I just bought an album called Hymns Triumphant, a very lovely (if a tad stodgy) collection of classic hymns performed by the London Philharmonic Choir and Orchestra. I bought it online for $9.99, a bargain for fifty-five songs. I clicked here, then there, and then the songs magically downloaded themselves onto my hard drive and now I'm listening to them no more than five minutes later.

Earlier today, I stepped out onto the stoop behind my office and stood silently, praying. I'm fortunate in that my office building backs up to a forest of live oak and scrub brush. Today is another one of those God-given autumn days of crisp breeze and bright blue skies. If I stand in just the right place and look at just the right angle, it's possible to look on that forest with no visible evidence of civilization in sight. The treetops against the cloudless sky, bathed in that autumnal light is so awash in the glory of God that just looking at it is a prayer. So I do it whenever I can. Likewise, sometimes I go outside at night and lay on the roof of my car--where we live there aren't many city lights and sometimes you can see a stunning panorama of stars; just the thing for jumpstarting your appreciation of the boundlessness of creation.

I live in a first-world paradise, where the kind of suffering that goes on in other places in the world on a daily basis is virtually unthinkable. There are no starving children begging on the sidewalks of the exclusive suburb where my office building is located--there aren't even sidewalks. No one in this place has (I'm hoping) sold their ten-year-old daughter into slavery. For the most part, everyone here eats; everyone gets medical care; everyone is safe from random violence and abuse--and the ones here that don't enjoy those privileges are so marginalized that they're invisible. 

It's easy to become complacent in a place like this; where pretty music is just a click away and paradise is just a few steps from your office. But the sobering truth is that not everyone lives like this, or even remotely like it. How can I dare to enjoy such comfort when there are millions of people in the world who don't have basic necessities like running water? My wife and I give some money to the church, and we donate to this or that charitable organization, but we still go out to eat and order enormous portions and leave the remains on the table uneaten without a thought. We buy DVD's and new jeans and stereos and collections of hymns when we could be helping people who are starving to death. If someone was starving to death in our living room, we wouldn't hesitate to help them; why is it so easy to hesitate--to ignore--that person when she isn't directly in front of us? Are we really that shallow?

Does it ever just make you sick? What do we do about it? What? And how do I climb up into a pulpit and deliver this message someday with any force? Because it appears that I have chosen just that task for myself and I'll be fucked if I know how to say it without sounding shrill and hypocritical. People don't want to come to church to be told how shallow and callous they are. But we all need to understand how shallow and callous we are.

Sorry. Difficult, touchy subject. I'll go grumble somewhere else now.