Last night I blew off the gym (since the holidays are a great time to do that) and went to the movies. I saw Jarhead, pretty much the most depressing film I’ve seen since The Perfect Storm. If you haven’t seen it and want to, you might skip this blog, as there are potential spoilers ahead.

The story is about a group of guys overloaded with potential who enlist in the Marines just before Operation Desert Shield/Storm. You watch them in all their best and worst moments and see the inevitable, devastating effects of their interminable wait in the desert. They are slowly sucked down a vortex of unfulfilled hopes & dreams – lost girlfriends, missed opportunities, forfeited careers. When their moment of glory comes, they are denied even the chance to excel in the war they’re fighting – they’ve become outdated, unnecessary.

After it was over, I was left with such a sense of futility, an insurmountable malaise. I’m pretty sure the intent was to make us feel the futility and waste of war, but for me it became commentary on the whole of life.

I walked out of the theatre, where it had begun to rain, and shuffled my way toward the river. An enormous Christmas tree had been erected, accessorized with the hues of hundreds of lights. I kept walking.

Behind an Italian restaurant, there were three homeless folks, two men and a woman, taking shelter beneath the awning. They were loudly discussing the troubles plaguing our city, and the woman wished me a happy evening. I waved and kept walking.

I crossed the bridged and stared at the swelling rapids beneath me, carrying water from one of the purest lakes in the world through the dirty city channels, an endless procession of tumbles and torrents, moving on because it had to go where gravity & earth dictated. I pulled on my hood and kept walking.

After crossing through a park closed for the winter, I ended up at a beautiful Methodist church, among the oldest in our city. It’s a small stone building with a courtyard in the middle. At the threshold was a sign declaring a downtown-centered ministry that reaches the whole world. There were vines climbing its rough walls, and stairs leading into dark corridors, littered with trash.

I’m sure hundreds of stories have been told in that church. Weddings and funerals, potlucks, communions, parents pulling unruly children out of the service – everything you’d expect and probably much you wouldn’t. Stories have been written at the Christmas tree, too, and under the awning by the river, and in the park across the bridge.

The thing is, I really believe in stories. I mean that they affect me deeply. When I watch Tom Hanks talking to Wilson the volleyball, hear Paul Simon sing about the boxer who cries, “I am leaving, I am leaving, but the fighter still remains,” or read Francis Marion Tarwater’s fiery revelation in the fields of the south, I connect with those people. I feel like a friend on the barstool next to them, a member of their fellowship, a long-lost sibling reunited with his brother. I feel like their story matters, and somehow that makes my search, my journey worthwhile.

The question has been posed so many times: why do we yearn for more if there’s nothing to be found? One of my favorite songwriters, Carolyn Arends, wrote:

At times it seems a tragic fate
Living with this quiet ache
The constant strain for what remains
Just out of reach

Why did the “jarheads” end up hollow people haunted by visions from their past? When everything was taken from them – dignity, true companionship, dreams – they got to the center of things, they stared into the abyss, so to speak, and saw the bottom. To me, that prospect is far more terrifying than staring into a pit that never seems to end. When you see the bottom, you know there is nothing more, and all of the mystery of life, the search, the yearning, and the journey – it’s all futile.

Standing in the courtyard of that church last night, I was gripped by that fear. What if those ancient stones, the stained glass, the bell in the tower, what if they are just part of a shell, just a thin cover over a very shallow pit? And what if the stories told there are no more than fleeting, vain attempts by humans reaching hard for something to validate our existence? What if nothing lies behind the veil?

It’s ironic that only 8 months ago I walked those same streets in a completely different mode. I was with 3 friends, and we were praying out loud as we moved, and everything was beautiful. The world was full of potential, God was writing a story for us, calling us to be builders in his kingdom, there was adventure and mystery and a hope that seemed unshakeable.

So much has changed since that night.