I was on my way to class, driving down Burnet Road toward Austin Seminary in Texas. Burnet (pronounced “burn-it”) is classic Austin. It epitomizes what “Keep Austin Weird” actually looks like, with its mom and pop stores, salsa-and-chips-on-the-table-24/7 restaurants and easygoing people who nod and smile as they pass each other on the sidewalk. People wear anything they feel like wearing on their way to doing things important or unimportant. What does matter is that they are all together here in Austin, which is good enough reason to be nice to each other.
I grew up in New York, where people are nice to each other in a gruffer kind of way. I love NY, and I also love Austin – I’m especially drawn to its “I’ll do it my way and you do it yours” mentality.
I don’t like, however, when this sentiment positions itself in front of me in rush-hour traffic.
So, I was driving down Burnet, and this guy on a modest-looking motorcycle was right in front of me, taking full advantage of the breadth of our lane. He was swerving in a tight zigzag from one far side of the lane to the opposite side and back again, with each swerve tilting his bike – to the right, to the left, to the right – to what looked to be a 30-degree angle with the road. As he swerved, he sang to himself and smiled, having the time of his life.
I kept trying to think of this rider as “under the influence” because I couldn’t understand how else he could possibly be having so much fun. Driving along behind him, however, I realized he was in perfect control of his bike and doing nothing wrong whatsoever, despite the fact that he was annoying me.
I walked into class reporting this to my students, but confusing feelings stopped me short. Could it be that I was, somehow, jealous of this person? I asked myself: When the last time I was so joyfully present to some basic activity?
Sometimes we Christians allow our commitment to doing God’s work in the world get in the way of enjoying the present. Long ago a Christian friend told me, as we were together looking up in wonder at a starry night sky, that he wished he could spend time learning about constellations, but he couldn’t justify making an investment that was not of “eternal value.”
But shouldn’t it be that our awareness of the eternal funds our enjoyment of the present?
Pascal points out, “If the future is our only end, we will never live, but only hope to live.” We can try to catch up with the future, he suggests, but it will always have moved on ahead.
Jürgen Moltmann insists, by contrast, that the eternal “end” for which Christians hope does not stand at a distance from us. We are able to be “fully present” to our lives, he says, because God enters into the present with us and counters “the transient and annihilating workings of time.” In other words, God’s presence allows us to enjoy our experiences on this earth by reminding us that these moments are not all there is. We don’t have to hold onto them and try to preserve them; we don’t have to grieve their passing or fret about how many we have left. The eternal future, as it breaks into the present, frees us from worrying about the limits of our meandering and stargazing so that we may revel joyfully in God’s good gifts.
Advent is a fine time to remember this. Perhaps we might embrace these weeks not only as a time to “get ready” for Christ’s coming but also as a time to remember that the One who is coming is already here, freeing us to be fully present to this very day.
CYNTHIA RIGBY is professor of theology at Austin Theological Seminary.
