“Where did the time go?” we often ask, and no matter the frequency of this conversation, it’s never boring, because we feel its truthfulness each time. Blink once, it’s Monday, blink twice it’s Thursday, and so the weeks, months, and years pass by.
Age, I hear, accelerates this experience, and I can probably agree. It took forever and a half to reach age 10 and another half to 17. But to the observing adults, my aging probably did feel fast. They certainly talk about the flying time with more intensity.
Mathematically, it’s been explained that the ratio of a fixed amount of time, say, a year, to the total length of our growing lifetime will only diminish, hence the increased speediness. It’s perfectly rational. I like rational. But, if the math is the real cause of the experience, how scary is that? It means life will only move faster and faster, like a runaway train that’s gone out of hands. Is there nothing to be done about it?
A Glimmer of Hope
Reading Oliver Sacks’ Gratitude and Paul Kalanithi’s When Breath Becomes Air tells me that there may be a way out. Written when their authors were cancer-ridden—the first, a collection of essays written during Oliver’s last two years of his life and the second, written during the two years between Paul’s diagnosis and his death—both writings seem to know how to slow time down.
Faced with the finiteness of their lives, these authors mastered the art of living consciously (isn’t this why time feels fast—it goes by and we are not conscious of it) and thus put a break to the speeding train of time. The writing certainly feels that way, and in reading their words, my time too slows down.
Consciousness of time, I think, is the kindred subject that occupied both men, evaporating the near half-century gap between their ages. Linked to this is also the fierce quest of meaning and the evaluation of their lived years.
Confronting mortality, humankind is forced to reflect. What of my life? Has it been good, meaningful? Am I contented with who I am? And in reflecting, time is recaptured, somehow.
Whether intended or not, Paul and Oliver’s writings have this recapturing effects on me. Their sense of sacredness in the time they had left produced words that grace their readers with wisdom. Yet, is this gift only possessed by those close to death’s door? I’m not dying–not that I know of, at least–and I too am covetous of this consciousness of time.
Oliver’s last and poignant essay was titled “Sabbath,” published in the New York Times two weeks before his death last August, and one that was very important to him. As his days were closing, he found his thoughts drifting back to the Sabbath.
And now, weak, short of breath, my once-firm muscles melted away by cancer, I find my thoughts, increasingly, not on the supernatural or spiritual, but on what is meant by living a good and worthwhile life — achieving a sense of peace within oneself. I find my thoughts drifting to the Sabbath, the day of rest, the seventh day of the week, and perhaps the seventh day of one’s life as well, when one can feel that one’s work is done, and one may, in good conscience, rest.
After abandoning his Jewish faith and heritage for decades, Oliver recalled one Sabbath celebration in 2014:
The peace of the Sabbath, of a stopped world, a time outside time, was palpable, infused everything, and I found myself drenched with a wistfulness, something akin to nostalgia, wondering what if: What if A and B and C had been different? What sort of person might I have been? What sort of a life might I have lived?
I wonder if the Sabbath was made so that humankind would live, in the deepest sense of the word, with consciousness of time. The gift of rest in the Sabbath surpasses the physical realm into the essence of life itself. This infusion is not automatic—I’ve lived Sabbath to Sabbath my entire life and I know that Sabbath too can be busy—but it is a space and time carved out to stop and reflect each week. Did I do well? Was I good? Did I do things that matter?
Robert John Aunamm, 2005 Nobel Laureate in Economics, said in an interview that Oliver mentioned in his essay,
The observance of the Sabbath is extremely beautiful, and is impossible without being religious. It is not even a question of improving society—it is about improving one’s own quality of life. For example, let’s say I’m taking a trip a couple of hours after the Sabbath. Any other person would spend the day packing, going to the office, making final arrangements, final phone calls, this and that. For me it’s out of the question. I do it on Friday. The Sabbath is there. The world stops.
After the ceremony, Robert John told Oliver, “had he been compelled to travel to Stockholm on a Saturday, he would have refused the prize. His commitment to the Sabbath, its utter peacefulness and remoteness from worldly concerns, would have trumped even a Nobel.”
Peacefulness and remoteness from worldly concerns. What would it look like to live, entirely divorced from even the privilege of winning a Nobel Prize. It seems like Robert John estimated the prize very differently from most people; something else mattered to him more. Perhaps it was an understanding of ultimate things—what is the most important thing in life, what matters most, things we usually understand when death is nigh, when time is short.
Perhaps the Sabbath is like speed bumps, preventing life from being overrun by the train of time. It is a reminder to be conscious of time, like a balance by which everything is scaled against eternity. The things that exist in the Sabbath realm are the things that matter in eternity—they will always matter—like family, friends, love, reflection, peace with God and peace with self. Everything else can take a pause, irrelevant for one day.
I’m writing this at the entrance of a Sabbath. For the next 24 hours then, I’m going to live with consciousness of time.
 I’ll use their first names here to make the post more personal instead of academic.
 Read the whole interview with Robert John Aumann here.
I belong to a community of faith—the Seventh-day Adventist faith—that is presently having its quinquennial, worldwide conference in San Antonio, TX. I am not in San Antonio, but I too want to celebrate my identity. So here are the reasons on why I love being an Adventist.
I love being an Adventist because it gives me a sense of identity as an individual and as part of a people. It sheds light on who I am in the eyes of God and on humanity in the eyes of God. The elaborate plan of salvation as shown in the sanctuary system tells me the high regard that God puts on human souls, and the length and depth of His efforts to redeem a seemingly hopeless race.
Moreover, being a Seventh-day Adventist tells me where I am in human history and subsequently, my role here on earth. It comes with a high and ambitious mission that requires every talent and dedication.
Sanctity of Time
I love being an Adventist because it teaches me the discipline of quietness and rest. The gift of the Sabbath, the sanctity of time, tells me that humanity is not here just to do, but also to be. More importantly, to be with God. Silence and stillness is not easy to master, especially in a hyperactive world, but the Sabbath comes every week, wooing me to practice and enjoy true rest.
This precious time provides a space for awe, reverence, and wonder in my life. And I have come to believe that a life without wonder is an unhappy one. The moments when I am overwhelmed with beauty and grandeur are most refreshing, and in the Sabbath, a door is opened to access the wonder that is God.
I love being an Adventist because I have many opportunities to be reminded of my relationship with God in tangible ways. The opportunities come whenever I eat (or don’t eat), drink (or don’t drink), and work (or don’t work). I love that a relationship with God is not just a mental assent, but is a day-to-day reality. I learn that any loving relationship has requirements, and the fulfillment of these determines whether a relationship grows or deteriorates.
I love that God has something required of me, among which are to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with Him. It elevates my existence and dignity as a human being, knowing that I can do something to please God. He is not indifferent to my works.
Everything I do and don’t do, every initiative and restraint, is an opportunity to say “I love You” and that “You are Lord over me.” It infuses every aspect of life and gives meaning to the daily, sometimes mundane, things.
I love that Adventism demands something of me. A faith that is not worth giving all is not worth having, and a commitment without requirements is questionable. Adventism believes something more in me, calling me to a life that’s not ordinary, and I gladly respond, Yes!
Updated and revised. A continuation of the thoughts in a previous post, Human Strudel.
Studying the Israelite sanctuary system is like opening a treasure box. There are many glowing things to behold, and each time something different shines more brilliantly than before. Much of the language in the New Testament is infused with elements from the Old Testament sanctuary system, and understanding the mechanisms of the sanctuary unlocks many ‘hidden’ facets of Biblical passages.
Doves in the Temple
Recently, one small piece of the sanctuary system has had a deep impress on my mind: the doves. There was one particular event in the life of Jesus where He stood in the temple and with authority, kicked out the people who had turned the temple into a marketplace. The commodities were sheep, ox, and doves – animals that were to be sacrificed in the temple as offerings for sin.
And Jesus went into the temple of God, and cast out all them that sold and bought in the temple, and overthrew the tables of the moneychangers, and the seats of them that sold doves, and said unto them, It is written, My house shall be called the house of prayer; but ye have made it a den of thieves. Matthew 21:12-13. (Also see Mark 11:15-17, John 2:13-16)
It is interesting that in these passages, those who sold doves were particularly singled out. The words “My house shall be called the house of prayer, but you have made it a den of thieves” were particularly directed to them. Why?
Back in Leviticus, we learn that lambs were not the only animal offerings for burnt, sin, or trespass offerings. In Leviticus 5, for example, one could bring turtledoves for sin and burnt offerings if he could not afford to bring a lamb. “And if he be not able to bring a lamb, then he shall bring for his trespass, which he hath committed, two turtledoves, or two young pigeons, unto the Lord; one for a sin offering, and the other for a burnt offering” Lev 5:7. Further, if he could not afford turtledoves, he could bring an ephah of fine flour (v. 11).
Thus, the people who were selling doves were not selling to the rich and affluent; they were selling to those who had little money. The buying and selling in the temple gave occasions to greed and fraud where the poor were taken advantage. On top of that, the Pharisees convinced them that they would not be worthy of forgiveness without the sacrifice. No wonder Jesus was not indifferent to this situation, to say the least.
Poverty and Jesus
In Luke 2:21-24, we read about the time when Jesus was brought to the temple as a baby. His parents, as they consecrated Him to God, brought two turtledoves as sacrifice, telling us something about their socio-economic status. This was Jesus Christ, in whom dwells all the fullness of God! God was not joking when He said, “though he was rich, yet for your sakes he became poor, that ye through his poverty might be rich.” (2 Corinthians 8:9)
When Jesus said, “My house shall be called a house of prayer,” he was quoting the passage in Isaiah 56, which probed the question, Why did His mind think of this passage?
3 Neither let the son of the stranger, that hath joined himself to the Lord, speak, saying, The Lord hath utterly separated me from his people: neither let the eunuch say, Behold, I am a dry tree.
4 For thus saith the Lord unto the eunuchs that keep my sabbaths, and choose the things that please me, and take hold of my covenant;
5 Even unto them will I give in mine house and within my walls a place and a name better than of sons and of daughters: I will give them an everlasting name, that shall not be cut off.
6 Also the sons of the stranger, that join themselves to the Lord, to serve him, and to love the name of the Lord, to be his servants, every one that keepeth the sabbath from polluting it, and taketh hold of my covenant;
7 Even them will I bring to my holy mountain, and make them joyful in my house of prayer: their burnt offerings and their sacrifices shall be accepted upon mine altar; for mine house shall be called an house of prayer for all people.
8 The Lord God, which gathereth the outcasts of Israel saith, Yet will I gather others to him, beside those that are gathered unto him.
God’s house, the temple, is supposed to be a refuge for people from all nations and tongues, especially those who are outcast, who don’t belong anywhere else, and who have no other home. It is His prime interest to gather all of these people in His house, where He will give them a name, a family, and security.
So, when Jesus saw men standing in between God’s house and those whom He wanted to gather, men who made merchandise out of mercy, salvation, and grace, ‘the zeal of God’s house ate him up’ (John 2:17). It was antithetical to what God wanted to do in His temple, that system that was divinely inspired for the purpose of reconciling sinners to God. That structure was a shadow of Jesus Himself, in whom we all are reconciled with God.
The buying and selling were antithetical to the sanctuary; it was antithetical to Jesus’ mission.
In kicking the sellers out, Jesus was saying, “This is not what I’m about, not what my Father is about.” Justice was restored, and those who were held afar from God by the sellers drew near to His presence.
God is not a respecter of person. In a world where affluence makes social status, this truth is entirely wonderful. It makes absolutely no difference how much money one has; God’s acceptance is full and free all the same. And God is serious when anyone tries to convince people otherwise.
“…if you are a Christian, you ought not to consider poverty a crime.” Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre.