☊ I took a plane trip earlier this week and happened to receive a book recommendation just the day before I left. A good story always makes a long flight more bearable, but I was skeptical. The book is titled “Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals.” While a couple of close friends highly praised it, it sounded like just another “life hack” program—like a “Marie Kondo, tidy up your life in bento boxes and all your dreams will come true” kind of thing. Self-help isn’t usually my genre. However, I was pleasantly surprised to find that “Four Thousand Weeks” isn’t about moving from “Good to Great” or “Winning Friends and Influencing People,” or even creating “Atomic Habits.” Instead, it’s about perspective.
Four thousand weeks is about eighty years, roughly the average lifespan of a human being. There are exceptions, of course, but generally, four thousand weeks is all the time we have on this planet. Four thousand weeks to play, grow, make friends, have a family, travel, work, grieve, and love. Four thousand weeks. The author, Oliver Burkeman, describes the reality we all face as “finitude.” Our lives are finite, and finitude is something every mortal must come to terms with at some point. Spoiler alert: Burkeman’s advice isn’t about checking off items on our bucket lists; in fact, it’s quite the opposite. Ferris Bueller summed it up well during his day off in 1986: “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”
Burkeman argues that of all our possessions in this world, arguably the most valuable is our attention. Everyone is vying for it. News outlets constantly compete for it, flashing “breaking news” at every turn. Social media algorithms are designed to capture our attention and hold it for as long as possible, eerily analyzing our scrolling habits and adjusting in real time based on what piques our interest. Our attention generates profit for others; it has become a commodity. If we’re not careful, we can give it all away, leaving little for ourselves, for the people and activities we cherish, or, most importantly, for God. God desires our attention too—not to exploit or monetize it, but to show us love and provide us with peace, reminding us that we have value because we are loved rather than what we produce. As Augustine famously said, “Our heart is restless until it rests in you, O Lord.” God is the only true worthy recipient of our attention.
Today, we celebrate the life and ministry of the thirteenth-century saint, Francis of Assisi. While 24-hour news, Instagram, and TikTok didn’t exist back then, countless distractions still vied for Francis’ attention. Born into a prosperous family surrounded by wealth and opportunity, he initially sought military glory, worldly power, and fame. However, one day, God captured his attention. Deeply moved by encounters with beggars and lepers, he chose to live a distraction-free life focused solely on God. He set aside his family’s wealth and found solidarity among the impoverished, living alongside them and attending to their needs.
We bless animals today in St. Francis’ name because he had a deep love for nature as well. The wild creatures of this world are one of God’s most compelling ways of capturing our attention. Those of you with pets know exactly what I mean.
Like God, our animal friends don’t seek to exploit our attention; instead, they call us back to ourselves. They, like us, are images of God, wanting nothing more than to fully live out the precious life they’ve been given, moment by moment. Observing the vibrant colors and sounds of a bird, delighting in the playfulness of a cat, or simply sitting with a dog at your feet is an act of holy adoration. In fact, it’s an ancient form of prayer.
God captures our attention, transforming us into lovers, filled with gratitude for a life-giving relationship with the divine. When God has our attention we are more apt to see God everywhere and, like Francis, feel compelled to lavish God’s attention on others.
In today’s gospel, Jesus establishes a clear boundary around the “little ones who believe in me,” seeking to protect those whose attention is directed toward God. The little ones he refers to include children and those who are ill or suffering, vulnerable due to their age or social position. Also, little ones can include animals, trees, plants, and all members of the natural world. With strong language, Jesus conveys his desire that they not be exploited in any way, allowing their attention to rest peacefully on God.
Four thousand weeks isn’t a long time when you think about it. This perspective makes time management feel even more crucial. However, it’s not about productivity or checking off items on our bucket lists. The more pressing question is whether our attention is directed toward the trinkets and distractions of this world or focused on God. The former drains life from us, while the latter is life-giving. Four thousand weeks can feel like an eternity when we’re immersed in the timelessness of God.
About a month ago, my family welcomed a new kitten. He’s tiny, smokey gray, and has an unassuming squeak for a “meow.” The kids affectionately named him Ricky Bobby after the wild Nascar racing character from the Will Ferrell comedy, Talladega Nights, whose catchphrase is, “If you ain’t first, you’re last!” Ricky certainly lives up to his name, constantly racing through the house at lightning speed and pouncing on our other pets, creating general mayhem. When he gets like this, we say he’s in “menace mode.” The magical thing about Ricky is that he has brought a spirit of playful joy into our home, and it’s contagious. The kids can’t get enough of him. He skillfully diverts their attention from the stresses of high school and brings smiles to their faces. My wife and I are certainly not immune to his charm either.
Four thousand weeks may not seem like much time on this earth, but I can’t imagine a better way to spend it than being lost in “wonder, love, and praise” with God. God desires our attention. Follow the gaze of St. Francis; where he looks, we should look too.
Proper 21, Year B