I recently returned from a week with my family in Southern California. The time was almost without the slightest lack. But there was one, and it got me thinking. My family visited Disneyland (predictably, I know) for three days. On the last day we spent some time at California Adventure, which is the sister park on the Disneyland site. It is geared much more to older children, teens and adults, but there was also plenty to do with my children, ages 5 and 7.

Anyway, with just my wife and me and the kids on vacation we could only ride if everyone wanted to go, or if one of our kids wanted, in which case the adults would take turns riding. The problem of course was when neither child felt up to the thrill quotient of the ride. Then it was usually no one. However, being a moderate type A personality, I naturally wanted to ride the big roller coaster, along with other strange and unnatural devices, and was willing to do so alone, since we had travelled a long way, and paid a good deal of money for the experience. One of these shot its rider up the wall of a square tower, about 180 feet into the air, in just under one second. I let my imagination wander about the clear plastic 'bib' that enclosed each rider, allowing them to see the ground fall away rapidly as the device shot into the air, as well as containing their breakfast if necessary. They think of everything.

The Roller coaster was the best I've ever been on. I won't bore you with the details, you'll just have to take my word on the matter. What struck me during the very fast and very exhilarating ride was how little it fulfilled my sense of joy. The fact that it was a near perfect execution of a roller coaster meant that my body sensed a near perfect experience of human ingenuity. However, I left disappointed. Later it dawned on me how much our experiences in life depend on sharing them with others. True, my family was watching with baited breath from the ground.  But none of them was in the seat next to me, which meant that it was not a shared experience. I could only tell them what it was like when I regained my balance back on the ground. Yet even this was deficient. This is because 'what it was like' was now a matter of riding something alone that was designed to be ridden with another. The ride is a group event even though the physical part of the experience is not. But even as I write this I wonder whether the physical dimension would have been different had I ridden with my family. In a sense I would be not merely contained in one seat, but 'with' them throughout the ride, which would mean taking in more of the ride than I did alone.

Beyond all of this, the lack I felt riding alone will stay with me as long as the memory does. Not only can I not celebrate the particular memory of riding the roller coaster with my son, or daughter, or wife, but I must also live with the fact that our collective memories of Disneyland include the gap between my experience and theirs. In this case the gap is hardly a problem since we had so many other experiences to remember and celebrate together. However, it is a reminder that such gaps can and do exist, and they should be taken seriously. It is not so much that the knowledge of them has a practical application, i.e. 'don't so something alone that you could do together' (although that is a decent maxim in many cases). Rather, the seriousness is more conceptual, or if you like, theological.

Much could be said, but to begin with the gap represents any part of our life lived without the knowledge of God's presence. The only thing worse than a real gap like the one described above (representing a physical separation) is to remember the gap when another was actually present. That 'other' is none other than God, who is in fact not an ever-present object, but an eternal subject. We are God's 'other' and the promise of Jesus is that we will never be left alone. We can, on the other hand, live as though God is not present, or more accurately, that we are not present to God. This would be like leaving the ride with my son by my side, and though I recount the experience to my wife and daughter, I never give my son a 'high five' for being there with me, accompanied by a wink or a knowing smile.  

So it is when we fail to acknowledge our presence before God in any activity of our lives. We lose the opportunity to celebrate the experience when it is good, or commiserate when it is not. Moreover, we may lose a good deal of the experience in the same way that I described in the difference between occupying one seat vs. many, sharing the experience with my family from different vantage points. God, who perceives every situation in perfect clarity has much to offer our experience if we would allow his experience of our situation to permeate ours. I realize that this idea sounds a bit mystical, and so it is. Most of life is a mystery, including joy and satisfaction.

Finally, when we ride with God we have the experience that is roughly analogous to riding with the creator of the roller coaster. We get to praise the one who is responsible for the experience. In the words of C.S. Lewis, when we do this we perfect the experience in praise. Praise is not something abstract or disembodied, even though our contemporary worship often communicates that idea by the medium of its message. Rather, praise is the embodiment of our experience. Praise is incarnated joy. It is sensual, and sensible; tactile and tangible.

May you never ride alone; and may the praise your offer transform the concept of 'joy' from an abstract noun to an active verb.

Dan