Friday, June 3, 2011


All writing is sacred. It is sacred in the sense that our lives are sacred and if we are pouring our lives into something, that something becomes a sacred endeavor. This makes some assumptions, I know. It assumes that our lives 'are' sacred. That there is some meaning and purpose for our lives. And it assumes that what we do is sacred - that it is part and parcel with the purpose of our lives. Without those basic assumptions I question whether anything is, or could be, sacred at all.

Even if we leave aside the idea of a Creator God (which I don't), our lives are sacred in the sense that we are only given so much time. This moment is the only such moment we are to be given. When it has passed it will never be present again. We will never again be present in this moment. In a sense I have traded this moment in time to be writing this blog posting. It will never be again. I will never be again in this moment. Therefore, this moment is a sacred moment.

I have heard it said that time is limited. That's not true. Time is not limited. Our lives are limited in time. Because our lives end, we have been given only so much time to be. What I am be-ing in this moment, what I am doing, is therefore important. Should I not be doing something important with it?

Sacredness in our culture has been eclipsed by the desire for money and the pleasure that we believe money can buy. We are intent upon getting our work done so that we can exchange it for payment and to exchange that payment for a night out, a travel adventure, a new car/boat/house/RV, or what have you. Even when we are poor, however, and not presented with so many options, we can lose track of our sacredness. We become caught up in our lack of money and our lack of the pleasures that money can buy. (We see these pleasures being lived out all around us, do we not?) We can come to curse our life and lose sight of its significance.

But time is passing whether we recognize our sacredness or not. A good exercise might be to imagine we are at the end of our lives and looking back and asking ourselves what we would like to see there. Am I going to curse the day I held my child and loved her? Am I going to rue the day I woke up early to watch the sunrise? Am I going to feel cheated by the time I put into writing the greatest work I possibly could?

Such is the sacredness of writing.

I am nearing 59 years of age and both ends of life are coming into view. Looking back now, I can scarcely remember the gratification that came from owning things. I can scarcely recall the days I cursed my life because I was poor and having trouble paying the bills. What has become important to me, and what was important all along, was the time I spent/invested in finding the sacred center. It is here I want to spend the rest of my days.

With love,


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