We live in a culture of the immediate and instant.  Fast food and microwaves are so 20th century.  Now Grubhub and Uber Eats rush your fast food to the doorstep.   

We have no patience for "the spinning wheel of death" that slowly pulls data for our screen.  We expect immediate responses from text messages.  We order from Amazon and want it delivered NOW.

Sometimes I don't feel like being a pastor. 
There are some Sunday mornings at 6:00AM when I don't want to preach. 
Sometimes I dread walking into a meeting.
Sometimes I walk into a crisis situation already emotionally exhausted.   
Sometimes everyone is looking at me for direction and I don't feel like talking.

I had a realization a few weeks ago:  Jesus didn’t write anything.   Unlike many historical figures or religious leaders, he himself left no writings.  Yes, we believe the Bible is inspired by God, but Jesus didn’t actually pen it.  Why is this important?

​There are some things Jesus says that are so severe they will wreck you.  Sometimes he speaks things we don’t want to hear, or things that confuse us.  A confession: I've been meditating on three sentences and I'm agitated by them: 

​Last year I walked in Armstrong Woods, a redwood forest in northern California.  It is home to  Colonel Armstrong, a giant tree estimated to be 1,400 years old.  It’s a humbling experience to stand before a living tree that makes our nation's history seem infantile.   How do these trees come to be?  

A little further is a sign about redwood forest regeneration.  It states:

"Redwood seeds cannot penetrate the thick layer of decomposing plant material that covers the forest floor.  Crisis, such as a forest fire, allows the tiny seeds to reach the layer of mineral soil required for germination; overall the best way for redwoods to reproduce."  

If things go on as normal, the seeds will never get below the duff to the soil.  Redwoods only regenerate in crisis, by severe disruption.  

Disruption is a popular word today.  It is used to describe forces of change in economics or technology.  I've been pondering Scripture and life through this word recently.  What role does  disruption play in the life of faith?  What do you do when you experience it?   Let me suggest five responses to the disruption you may experience.  

​January 2nd is a bummer because Christmas lights come down.  How depressing.  It's part of the aftermath of Christmas, and it has a way of inciting loneliness.  On January 2nd, I was thinking about:

Those who dread returning to a miserable job.
Widows and widowers living alone in a quiet house.
Those divorced or never married wondering if this is it.
Those mourning a death.
Those who have family far away.  They were together, now gone.
Those suffering from a break up.  

Some reflections on January 2nd, the loneliest day.  

Social media has provided an odd phenomenon.  You get to see pictures of friends at parties you weren't invited to.  We hear regular reports on the increase of loneliness in our country.  Much of it is tied to this sense of being "uninvited," and then the "fear of missing out."  

This "uninvited" feeling seems to be on the rise.  "I'm on the outside."  "I don't belong."  "I'm forgotten."  "Everyone ignores me."  "I'm out of place." 

Catholic monk and writer Thomas Merton once wrote:​

When you bake, you might set a timer for 30 or 60 minutes.  But what if you could set a timer to go off in years or centuries?  Well, there’s a website for that.  At OnlineStopwatch.com you can set a custom timer.  Here’s a screen shot of a timer that I set for December 1st, in the year 3,000.  358,670 days from now.  
 
The end of the church year calendar is its own timer, reminding us this world is not forever.  We often live as if our time is indefinite, like the year 3,000.  But what if the world's timer was set for 1 year?   One week?  Two minutes?  What if you had that much time left?   The point:

​This might be over soon.  ​

Another shooting?
Another fire?
Another hurricane?
Another Tweet?

There are days that I'm fatigued.  Every tragedy and crisis requires emotional energy.  Bad news is a burden assumed by the head and heart.  At some point, compassion fatigue sets in.  We turn numb to violence, pain, and death. 

"Our thoughts and prayers are with the victims . . ."  It is a pre-packaged catchphrase that rings hollow because we can't find words that really help.  So what do we do when we're fatigued by bad news?