusive. This incarnation is
tough. Great! We’ve got a heaven that’s waiting for you as
long as you worship, restrain, conform, tithe, and repress. Oh, and that should do wonders for your
emotional well-being so you consume to drown out the scarcity and
repression-induced lack of fulfillment.
Whether it’s the actual lottery or the metaphoric one, consumption is
more fueled by hope of a better (experience, life, status, reputation,
appearance, you name it) than it is based on an adequate present.
When someone is hawking “hope” (or its ugly ephemeral
cousins faith and belief), there’s a pretty high probability that there’s a
present reality that is being neglected.
The promoters of hope are lacking a fulfilled power illusion. The promoters of faith are lacking the
discipline and vulnerability of deep and abiding inquiry into the knowable and
the ease of unknowing. The adherents to
belief are lacking the certitude that life is an ever-present unfolding which
is complete in each of its moments. Not
surprisingly the stories and myths that give us these sugar-coated placebo
realities – whether it’s Paradise, Avalon, or any other distant “Bliss” – are told
by aspirants, not by those who truly live.
The Arthurian ideal was to live in a way that modeled fully living. Our addictive, consumptive, void-filling
existences are merely indictments of an illusion created by the story-teller –
not the protagonists.
So my Easter celebration is an acknowledgement of the pain
of endings. Sure I had my dose of hopes
and what-ifs. But more importantly, this
requiem is about allowing that grief to be seen for what it was – a projection
of my own blindspots and senses of inadequacy – which can now vanish in the
sunrise of a day which is met with simple gratitude for what is. Nothing more.
Nothing less. Just is. And yes, I’m going to have some chocolate and
while I’m eating it, I’ll give thanks for my dear friends in Papua New Guinea
who grow, ferment, and roast it so that I can have the smile it brings to my
face. Thanks Mama T. And Happy Easter.