You would think being a rockstar married to a supermodel would be one of the greatest things in the world. It is.
–David Bowie
This really is a lovely bit of misdirection. Instead of following the usual trope of admitting that even superstardom comes with its struggles, Bowie tells us, with a smirk, “Yeah, it’s about as awesome as you imagine.”
The quote is the anti-Ecclesiastes: “When I surveyed all that my hands had done, behold, it was great. 10/10, would recommend.”
If you’re like me, Bowie’s attitude might stir up suspicion. Surely the British rocker was bluffing — his glamorous lifestyle must have had its dark side. Surely he, at some point, strained his marriage, alienated friends, got chafed by tight pants, or sat in self-inflicted misery in the back of the limo. His life can’t be all it’s cracked up to be, right?
Probably. Maybe.
I’ll drop the act. Of course I want to be David Bowie, or whoever his equivalent is in my own fields of interest. It would be a simple, straightforward lie for me to say that I wouldn’t care for that kind of talent, recognition and, you know, fun. When I assure myself that Bowie must have been secretly miserable, I’m just calling grapes sour that I’m fairly sure are sweet.
It gets worse. I was never going to be David Bowie (or Raymond Carver or Karl Barth or…); that level of talent is beyond me. Fine. But could my life have been closer to the Bowie end of the spectrum than it actually is? The answer is yeah, it could have. There are all kinds of reasons that it’s not: timing, opportunities, mental health, physical health — and yes, bad decisions. Unforced errors. Lapses in judgment. Small acts of cowardice.
Hence my impulse to find the seams and cracks in the apparently pristine lives of others. What I’ve missed can’t be all that good. It must be “worldly,” or “a mixed blessing,” or “ultimately unsatisfying.” As if I’m actually concerned about the spiritual wellbeing of the people I envy.
The reality is that I’ve missed out on some genuinely good things, and some indecipherable but real percentage of that is on me. This is the only reality I have; none of the counterfactual routes are open.
And, to continue stating the theologically obvious, this is the only reality in which I can encounter Christ.
Now, I used to think it was kind of his job to make up for all the stuff I had missed out on — “all I have is Christ,” after all, and didn’t Paul count all things as rubbish compared to knowing him? But Paul never denied that things like recognition and friendship have real value. The Corinthians doubt that he is a true apostle; he is grieved and angered. Demas deserts him, and it stings, badly.
It turns out that Christ is pretty uninterested in dismissing or assuaging the gap between what is and what could have been. But he is interested in staying in this particular life, which he has chosen to hide in himself.
Which means I don’t need the grapes to be sour. Maybe Bowie’s life was as awesome as he described — I kind of hope it was, in my better moments.
In the meantime, I have this life. Not what it could have been. But one shared with Christ.
