In “It’s a Wonderful Life,” the boy who will become Jimmy Stewart (I mean, George Bailey) hits some little something on the counter every time he enters the drug store and says, “Wish I had a million dollars!” Every time, whatever that thing he hits is, it does what he wants it to, because he says, “Hot dog!” while the ten-year-old girl who will one day be his wife looks on with loving adoration. We know George Bailey will never have a million dollars because he is always helping those in need who will one day be worth much more than a million dollars, or, as the Beatles's tune says, “Money can’t buy me love.” We also know that one million dollars is the minimum of what you need by retirement nowadays if you do not want to be warehoused in the moldy basement of an old folk’s home after Depends no longer are sufficient to do the job.
So, yes, in keeping up with inflation and the demands of modern life, that wish of Jimmy Stewart’s younger double would now be about 25 million, so I must reword it: what would you do if you had 25 million dollars, taxes paid and just waiting to do as you command?
I am signing up for Medicare this week, and right off the bat I must go back to the medical thing, based on my repugnance of being dependent on the government (even though I eagerly took a Pell Grant to go to college): first thing, I would tell the Medicare people and anyone who has anything to do with giving me “free” government largess (my apologies to Pell once again) to go back to their Georgetown mansions where they so rightfully belong. I would pay the doctors out-of-pocket so that they would talk to me in the office, not to a laptop where every procedure has to be given a number so that it can be evaluated by the insurance company d’ jour, or, in plain English, your Insurance Company from Hell. I know, not exactly something from the average bucket list, so let’s move on.
25 million dollars. That wouldn’t crack the window let alone open the door to the mansions -that -tech -made in San Francisco or Seattle, but it would suffice just fine for my own purposes. I would live where I want, which would be far from anything where I could make a living, like the mountain tops of southern Appalachia or the mountain valleys of Idaho; I would buy a great classical guitar, so good that only someone far better than I could tell the difference between its tone and an average 400 dollar Japanese Sigma; I would add an extension to the little coffin in the woods that doubles for a cabin that I now own in the UP; my SUV would not have rusting dents in the back because it did not have a back-up camera, and I would have the perfect camper trailer, not too big, not too small and bear-proof, which would be the reason that I would have an SUV, besides for the trailer for my snowmobile, which would be ever- new without rips to the vinyl seating or anything else imperfect.
I would travel, and how. I would travel for as long as I wanted to, so that if I went to New Zealand I could stay for a month without worry to make the hellish 24 hour jet flight worth it; I would hit the beer fests in Bavaria and the religious fests in Spain and the fest fests in the Caribbean that are far from the maddening crowds; I would venture into sublime wilderness along the African or South American coasts or into the depths of primordial wilderness with an exclusive guide and a well-set camp, tent or cabin. I would do what Teddy Roosevelt did and what he could not do because he lacked the technology, and with the same sort of style that had him drinking wine every night while exploring the darkness of the River of Doubt during the day. I would go to the wine country of California and stay at an airy 500 dollar- a- night hotel/vineyard where I would drink too much every day for a week but with such panache that hangovers would not have the class to be able to show up. I would see the infinite stars from a mountain top or from the interior of the Kalahari, and would wake up to fire-brewed coffee and something so exotic and tasty that I would search for it everywhere else and never find it.
Yes, I am afraid that if I had 25 million dollars I would not be the soul of a saint or a biblical prophet. True, I would not have my field general murdered so that I could continue to have sex with his wife, as David did, but I would not wear sackcloth either; and it would be too much for my pleasure-seeking self to give it all away to the poor so that I could follow Jesus, as the rich man who asked Jesus what he must do to follow God was told to do. Yes, I probably would fail, too, walking away disappointed with myself before digging into another meal of fine wine and plank salmon. I may not know myself well, but I think that this much I know.
On the other hand; on the other hand, when was it that I had the most memorable times in life, those times that have stuck with me and have probably changed me – and for the better? As one after another pops into mind, in none of them was I rich, and in many I was dirt poor, and in none was it luxury that made the difference. Some of those times were when I was twenty years old and hitching through the West, maybe lying on my back in some western Kansas prairie in the middle of nowhere, looking at the sky with no more than $5.00 in my pocket, dirt poor but absolutely free; some of those times were at the Ann Arbor co-ops where I was living with a hundred other poor but motivated students, all of us sure of getting where we wanted to go; and some of them were times with friends, playing guitar and singing around a campfire with cans of cheap beer and old cotton sleeping bags for the rest of the night.
Another time was while sitting in the sun on a rock in a stream in the Sierra Madre Mountains of central Mexico, miles and miles from anywhere where anyone knew me or cared; or swinging in a hammock in Indian country, southern Venezuela, smoking a cigarette in the lazy heat of early noon, listening to the monkeys chattering in the trees; or watching the rain fall from a porch in a small cabin in the Vermont mountains, or sitting in the upper branches of a tree while the wind swayed the boughs and rustled the leaves (among other stories from my book Beneath the Turning Stars); or here, where I live now, riding over the hill just before home and seeing the sun balanced on the horizon, somehow singing hallelujahs to all of creation, running like a river right through me.
And more, so many more, with none of them having anything to do with luxury, and many of them having nothing to do with money at all, neither for travel or gear. Many are sublime moments now forgotten, blended into all the others that are ordinary nothings that bring the greatness of being into focus like a looking glass. None of them required waiters or champagne, although the greatness may have happened then, but not because of them. So, while it is true that worry about money is a curse that draws one away from good things, it is not money that gives you the good things.
All this we know to be true but often do not really believe it until we comb through our memories. It is then that we see. And yet still we go on believing that that one million dollars, or twenty five million now, will give us what we want even though it will not give us the half of what a seat on a rock in a stream might give us. It is, rather, times of purpose, and times of communion, and times of deep contemplation that bring us what we really want. This might be helped by money, but money is more likely to detract from these moments, or take them away entirely; take them away because we have come to believe that what money brings is happiness, and then make ourselves believe it, so much so that it is all we can believe.
It is why Jesus told the rich young man who wanted to follow God to give away all that he had and come with him, because the young man had come to believe that his wealth is what gave him happiness, even as he sought God. The first cannot be followed by the second, but the second most certainly can be followed by the first: if one finds God, even that little ray of light from a once-closed door now slightly open, it becomes easier and easier to find happiness with or without money. Given what we are – conscious beings faced with immanent mortality – and what God is – everything and all of eternity – it is a no-brainer that He and/or anything to do with Him - not the 25 million - will give us what we want. But still we hit the little gadget on the head, and when it pops up green or whatever, we shout “hot dog!”
Me too. I guess if I were George Bailey I would wish for money because it might help me find that greater happiness; but I would also wish that the instant I found myself believing that it was the money itself that would buy my happiness, I would throw it into the river off the Bedford Falls bridge and never look back, not even for an angel. The rich young man could not; common sense tells me that I should. And yet I never wish to be so tested.
In the end, though, we fail just as much when we do not show up for the test as when we take it and do not pass. Give me a million, then, or twenty five million, but only so long as it teaches me to give it away for the wisdom of giving it away.
In “It’s a Wonderful Life,” the boy who will become Jimmy Stewart (I mean, George Bailey) hits some little something on the counter every time he enters the drug store and says, “Wish I had a million dollars!” Every time, whatever that thing he hits is, it does what he wants it to, because he says, “Hot dog!” while the ten-year-old girl who will one day be his wife looks on with loving adoration. We know George Bailey will never have a million dollars because he is always helping those in need who will one day be worth much more than a million dollars, or, as the Beatles's tune says, “Money can’t buy me love.” We also know that one million dollars is the minimum of what you need by retirement nowadays if you do not want to be warehoused in the moldy basement of an old folk’s home after Depends no longer are sufficient to do the job.
So, yes, in keeping up with inflation and the demands of modern life, that wish of Jimmy Stewart’s younger double would now be about 25 million, so I must reword it: what would you do if you had 25 million dollars, taxes paid and just waiting to do as you command?
I am signing up for Medicare this week, and right off the bat I must go back to the medical thing, based on my repugnance of being dependent on the government (even though I eagerly took a Pell Grant to go to college): first thing, I would tell the Medicare people and anyone who has anything to do with giving me “free” government largess (my apologies to Pell once again) to go back to their Georgetown mansions where they so rightfully belong. I would pay the doctors out-of-pocket so that they would talk to me in the office, not to a laptop where every procedure has to be given a number so that it can be evaluated by the insurance company d’ jour, or, in plain English, your Insurance Company from Hell. I know, not exactly something from the average bucket list, so let’s move on.
25 million dollars. That wouldn’t crack the window let alone open the door to the mansions -that -tech -made in San Francisco or Seattle, but it would suffice just fine for my own purposes. I would live where I want, which would be far from anything where I could make a living, like the mountain tops of southern Appalachia or the mountain valleys of Idaho; I would buy a great classical guitar, so good that only someone far better than I could tell the difference between its tone and an average 400 dollar Japanese Sigma; I would add an extension to the little coffin in the woods that doubles for a cabin that I now own in the UP; my SUV would not have rusting dents in the back because it did not have a back-up camera, and I would have the perfect camper trailer, not too big, not too small and bear-proof, which would be the reason that I would have an SUV, besides for the trailer for my snowmobile, which would be ever- new without rips to the vinyl seating or anything else imperfect.
I would travel, and how. I would travel for as long as I wanted to, so that if I went to New Zealand I could stay for a month without worry to make the hellish 24 hour jet flight worth it; I would hit the beer fests in Bavaria and the religious fests in Spain and the fest fests in the Caribbean that are far from the maddening crowds; I would venture into sublime wilderness along the African or South American coasts or into the depths of primordial wilderness with an exclusive guide and a well-set camp, tent or cabin. I would do what Teddy Roosevelt did and what he could not do because he lacked the technology, and with the same sort of style that had him drinking wine every night while exploring the darkness of the River of Doubt during the day. I would go to the wine country of California and stay at an airy 500 dollar- a- night hotel/vineyard where I would drink too much every day for a week but with such panache that hangovers would not have the class to be able to show up. I would see the infinite stars from a mountain top or from the interior of the Kalahari, and would wake up to fire-brewed coffee and something so exotic and tasty that I would search for it everywhere else and never find it.
Yes, I am afraid that if I had 25 million dollars I would not be the soul of a saint or a biblical prophet. True, I would not have my field general murdered so that I could continue to have sex with his wife, as David did, but I would not wear sackcloth either; and it would be too much for my pleasure-seeking self to give it all away to the poor so that I could follow Jesus, as the rich man who asked Jesus what he must do to follow God was told to do. Yes, I probably would fail, too, walking away disappointed with myself before digging into another meal of fine wine and plank salmon. I may not know myself well, but I think that this much I know.
On the other hand; on the other hand, when was it that I had the most memorable times in life, those times that have stuck with me and have probably changed me – and for the better? As one after another pops into mind, in none of them was I rich, and in many I was dirt poor, and in none was it luxury that made the difference. Some of those times were when I was twenty years old and hitching through the West, maybe lying on my back in some western Kansas prairie in the middle of nowhere, looking at the sky with no more than $5.00 in my pocket, dirt poor but absolutely free; some of those times were at the Ann Arbor co-ops where I was living with a hundred other poor but motivated students, all of us sure of getting where we wanted to go; and some of them were times with friends, playing guitar and singing around a campfire with cans of cheap beer and old cotton sleeping bags for the rest of the night.
Another time was while sitting in the sun on a rock in a stream in the Sierra Madre Mountains of central Mexico, miles and miles from anywhere where anyone knew me or cared; or swinging in a hammock in Indian country, southern Venezuela, smoking a cigarette in the lazy heat of early noon, listening to the monkeys chattering in the trees; or watching the rain fall from a porch in a small cabin in the Vermont mountains, or sitting in the upper branches of a tree while the wind swayed the boughs and rustled the leaves (among other stories from my book Beneath the Turning Stars); or here, where I live now, riding over the hill just before home and seeing the sun balanced on the horizon, somehow singing hallelujahs to all of creation, running like a river right through me.
And more, so many more, with none of them having anything to do with luxury, and many of them having nothing to do with money at all, neither for travel or gear. Many are sublime moments now forgotten, blended into all the others that are ordinary nothings that bring the greatness of being into focus like a looking glass. None of them required waiters or champagne, although the greatness may have happened then, but not because of them. So, while it is true that worry about money is a curse that draws one away from good things, it is not money that gives you the good things.
All this we know to be true but often do not really believe it until we comb through our memories. It is then that we see. And yet still we go on believing that that one million dollars, or twenty five million now, will give us what we want even though it will not give us the half of what a seat on a rock in a stream might give us. It is, rather, times of purpose, and times of communion, and times of deep contemplation that bring us what we really want. This might be helped by money, but money is more likely to detract from these moments, or take them away entirely; take them away because we have come to believe that what money brings is happiness, and then make ourselves believe it, so much so that it is all we can believe.
It is why Jesus told the rich young man who wanted to follow God to give away all that he had and come with him, because the young man had come to believe that his wealth is what gave him happiness, even as he sought God. The first cannot be followed by the second, but the second most certainly can be followed by the first: if one finds God, even that little ray of light from a once-closed door now slightly open, it becomes easier and easier to find happiness with or without money. Given what we are – conscious beings faced with immanent mortality – and what God is – everything and all of eternity – it is a no-brainer that He and/or anything to do with Him - not the 25 million - will give us what we want. But still we hit the little gadget on the head, and when it pops up green or whatever, we shout “hot dog!”
Me too. I guess if I were George Bailey I would wish for money because it might help me find that greater happiness; but I would also wish that the instant I found myself believing that it was the money itself that would buy my happiness, I would throw it into the river off the Bedford Falls bridge and never look back, not even for an angel. The rich young man could not; common sense tells me that I should. And yet I never wish to be so tested.
In the end, though, we fail just as much when we do not show up for the test as when we take it and do not pass. Give me a million, then, or twenty five million, but only so long as it teaches me to give it away for the wisdom of giving it away.
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