Entertaiment

On February 8, 2000, the Meaning of Life was sold on eBay for $3.26.

That’s right. For roughly the cost of a large Diet Coke and an order of fries, one brilliant shopper nabbed the biggest prize at the carnival. What they got for their three bucks is unknown; the seller just posted a picture of a rainbow as proof that he had the goods.

I have to hand it to everyone involved. Man has been searching for meaning since he could paint what the heck?’ on his cave wall. And for every human sending telegrams to the cosmos requesting a little more information on the subject of, well, everything, there’s someone willing to sell him a picture of a rainbow.

Or maybe a dozen eggs. An industrious 19th century prophet-for-profit once wrote the words “Jesus is coming” on several eggs, and then stuffed them back into the chickens to await later revelation. Certainly one way to amass a following, I’ll grant him that, though I hope he avoided shaking hands with his new congregants.

But my point is, everyone seems to be looking for answers, and if we’re not careful, somebody will sneak up and give them to us. I realize that this lack of interest in solid facts was precisely what Paul accused the Athenians of, shortly before they confiscated his toga and showed him the door. No doubt, as they rolled him off Mars Hill, protestors lined the streets waving signs and chanting:

“What do we want?”

“No clear definitions or specific interpretations of anything that will require us to act differently than how we’re feeling right now!”

“When do we want it?”

“Weren’t you paying attention to the last chant?”

Yet, for all that, I’m finding that the older I get, the less some answers make sense-answers that were intended to make life much simpler and help justify believing things that on closer examination are really rather silly.

Before you wrestle my CTR decoder ring off my hand, let me assure you that I’m not talking about eternal principles or doctrines that stand the test of time. But honestly, I just can’t bring myself to care about ventilation problems on Noah’s ark or how many Hill Cumorahs it takes to screw in a light bulb.

I wasn’t always this disinterested. I’ve taught Gospel Doctrine, Institute, and Seminary for the better part of 22 years. And for a good 15 of them, there was nothing I enjoyed more than a rousing discussion on the number of Israelites that were camped on the plains of Moab.

“A million!” I would declare.

“Piffle,” would come the well-reasoned response. “Fifty-thousand, max.”

“Wait. We still use the Old Testament?” This from the freshman Institute student who just returned from his mission with a serious case of Book of Mormon on-the-brain.

But these days, it just doesn’t matter that much to me. Did Balaam’s donkey really speak to him? Seems like a stretch, but hey, just because no donkey’s ever talked me up doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen. It’s funny-in that particular debate-that no one questions the fact that the reason the donkey got so chatty in the first place was that there was an angel with a giant sword blocking the road, and only he (the donkey) could see him (the angel). Homicidal angels we’re okay with, but talking donkeys stretch the bounds of credibility?

Huh.

Can Mormons drink decaffeinated coffee? What if it’s cold? What if we promise to tell everyone it tastes like battery acid? And why hasn’t the Lord weighed in on this issue of incredible significance?

Swimming on Sunday? Flip-flops to church? Refusing to chair the enrichment committee on the grounds that a poached mackerel has more domestic and organizational skills than you?

Is any of it allowed? If we commit any of the above sins will we be sent to you-know-where? (Las Vegas.) Give us answers! Now! This is all really, really important!

And maybe it is. Maybe I’m just old and tired. Or maybe I’ve seen too much gray space to buy into the possibility of absolute black and absolute white, too many friends tying themselves into pretzels, attempting to fit someone else’s definition of “the right kind of Mormon.”

Perhaps this is why the Meaning of Life sold so cheap. All the other bidders figured out that the journey is a lot more interesting when there’s a new question around every corner, when progress feels more “pinball” and less “tow rope,” and when you’re as likely to find a truth you can depend on in the nest of a very surprised chicken as you would on an internet auction site.

Three bucks for the Meaning of Life?

Meh. I’ll take the Coke and fries.