Sometime around Christmas, I dropped one of the glowing rectangles that I own. You know what they are; there's a good chance you're staring at one right now.¹ Phones, laptops, tablets, media players, e-readers, etc. We use them all the time - all the time - to the point that they have become nearly essential components for our society to function normally.
What shocked me was not the fact that I dropped it; I am a clumsy oaf in the best of times, and eight a.m. before my first cup of coffee is decidedly not the best of times. But my reaction to this seemingly inconsequential event was sobering.
I check it for scratches, and find some. Small crack in one corner. Still works, but with some visible scars.
My pulse quickens, and I taste anxiety at the back of my throat.
Sure, it works, I try to remind myself, but its former lustre is now lost. The magic spell is gone. Post-purchase cognitive dissonance has now arrived.
My temples tighten. My jaw clenches, and I begin to sweat. What will I do? How can I replace it? I do a quick google search - not on the tarnished device, heaven forbid, the mere sight of it now fills me with dread, but on one of my unscathed devices - for repair solutions. Warranty information. Replacement options. Anything which will let me return to my fantasy world in which technology exists only to make me happy.
I was terrified by my reaction and what it represented. Clearly, mine was not a healthy relationship with this thing. And as I examined my reaction, I discovered that my soul was even more uneasy about the connections which this thing - and so many other things that I, and you, and most everyone we know are possessed by - created between my heart and the world. Internet, email, facebook, twitter, blogs news sports videos youtube movies music games...
Millions of ways to connect to millions of people.²
I was so plugged in that when my connection was seemingly threatened by some superficial scratches, I immediately panicked. Sad, but true.
So, as soon as I reasonably could, I stepped away. It was long overdue and difficult to schedule, but well worth it. A rule of life that I've tried to maintain over the past few years is that an hour a day, a day a week, a week a year, I disconnect and unplug from everything and everyone (except God).³ The year was almost up, and I hadn't yet taken a week off from the world.
It was obviously high time that I did so.
While on my technological and communication sabbatical, I came across an entry in my journal from earlier this year which really struck home:
my truest self
can be seen
in my ocular sheen,
foci of my gaze revealing
the center of my soul.
shades of white and not
glimmering, glistening, a
barrage of flickering pixels
delineating my desire.
can i bear to discover
the heart of my heart?
or will i bury
behind bright barriers
the restlessly lonely,
paradoxically unconnected
truth of my self?
A stark reminder of how persistent the struggle is to remain unpossessed by my possessions, and to be unconsumed by that which I consume. And how important it is for me to regularly step away from the distractions of this world in order to allow my soul to be stilled.
"For the world offers only a craving for physical pleasure, a craving for everything we see, and pride in our achievements and possessions. These are not from the Father, but are from this world."⁴
¹Unless you've printed this off and are reading it in print form. In that case, touche.
²Or, perhaps better put, millions of way to feel connected to millions of people.
³My views on my relationship to technology have been highly influenced by the writing of Jacques Ellul, Richard Foster and Henri Nouwen in particular. I can't recall which of them deserves credit for the "hour per day, day per week, week per year" formula, but it's definitely not my own concoction.
⁴1 John 2:16, NLT
