How to Be Here Page 9

  We learned lots of very valuable skills, but we weren’t taught how to be here, how to be fully present in this moment, how to not be distracted or stressed or worried or anxious, but just be here, and nowhere else—wide awake to the infinite depth and dimension of this exact moment.

  That’s what happened to me when I hit my head—I experienced something else, something so good and true and rewarding and satisfying, but I didn’t know how to stay there. I realized that there were skills and knowledge and practices and muscles that I simply didn’t have.

  And so I set out to learn how to be here. I wanted to be present all the time, even when I was working and making plans and facing challenges and moving forward. I wanted to be here even when I went there.

  There’s a fascinating commentary in the ancient tradition about the story of Moses and the burning bush. The rabbis say that the bush didn’t suddenly start burning when Moses came upon it; it had been burning the whole time. Moses was simply moving slowly enough and paying attention enough to actually notice it.

  Are you moving so fast, are you so stressed and distracted, your head down reading your latest text messages and emails, that you’re passing burning bushes all day long?

  Whatever it is that you find yourself in the midst of on any given day—from laundry and meetings and traffic to going to class and answering emails and driving kids around—I want you to learn to live like you’re not missing a thing, like your eyes are wide open, fully awake to the miraculous nature of your own existence.

  Seeing the Ocean

  While I was writing this book I had lunch with my friend Cory, who, as soon as we sat down, told me a story. He reminded me that two years earlier he and I had been driving along the coast in my car and I kept pointing to the sea and laughing and saying, That’s the Pacific Ocean! Can you see it? That’s the Pacific Ocean! Can you see it?

  I thought this was funny because when most of what you can see is the ocean, pointing it out is, well, funny.

  He told me that at the time he was busy, stressed, working all the time, lying in bed at night obsessing about his job, and that when I pointed to the ocean and laughed and asked whether he could see it, he couldn’t see it.

  He then leaned across the table and said, Rob, do you get it? I was so lost in my head and distracted and stressed that I couldn’t see it!

  Cory then told me that the experience deeply upset him because he felt like there was something he was supposed to see but he didn’t. So he started making changes in his life, slowing down, obsessing less, enjoying more. And then he told me:

  I came here today to tell you that I can see the ocean now.

  Picture your life.

  Let’s start with the people you’re closest to—

  family

  friends

  spouse

  partner

  lover

  kids

  stepkids

  siblings . . .

  Now let’s broaden the circle to include

  neighbors

  co-workers

  acquaintances.

  Now let’s include the physical settings you inhabit,

  from where you live

  to where you play,

  where you work,

  where you go to get away from it all,

  where you went for the best vacation ever,

  where you exercise,

  walk,

  explore,

  eat.

  Now picture that person you love.

  That’s _____________.

  Do you see her?

  Do you see him?

  Do you see the ocean right in front of you?

  Stand back and see that person you love from a slight distance.

  Like you never have before.

  Like you’re meeting him for the first time.

  Like you’re getting a tour of your life and this is your first encounter with her.

  Like I just pointed him out and said to you, This is _________.

  You begin asking me questions about her. You want details, dates. I tell you how you met him. I show you some pictures. It’s coming back to you. This is new but it’s familiar.

  Now think of some of the other people you love. Picture people you work with. Imagine your neighbors.

  What if you just learned that one of them has a life-threatening illness? What if you just learned you have a life-threatening illness and your neighbor came over to tell you how much you mean to her? What if your neighbor got done telling you that and then you told him how much he means to you?

  What if you had no list of things to do, you had no regret and no worry and all you had is this moment and this second and this tour of your life?

  No one has ever done this before.

  No one has ever been you before.

  This exact interrelated web of people and events and places and memories and desire and love that is your life hasn’t ever existed in the history of the universe.

  Welcome to a truly unique phenomenon.

  Welcome to the most thrilling thing you will ever do.

  Welcome to your life.

  Welcome to here.

  I want you to be here. I want you to see and feel and notice and even enjoy your life, not just as you sit quietly, but as you go, as you work, as you answer email, as you are stuck in traffic, as you find your path and throw yourself into it, surrendering the outcomes as you risk and learn and grow and work your craft, in the push and pull and stress and pain and sorrow and responsibility and slog of this sacred gift that is your life.

  And if that could happen without you having to hit your head, how great would that be?

  Endnotes, Riffs, References, and Further Reading

  Part 1. The Blinking Line

  Alan Watts quote is from the Tao of Philosophy.

  . . . if I was going to write a book, I was going to have to actually write a book. That book is called Velvet Elvis.

  Christopher Moore’s book. It’s called Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal, and it’s brilliant.

  Annie Dillard. The line is from Teaching a Stone to Talk: Expeditions and Encounters: “What is the difference between a cathedral and a physics lab? Are not they both saying: Hello?”

  Dorothy Sayers’s words about Trinitarian creativity are found in her book The Mind of the Maker.

  Dave Eggers. Please tell me you’ve read something by Dave Eggers. I’d start with What Is the What. Or maybe The Circle. Or probably you should begin with his first book, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius.

  This poem, by the way, is the first chapter of the Bible. For a fascinating perspective on Genesis 1, see Charles Foster’s book The Selfless Gene: Living with God and Darwin.

  My friend Carlton. Carlton Cuse wrote and produced the shows Lost and Bates Motel and The Strain and Nash Bridges and Colony.

  Jesus taught his disciples a prayer. The prayer is in the Gospel of Matthew, chapter 6.

  Boredom. For insight into the relationship between creation and boredom, see Cornelius Plantinga’s book Engaging God’s World: A Christian Vision of Faith, Learning, and Living.

  Part 2. The Blank Page

  Stephen King quote is from On Writing.

  I once had an idea for a book called Fire in the Wine. That book eventually became What We Talk About When We Talk About God. I first came across that line about the fire in the wine in Frederick Bauerschmidt’s book Why the Mystics Matter Now. The line is from St. Ephraim the Syrian:

  . . . in your Bread is hidden a Spirit not to be eaten, In your Wine dwells a Fire not be drunk . . .

  Like a tape that’s jammed on “repeat.” For more on the tapes that play in our heads, see my RobCast Episode 7, “Changing the Tapes,” at robbell.com.

  What is that to you? The story about Jesus and Peter is in the Gospel of John, chapter 21.

  . . . the movie Comedian. After Jerry Seinfeld finished making his show Seinfeld, he surprised audiences by going onstage late at night in
comedy clubs, trying out new material. A camera crew followed him as he created an entirely new act.

  Bruce Springsteen. One of the best books about Bruce Springsteen is Peter Ames Carlin’s book Bruce.

  “You” hasn’t been attempted before. Elizabeth Gilbert writes about this in her marvelous book Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear.

  Who am’n’t I? There’s actually a song by the band Mogwai called “Moses? I Amn’t.” As you can see, they spell it differently.

  Part 3. The Japanese Have a Word for It

  Kanye West quote is from Twitter.

  . . . we make our way in the world by the sweat of our brow. See Genesis 3:19.

  . . . we’re all a piece of work. That’s a reference to a line in the letter to the Ephesians (chapter 2) in the New Testament where the Apostle Paul writes, “We’re all God’s handiwork.”

  Part 4. The Thing About Craft

  Carlton Cuse quote is from variety.com’s October 27, 2015, article “For Carlton Cuse, Collaboration Is the Key to Creativity” by Debra Birnbaum.

  I once had an idea for a tour. That tour was in 2006 and it was called “Everything Is Spiritual.” We made a film of it that you can get at robbell.com.

  Scottish schoolmaster. Edwin Abbott is his name, and the book is called Flatland.

  . . . my friend Zach. Zach is the drummer in Jimmy Eat World. You’re a fan, right? If you aren’t, I recommend starting with the Futures album.

  Part 5. The First Number

  Tony Iommi quote is from Iron Man.

  I once had an idea for a novel. The book is called Millones Cajones and you can get it at robbell.com.

  Eddie. Eddie started a company that makes a product called Kung Fu Tonic. Google it. Or go to kungfutonic on Instagram to see that legendary Eddie smile.

  I once had an idea for a short film. We made twenty-four of those short films; they’re called Noomas.

  Part 6. The Dickie Factor

  Rumi quote is from Rumi: The Big Red Book.

  . . . where the waters run deep. See Proverbs 20:5.

  Part 7. The Two Things You Always Do

  Chris Martin quote is from “A Look at the ‘Mystery’ of Coldplay,” 60 Minutes.

  You first talk to whoever will listen. I once had an idea for a sermon that involved lots of large exercise balls. It struck me how in the Genesis poem that begins the Bible, the light that comes from the sun and stars is something different from the divine light that emanates from God and guides us into authentic living. You can be in a very dark room but living in the light, and you can be in a well-lit room and yet still be in the dark.

  Or something like that.

  I found this insight terribly thrilling and decided to build a sermon around it. The room I was preaching in had the stage in the middle and the seats in a series of concentric circles around it. We fastened hooks to the ceiling and I began the sermon by handing out giant exercise balls that represented the different planets and then I asked people to stand on their chairs and attach them to the hooks. I had the balls placed in such a way that the room became a model of the solar system. Then we dimmed the lights and played “Stayin’ Alive” from the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack while a disco ball was lowered down from the ceiling that represented—you guessed it—the sun.

  At this point you might be wondering, You began a sermon by building a model of the solar system using exercise balls and a disco ball . . . what kind of sermon was this?

  If you are wondering that, you, my friend, are asking an excellent question.

  From there I talked about light and transparency and honesty and then I brought the whole thing to what I was convinced would be a compelling crescendo about telling the truth and refusing to live in the dark. I had the lights dimmed around the perimeter of the room so that only the center was full of bright light to illustrate my point . . . my point that no one seemed to get.

  I was so convinced that by the end there would be—

  I don’t know, actually, what I was expecting.

  Have you experienced this? You’re let down because something you’d been working toward didn’t turn out how you wanted it to, but when you reflect on what exactly it was that you were expecting would happen, you can’t really articulate it.

  I remember finishing the sermon and it was so quiet. And a room with thousands of quiet people in it is . . . quiet. It’s a loud kind of quiet. Not the good kind of quiet that comes from deep introspection and meditation and thoughtfulness.

  The other kind of quiet. Like the air had been sucked out of the room.

  I call it crickets quiet.

  I had such high hopes for that sermon, and afterward I don’t think one person said anything about it.

  I bombed,

  and I knew it.

  You may be true to your ikigai, giving it everything you have, throwing yourself into your work and your path with everything you’ve got and it may go really well.

  Or it may not.

  People may sign up, buy, listen, learn, invest, read, register, get involved—or they may not. People may get it. Or they may not.

  They may be moved and inspired and compelled, or they may turn to the people next to them when it’s done and say, Where do you want to go for lunch?

  You do not want to leave me too. John 6:66–67.

  Aren’t we right? John 8:48.

  Are you betraying me? Luke 22:48.

  . . . some doubted. Matthew 28:17.

  Peter-the-caffeinated-disciple protests, No never! Matthew 16:22.

  Part 8. The Power of the Plates

  Robert Irwin quote is from Seeing Is Forgetting the Name of the Thing One Sees.

  . . . how you do anything is how you do everything. My friend Dan Klyn said this.

  . . . just in case you might need them someday. I interviewed The Minimalists for RobCast Episode 15 and they shared an incredibly helpful idea involving the things we keep around just in case. You can listen at robbell.com.

  Rhythm. For more on this, see RobCast Episode 23, “The Cellular Exodus,” at robbell.com.

  . . . this one day that is not like the others is called the Sabbath. The best book on the Sabbath is The Sabbath: Its Meaning for Modern Man (1951) by Abraham Joshua Heschel.

  Part 9. The Exploding Burrito

  Abraham Joshua Heschel quote is from God in Search of Man.

  . . . how to be fully present in this moment. My friend Richard Rohr has a mantra he repeats often: Just this.

  When you find yourself overwhelmed with all that is coming at you, take a deep breath and say to yourself,

  Just this.

  Just this conversation, just this 1, just this moment. You’re building muscle, learning to focus on the 1 in any situation.

  My friend Pete Holmes often asks,

  What is lacking in this moment?

  Because the answer is usually “nothing.” When you stress that you’re missing out, that something terrible and ominous is coming your way because of something you did or didn’t do, when you’re anxious about some upcoming event, stop. Breathe. Ask yourself,

  What is lacking in this moment?

  Look around you. Remember that the first word about you is gift. Some things you can control, some you can’t. Do the next right thing, surrender the rest.

  I often ask myself,

  What is the next right thing?

  Because that’s all you can do. The next right thing. You cannot do it all. You can only do the next right thing in front of you.

  You doing a few things well is a thousand times better than you doing lots and lots of things with half a heart because you’re rushing from thing to thing.

  Acknowledgments

  A thousand thanks to

  Stratton Glaze for all the help, including rescuing me from September, October, and November. Haha.

  Mark Baas at Baas Creative for the sublime design work.

  Chris Ferebee for fifteen years of friendship, wisdom, and literary agenting.

  Every
body at HarperOne, from Mickey Maudlin (editing super as always) to Mark Tauber, Laina Adler, Anna Paustenbach, Lisa Zuniga, Suzanne Wickham, Katy Hamilton, Claudia Boutote, and Caitlin Garing.

  Also by Rob Bell

  Introduction:

  Twenty-Five Years In

  To begin with, a bit about where this book comes from.

  When I was in my early twenties, I gave my first sermon. I was hooked. I decided right then and there that I was going to give my life to reclaiming the art of the sermon.

  I loved giving sermons. I still do.

  More than ever.

  And sermons, I understood at that point, are something you give from the Bible. So I went to seminary, and I studied Greek and Hebrew (the two languages the Bible was originally written in), and I studied history and hermeneutics and exegesis and form and textual criticism—all so I could give better sermons.

  Eventually I got a job in a church, and I started giving sermons weekly. And then one day something happened that changed everything.

  I had just given a sermon, and I was standing around afterward talking to people when a man named Richard walked up to me and said,

  You missed it.

  What? I asked him. What did I miss?

  He then proceeded to rattle off a seemingly endless list of things that were happening in the story from the Bible that I had just given a sermon about. Background and hints and meaning and innuendo and humor and tension and history. The more he went on, the more I realized how right he was: I had missed it.

  And then he said,

  You know, Jesus was Jewish.

  What? Jesus was Jewish? I said. I imagine you’re laughing at this point because that’s so obvious, and yes, I did know that Jesus was Jewish. But not like Richard knew it. Something about that one obvious line set off an explosion within me.

  Richard went on to say that Jesus lived in a first-century Jewish world of politics and economics and common stories and inside jokes, and the more you knew about that world, the more he and his message would come to life. Richard began dropping by my office with photocopied articles by people I’d never heard of explaining mikvahs and taxation rates and ketubahs and who Shammai was and who Hillel was and why that matters. Richard introduced me to friends of his who invited me to eat with them while they would discuss and debate and laugh and riff on the Bible for the sheer joy of it. And they knew their stuff. It was staggering. I could barely keep up. They would point out insightful political commentary or subversive poetry or discrepancies in the text that were actually on purpose because the writer was doing something really clever just below the surface. They’d take a verse or story I’d heard people talk about, and they’d start discussing it and turning it on its head and pointing out all the depth and surprise and power I hadn’t noticed—it was like music they were dancing to.