A dear friend, in gloomy despondence, asked me the common, age-old question of what is the point of life. I wish I had an answer that could solve the despair within him. I wish I could remove his pain and alleviate his suffering with a clear remedy.

I harkened back to the wise writer of Ecclesiastes who came to no perfectly determined answer. I imagine him writing those words about nothing being new under the sun, sighing with great defeat while recognizing the simple pleasures in life by enjoying what our senses were created to enjoy: 

     good food, 

     good friendship, 

     good wine, 

     good sex, 

     good experiences with lung burning exercise and boot-shaking risks. 

Jesus took it a step (or two) further by saying that life is summed up in this: to love God and love people really well—which looks like: 

     good food, 

     good friendship, 

     good wine, 

     good sex, 

     good experiences with lung burning exercise and boot-shaking risks 

     BUT in sacrificial love for others and God.

Life isn’t meant to be a sum total of good times for ourselves. When living for ourselves—centered, focused, obsessed—it’s never enough. There’s a deep dissatisfaction that festers and pulsates when one is self-focused, where nothing is enough and nothing truly satisfies and everything wrong is someone else’s fault.

I wish there was a silver-bullet-answer that satisfies and makes the world bright again. I could offer up “Jesus,” or “charity work,” or “loving one’s neighbor,” or “good friends,” or “medication / therapy / psychedelics / nature / oils / nutrition / exercise / sunshine.” And, yes, all of these can be helpful, but none of these will be the cure-all for what you’re experiencing right now. 

I guess I’m finding that when we put all our hope in one basket, we are often left disappointed, discouraged, disillusioned, and a bit despairing. 

We’ve tried it all, we say. 

Nothing works, we lament. 

Doesn’t God care, we desperately ask. 

There’s a story about Winnie the Pooh that helps me sometimes, as Winnie the Pooh does. He’s fully focused on reaching the swarming, honey-filled beehive perched precariously in the tall tree branches. As his small arm stretches towards the hive, the branch he was standing on begins to crack and break, causing him to careen to the ground below. But as gravity pulls him down, he hits this prickly branch here and that stubby branch there—every branch breaking his fall and slowing him down until he hits the ground with a thud.

I’m not sure which branch was the silver bullet that saved Pooh’s life that day. Maybe it wasn’t one branch. Maybe we’re not meant to hope for that one thing to save us, but instead we are to see all of life as full of saving moments. Healing rarely looks linear. Instead there’s an invitation to live and experience life in the midst of suffering. To play in our grief. To sing in our sadness. To hike the woods and splash in the surf and raise a glass in our suffering. And I’ve found with Christ, along with the rest, there’s a perspective shift bringing a bit of relief along the way.

So what is the point of life, you might ask? Oh, it is to live, as my friend Eric reminded me.