For all who live fairly humble, nondescript lives, why should we think our life still counts for something? (Serendipity Bible 10th Anniversary Edition, p.575).
This
is a question that my dog Stanley never agonized over. He was a
terrier and had much spunk and energy. As far as I know he never once
experienced angst over questions of being. This I think goes as well
for all animals – other than man. (On the other hand, I have seen
abused animals – such as dogs – appear sadly and chronically
intimidated.) So today's question is peculiarly a human question.
Only man as a rule seems ready to doubt his value – his self-worth
– based upon humble external circumstances. I think there is a
little of the messiah complex in each of us – in some secret,
hidden space deep within, we would like to save humanity in some
wide, sweeping way. It is not simply the immature that can shed a
tear when viewing Superman saving the day and thus fulfilling his
heroic role. Since we can have such free-flowing messianic fantasies,
we irrationally undergo self-condemnation when confronted with the
limitations of ourselves and the restrictions of reality. To put it
baldly, if I cannot be Superman, then my life doesn't really count
for anything. I have in time come to appreciate man's drive for
meaning – a need for meaning that is ironically most deeply
satisfied not by broad sweeping contributions, but by very specific
in-depth relationships. A sense of fulfillment that comes not by
excelling in the impossible, but by effectively accomplishing the
doable. The most friendly theater for meaning proves to be the humble
and nondescript.
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