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… the more confusing technology becomes, the more comfortable I am with death. Because when I’m dead, it won’t matter that I can’t turn on the TV. –Kristin van Ogtrop Technology has gotten so far ahead of me that it is not remotely possible that I will catch up. I think the last major innovation in technology that I truly understood and still know how to use is the Post-It note. When I was young, “remote” meant that something was far away like the moon or that something was improbable like becoming a rock star. But now much of our daily lives is remote. We have remote controls, remote access, remote learning, remote health care, and remote work. Remote is here, there, and everywhere. Ironically, connectivity is making us more remote. It seems that everywhere can be accessed from a person’s living room. The couch, which once symbolized the examination of one’s interior life, is the new symbol of the remote world. I find all of this confusing in theory as well as in practice. My remote devices are covered with buttons and apps that operate who-knows-what. I press the “on” button and algorithms get busy making choices for me. Technology has gotten inside my brain, spies on my activities, tracks my location, and listens to my conversations in order to recommend videos, music, movies, and most of all—advertisements. My phone auto-corrects my text messages so that I am never really sure that the message I sent was what I intended to express. All of this adds to my self-doubt and frustration. Recently, I received an automatic text message from my doctor’s office asking, “Have you arrived yet?” What?! I was still in the shower! When I did arrive, there were new signs posted that parking was no longer free and must be paid for with an app. I had no idea what to do next. I turned to the only remote relationship I have ever trusted: prayer. But that didn’t seem to be working. I wondered if I was behind the times on that too. Is God on Facebook now? Can I still reach him if I am not on Facebook? And if I am not on Facebook, can he still like me? And what are his statistics? How many friends does he have? And is he still the influencer he used to be? It was not a helpful flow of thought for dealing with a parking crisis. Even as I feared that I might die in the parking lot trying to figure out how to pay for my space, it occurred to me that my phone may have lured me to the remotest place possible. As I circled the block chanting the F-word, I had to accept that this was not just a parking dilemma but an existential crisis: God may no longer be in charge. And so I did the most technologically advanced thing I could think to do. I screamed into my phone: “Hey, Google! Am I in hell?”
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It was the best of times, it was the worst of times… - Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities Preparations for a mid-day meeting delayed my morning walk. By the time the meeting ended and I was free, rush hour had begun. As I stepped onto the shared-use path a cold wind whipped my face and stung my eyes. The whoosh of speeding cars, the squealing tires and the blaring horns were added blows to my bleeding senses. My spirit deflated like a punctured lung. I thought of turning around for home, but then I stopped, closed my eyes, and took a moment to center myself and reclaim my purpose and my enthusiasm. When I opened my eyes what I saw was a brilliant blue sky and puffy white clouds surrounded by haloes of gold from the setting sun. Crisp red and orange leaves skipped across the path in front of me, and I thought to myself, it is true: the best and the worst, they can both be present at the same time and in the same place. The daily news can be as jarring as the cold wind that whipped my face. Somedays it is easy to believe that the bad news is all the news there is, that it is indeed the worst of times in a Tale of Two Countries, but then something happens that expands my focus and restores my faith. Two such stories recently reached me. With all the worries about loss of essential benefits such as SNAP and healthcare amidst an affordable housing crisis and rising grocery costs, a friend sent me this story about a restaurant in Marion, Ohio where a few afternoons a week the restaurant offers free pasta dinners to families with the tag line, “Your children don’t need to know.” Quoting the article and Bucci’s Facebook post: Bucci’s said, “We love this community, and we’re thankful to be in a position to do something small that might make things a little easier for someone else. We can’t get through this without each other. Love you all.” A few days later, I saw another story about a man and his two young sons who live in Whitehall, Pennsylvania. They started a small food pantry on their front porch and received a nice donation from an anonymous donor. The Whitehall dad said, “Making a food pantry is no different than me inviting you over to my house for dinner. Come grab a meal. Come grab a drink. Come grab what you need. I’m happy to have you.” These stories were the medicine I needed, medicine that did not just restore my faith but invigorated it. I was reminded that God created man and placed that man in a garden. God saw that the man was lonely, and God created a companion for him. God never intended for us to face life alone even in paradise. Life was meant to be served up family style. I want to hold onto these stories whenever I am inclined to become a doubting Thomas. Just because there is a moment of darkness, I do not want to doubt that there is light ahead. I am a believer, and this is the hard work of faith: to keep believing even in the darkness, to trust in goodness even when the bad guys seem to be winning, and to act with conviction by committing ourselves to loving others with joy and enthusiasm. There is a story in the Book of Matthew about the apostles out at night on a stormy sea. They were far from shore and whipped by wind and waves. Exhausted, they looked into the darkness and they saw Jesus walking toward them on the water. Jesus said, “Take courage. Don’t be afraid.” I am thinking there are some folks in Marion, Ohio and Whitehall, Pennsylvania who have heard these same words from people they believe can walk on water. |
AuthorLilli-ann Buffin Archives
November 2025
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