Discontentment is the American way of life. Psychology and pop culture have created a new class of personal "needs" and complete loss of perspective. Happiness is out - "personal fulfillment" is in. Any smudge on the picture-perfect life is something that should be wiped out by changing circumstances. Any change, though, reveals new smudges. Rather than alter the way we prioritize things, we continuously chase the latest and greatest in loves, gadgets, what-have-you, only to wind up being made obsolete as we're told of new "needs" that must be met.

I'm not immune. I have certainly idolized my needs and made whim the preeminent force in life. This usually feels like a druken stupor. After a few weeks, I look up and shake my head in disbelief at the selfishness I've uncovered in myself. Place a child in a room full of toys, and then place one of the toys in a glass case making it unaccessible. The thing which cannot be had becomes the obsession of the child, or the man for that matter. That which cannot be had becomes the need which must be met for us to ever be happy again.

It's sick really. It's twisted. Yet, it's in all of us.

What is time? Is it a series of slices of the present through which we walk in some vain attempt to change circumstances so that the next slice of present will be better? Is it our opportunity to realize that each slice is part of something bigger, ultimately something bigger than time itself. It's so easy to become overwhelmed with circumstance that we simply shut down and stop trying to take it all in.

To me, it's like a movie. Each frame presents a set of circumstances, an image of what things look like in the here and now. A single frame, though, makes no since without those that came before and after it. Ultimately, the movie itself only makes sense when the sum total of all frames is considered and related to things bigger than the movie.

Maybe that's why I like movies so much. There is something fulfilling about putting a sequence of images into context and weaving them into the larger context of life, and sometimes the larger context of eternity.

Every now and then I feel like a stranger. Not so much a stranger in this city or this state, but a stranger on this planet. Things feel broken, and broken isn't what they're supposed to be. Christmas, the incarnation, is one of those times. Nothing about Christmas was as it should have been. God came to earth to be born in...wait...a manger? That can't be right. Well, I'm ready to go home. I don't know if I'll live to see the second coming, but whenever it happens, it won't be too soon.

Why?

Chevy Chase went on an expletive-laced tirade against George Bush yesterday at the Kennedy Center. Here's one of his obviously-genious-inspired comments:

"I'm no (expletive) clown either. ... This guy started a jihad."

The thing here is not really the expletives. I don't expect actors to have a massive vocabulary when they're not reading a script. It's also definitely NOT that I think Chevy should not be allowed to say those things. We, as Americans, have every right to make fools of ourselves, and we do so with abandon.

No, the real issue is Hollywood. Why, why, why do actors and actresses think that the rest of the world gives a rat's hairy behind about what they think politically? Some of the best actors of our time: Robin Williams, George Clooney, and now Chevy Chase (Alec Baldwin omitted intentionally because I used the word "best") have all made complete asses of themselves in recent months and years. Why? Hollywood, please leave the thinking to those of us who live in the real world! Do what you do well, but stop trying to do real work!

This one strikes me particularly hard. Williams, I knew he was a commie early on. Clooney is fairly generic...if I had his genes, I could do the job. Chevy, though, is a guy who can make me laugh at the drop of a hat. But, nooooo, he just had to come along and tarnish his image with me. Dusty Bottoms, you disappoint me. Just shut up.

Why don't I weep more? Is it that I don't understand my need? Is it that I've grown so complacent with sin that I don't care about offending God anymore?

Why don't I weep more? Have I stopped feeling gratitude for the grace that has been given me? Have I dared to believe that I deserve anything but wrath?

I'm like a pendulum. Maybe once I swung high and tasted true grief and true joy. Over time, though, I've settled until my motion is barely descernable. Otherwise, I would weep.