David McElroy

By the time I was in college, I knew everything. My beliefs about politics and theology and society were firmly fixed. I’d been taught almost everything and I figured out the rest.

Or so I thought.

Eventually, a bit of humility started to erode my arrogance. I finally had to ask myself  how I could have been so lucky to have been born into the only culture and country and religious group to have everything figured out correctly.

When I realized how absurd it was to think that could have been true, I was forced to look at what I believed and ask myself why I believed those things.

I went through a lot of deconstruction of what I believed. The process was painful at times. Eventually, I firmly embraced some of what I’d been taught and rejected other parts of it. This was a terrifying process that forced me to be vulnerable to the scary possibility that I had everything wrong.

Years later, I’m nothing like the person I was when I was young. My values are the same, but many of my beliefs have changed. I’ve realized now that a lot of people believe changing your mind is a sign of weakness or failure.

I’ve come to see that the power of change has given me more joy and freedom and confidence than I ever had when I knew everything. And I couldn’t have experienced that without accepting that I’d been wrong.

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I had one of those moments again recently.

I was watching a video on YouTube when I suddenly realized that I didn’t care about what I was seeing.

The video wasn’t bad. It wasn’t offensive. It wasn’t stupid. In fact, it was reasonably interesting. That was the problem.

I sat there for a moment and asked myself a question that has become increasingly common in the last few years: Why am I spending part of my life on this?

I don’t remember what the subject was. It could have been history. It could have been politics. It could have been science, culture, economics, theology or some obscure piece of trivia. The specific topic doesn’t matter because the pattern is always the same.

I start with something that I specifically want to know. Then another thing catches my attention. Then another. One link leads to another. One article leads to another. One video suggests another video. Before I realize what has happened, an hour has disappeared. Then another. And then I realize it’s 4 in the morning — and I’ve wasted hours.

The strange thing is that I wasn’t seeking entertainment.

Most discussions about distraction focus on entertainment. We imagine people wasting their lives watching mindless videos, scrolling through inane social media or consuming celebrity gossip or watching “reality TV.” Certainly some people do that, but that’s not my problem.

My problem is curiosity.

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The canopy of green covered most of my front yard. It was a huge and majestic tree. Every time I left my house, I walked underneath that canopy. It was routine. But on the rare occasions when I stopped and looked up through those leaves, everything changed.

I was no longer in my yard. I was in a cathedral. I felt power and love and reverence. It was like worship. Not for the tree, but for the tree’s maker. I felt connected to something far bigger and more powerful than I was.

It happens over and over. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had experiences that make me feel a certain way. They’re experiences that seem to whisper, “Pay attention. This is important.”

A sky to my west bursts with color and light and beauty. It reaches out for me in a powerful way. It makes me feel as though I’m closer to ultimate power. Ultimate beauty. Ultimate truth.

A 5-year-old child who hasn’t seen me lately runs to me as I walk in. He throws his little arms around me and shouts my name. He says he loves me and has missed me. Something in his grip and in his eyes makes me feel alive and loved. And it makes me feel close to whoever made both of us.

All sorts of things can trigger this experience for me. A beautiful photograph. Sunsets. A dog. The sounds of birds and crickets at dawn. Being forgiven by someone I’ve wronged. A thunderstorm. The love of the right woman. The purr of a sleeping cat.

Every one of these experiences — and dozens more — can trigger a feeling for me. For years, I didn’t recognize the connection between these. I just saw them as random parts of life that made me feel something.

These things are all very different, but they’re all gateways to something sacred. Every one of them can be a portal to an experience of beauty. And love. And truth. Or Truth.

For me, they’re all connections to the Source of everything. They’re all invitations to experience the divinity of a Creator whose face I can’t see — but whose presence is in each of these powerful encounters.

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