2018

After running a 7.5-million-year program, a fictional super computer says the answer to the meaning of life, the universe, and everything is…wait for it…42. For the forty-six years since that novel was published, fans have been speculating as to the meaning of 42. Looking so hard for certainty, we miss the point. The author said publicly that the number was completely random, chosen for its insignificance. Making the point that any rational answer to the meaning of life is itself meaningless.

My favorite part of a movie is the first third. The setup, bits and clues to new characters, all that is left unsaid, hidden. What is unknown is far more intriguing than any resolution. Can you ever thrill to a magic trick once you’ve seen how it’s done? What would an objective answer to the meaning of life actually give us? What would be the experience of a life to which you already knew the outcome? In our intolerance of uncertainty, we’re looking for an answer to life that would kill the experience of life.

Life is not a machine to diagram, a math problem to solve, or a task to complete. When Jesus says that he is the way, truth, and life, he is trying to teach us that meaning is not a thing to be thought, but a person to be experienced. Truth is a person. Life is a person. And the way to both is a person too. Knowing the meaning of life and truth is knowing a person, not a fact. It’s falling in love with the unfolding of personhood. Ours. Everyone’s.

“Your marriage begins the day you wake up and realize you married the wrong person.”

Once you get over the resistance to such a line, you realize that graduating from infatuation to love only happens after you see how the magic trick is done, that your beloved is not perfect after all. You fell in love with an image of a certain outcome, your resolution to life. But when that image shatters, if willing, you can fall back in love with the unfolding of a real person. When we stop trying to understand or fix, the meaning of life becomes a falling in love with the endless unfolding of life.

Better than asking the meaning of life…how do we learn to love the unfolding?

Loving the Unfolding

Dave Brisbin 10.12.25
Watching a friend of twenty years wind her way through cancer treatment and now hospice care has been a master’s course in radical, serial acceptance. Just yesterday, to abruptly realize that the cause of her new pain was now moot—that no one was looking for causes anymore, only the management of pain—was another level of reality to absorb. I saw it in her eyes, but just for a moment. Then an implied shrug, and the conversation continued.

It’s that ability to recover from the shocks of life that shows us who we are. You can call it resilience, but it’s more than that. We’re generally taught that spiritual maturity means moving beyond doubt, despair, anger—being untriggerable. Thank God the gospels show us Jesus wasn’t all that. We see his anger in the temple, his doubt at Gethsemane, his despair on the cross. But then we see his quick recovery back to center, reconnection with his deepest identity: not my will, but yours…forgive them, they don’t know what they do.

Life is an oscillation between constantly changing circumstance and neurochemistry. Between pleasure and pain, triggers and recovery. We have no control over emotional onset or the events and circumstances that trigger it. And we’re not responsible for what we can’t control. Spiritual maturity isn’t measured by a lack of triggers or negative emotion we can’t control, but the speed of our recovery. Return to center. Remembrance of who we really are.

And who is that? 

Looking in the eyes of a newborn, whose brain is still formatting like a new hard drive, there are no thoughts or concepts. But there is presence. A presence that can’t be defined in words because it precedes them. It’s this presence that simply accepts what it experiences, absorbs without labels or the weight of prior experience, reminds us of the vastness we’ve lost in adult preoccupation.

We can cultivate newborn eyes through spiritual discipline, or we can wait for life to drive us into serial acceptance. Or both. The eyes of a newborn and those of a friend in hospice…they are the same. They see what we’ve forgotten.

Death is not the tragedy. It’s not remembering while we live.

Newborn Eyes

Dave Brisbin 10.19.25
As we look farther into the observable universe, dig deeper into subatomic particles, science is coming full circle back to what contemplatives and mystics have always known. One aspect of quantum physics is especially revealing. Called superposition, it’s the mathematical concept that subatomic particles exist in a kind of cloud of probability—a continuous wave—where all states and properties are possible at the same time. But the moment an observer interacts with them, superposition collapses into a single state—a particle.

This mind-bending phenomenon mirrors the ancient Hebrew view of human life lived out between heaven and earth, between God’s realm of wavelike unity, of infinite potential and possibility, and earth, the place of individual form and function—particles. Our purpose is to bring heaven to earth and earth to heaven, to merge the oneness and infinite possibility of heaven with the diversity and finitude of daily life, without losing the essence of either.

The whole point of spiritual formation is to cultivate moments of superposition, re-experience the oneness of infinite possibility we lost growing up and bring that reality into every aspect of daily life. But our consciousness is superposition resistant. We won’t hold onto paradox, craving straight lines and answers, resolution. 

Donkey falls into a farmer’s dry well, and when he can’t get it out, decides to just fill in the well. First shovelfuls rain down. The donkey is frantic, braying hysterically, then goes silent. Farmer looks down. As each shovelful hits its back, the donkey shakes it off and steps up until he eventually steps up and out of the well. On earth, with our straight lines and particles, we fear the curved, indirect movement of spirit in superposition. But enlightenment is not a direct lifeline pulling us up into the light; it’s an indirect layering that feels like death at first, scares us until we see the way of it.

Quantum physics and Jesus’ parables teach the same message. 

That some things can’t be known with straight thought lines. Only by living them out, interacting, do they collapse and merge into meaning.

Between Heaven and Earth

Dave Brisbin 10.26.25
Book of Genesis tells us that God gave Adam permission to name all the animals in the Garden. It’s not a casual detail. For the ancient Hebrews, authority to name something like a child or an animal, was a symbol of dominion over that something. That’s the point. Control. To this day, Jews do not speak the name of God. But the rest of us continue to name everything in sight, including God…and the theology we build around God.

God told Moses from the burning bush that his name was hayah asher hayah. That is, I am that I am. How can we get any closer than that? How do we describe raw, ultimate existence any more clearly? How do we, using finite tools such as language and logic or even the mathematics of physics, describe what is by definition infinite? Our limited language, concepts, and equations melt all over the dashboard long before temperatures and velocities ever reach the neighborhood of infinity.

But we keep trying. Control is an aphrodisiac.

To be fair, the scriptures are always talking about knowing God. Ezekiel uses the phrase over seventy times in his short book. Jesus says that some of us, knocking on the door of kingdom, will be refused because God never knew us. Really? Once again, entering the Hebrew mind helps us square this circle. To know—yada in Hebrew—comes from the root for hand, so to know is not to think, but to handle. Jesus is saying that some of us, for all the religious work we do, have still never been intimate with God. Now God won’t throw us out for that, but God is intimacy personified. If we’re too unripe, immature, traumatized to enter the defenseless vulnerability that intimacy requires, we don’t know God. We can’t know what we’ve never experienced.

God occupies space beyond thought and performance. If we can stop naming God, trying to understand and dominate for just a moment, we enter God’s space and experience what we’ll never understand. Relax... Understanding is overrated. For Jesus, a precognitive child is the embodiment of kingdom. 

Trust beats certainty the way rock beats scissors. 
Once we experience God, there is no name that can hold or express what we know.

Knowing God

Dave Brisbin 11.9.25
The founder of Apple, Steve Jobs, was one of the most driven men of our time. His desire for more, his dissatisfaction with the status quo, created a lifelong willingness to strike out in radically new directions. Raised in the Lutheran church, by his teens he became disillusioned, dissatisfied with Christianity-as-practiced and non-answers to his existential questions. He embraced Zen Buddhism, spending three years in India, returning with shaved head and traditional Indian garb, which translated to bare feet and jeans in the Apple offices as tech innovation became his driving force.

Couple decades later, he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Fought it with everything he had for seven years but by 2011, had accepted he was dying. Friends and family created a stream of visitors to his home, and conversations slowly morphed from business back to those existential questions he had never answered to his own satisfaction. His sister said at his funeral that after making eye contact with everyone in the room, his gaze refocused beyond them, over their shoulders at something only he could see. His last words were, “Oh wow! Oh wow, oh wow!”

To overcome the fear and uncertainty that radical change represents, to persevere through the time it takes to assimilate radical change, we need a tremendous amount of desire. We need to feel a divine dissatisfaction, the blessed unrest such desire creates. But where does all that come from?

If you’re reading this, it’s because you desire something more or different. But at a level that motivates? You could say that the entirety of Jesus’ message was a series of shocks to the system, a constant overturning of the tables of our status quo. The shocks are what break through business as usual and present the possibility of something more. Like a beautiful face that promises new relationship or a loss that lays waste to old ones, motivating desire always follows.

Death is the ultimate shock to the system. 

Jesus taught and lived a constant laying down of life-as-practiced to create the shocking space for something more. Something that will make us say, Oh wow!

Shock to the System

Dave Brisbin 11.16.25
Have you noticed that people fight? Silly wabbit. Of course. Ever stopped to wonder why?

Fear. Always fear. Even if it doesn’t feel like afraid-ness, unconscious, overriding concern for personal survival drives us fearward in a zero-sum world where there’s only so much oil in the ground, where the resources absolutely necessary for survival are finite. It’s basic envy and jealousy: fear of not getting what someone else has, fear of not keeping what we already do. 

Fights are made of this. No fear, no fight.

Then why do religious people fight? Spirituality by definition is infinite, yes? Unlimited resource, enough for all. So when Christians fight, debate, defend, excommunicate, and they certainly do, they are saying they don’t really believe in infinite spiritual resources, or at least that the spiritual does not override the finite where we really live. Fighting Christians don’t trust that the perfect love Jesus lived and died to make real for us is enough. There must still be something we need to acquire or perform to gain the acceptance that is our eternal survival.

More revealing: how do Christians fight? With scripture. Always with scripture. Any fight among Christians is a fight over the book. We’re the people of the book. Even before the early church had the book, it fought over what should be in the book, and once it had the book, fought to defend and enforce it. Five hundred years ago, Western Reformers went even further, saying the book was the only source of revelation from God, that to literally understand the text was to understand God—or at least the terms of eternal survival.

Reducing faith to rational belief has put Westerners on a collision course with an Eastern text that is made of entirely different stuff. The ancients who wrote our book were not even trying to answer literal questions to satisfy our craving for certainty. 

The bible is the map of a journey to the experience of infinite resource, unlimited love. When we stop defending it, asking it questions it won’t answer, let it ask us who is asking…it can begin pointing us to trust what we can never understand—only experience.

Book of Unknowing

Dave Brisbin 11.23.25
When I’d tell people the title of my book, The Fifth Way, first question was: what are the first four? That made perfect sense, because you can’t understand the fifth way of Jesus until you understand how the first four operate in our lives.

There are several systems that try to explain human behavior in terms of personality types, unconscious ways we process experience and approach challenges in life: Enneagram, Myers-Briggs, DiSC, Kiersey…the four ways operate similarly.

In Jesus time, four sects dominated Jewish life, and each had a specific way of dealing with threats to their powerbases—specifically the Roman occupation. The Sadducees, yielded to Roman power; the Pharisees tried to influence or manipulate; the Essenes exited to build their own communities; and the Zealots tried to destroy Roman presence through rebellion.

To yield, manipulate, exit, and destroy, are the north, south, east, and west of ways we can deal with challenges in life. From dysfunctional marriages to nations and armies, these four ways, with all the combinations in between, are what we have to work with, and each of us has learned to favor one as primary in our personal lives. They aren’t bad or evil; they’re necessary for navigating life. Only when we apply them to spiritual growth do they become limiting, destructive, never taking us where we need to go.

The four ways answer physical needs we all have as humans, but until we become aware of them, they strip free will, reducing us to predictable, type-based behavior. When Jesus comes out of the wilderness, having overcome three temptations symbolic of all human need, he begins teaching a fifth way, turning the other four on their heads.

Everything Jesus teaches and models is a refutation of our normal, ingrained ways of meeting our needs. Starting within and working outward, from an awareness of inexhaustible presence rather than scarcity, we realize that all we really need is not gained through acquisition but in giving away all we have. In the giving, we learn what we really possess is inexhaustible, restoring free will—our ability to choose in love, not just in need.

A Different Way

Dave Brisbin 11.30.25
Gratitude and thankfulness are not the same. 

I see thankfulness as a positive reaction to a specific gift or circumstance, and though gratitude begins there, it journeys on to a non-specific attitude, a view of life that is all-inclusive, sees everything around us as a gift we could never give ourselves. Once we’re aware that life is the free reception of what we could never give ourselves or repay, that repayment is not even required, any sense of entitlement vanishes. 

Jesus said the highest form of love is loving the enemy: loving—identifying with—someone who had not earned the right to that gift. And the flip side: the highest form of gratitude is being thankful for something we believe we have already earned. We can’t know love until we know gratitude, the opposite of entitlement, the ability to see everything as a gift no matter how hard we work.

What blocks this ability? To help us survive, our brains have adapted to focus on anticipating and solving problems, to start from a base of scarcity and fear. This makes us quicker to react to challenges, but jealously entitled to what we can catch and kill. Jesus rejected scarcity, started from a base of abundance, that everything God has and is, is already ours, within us. Even as we struggle for the legal tender, using our minds as survival guides, our job spiritually is to learn the balance of remaining thankful for each gift we earn, let thankfulness incite the journey to gratitude.

Gratitude is an umbrella term, covers and includes all positive emotions, excludes the rest. You can’t be grateful and depressed at the same time. Or angry, anxious, envious, entitled, victimized. Literally impossible. So what does gratitude feel like? Like enough. No more or less than just enough. Enoughness is the feeling we call gratitude, which feels like happiness, fulfilment, meaning, purpose.

We can’t create gratitude. It’s what happens when we begin to see everything in our moments as gifts we could never give ourselves—let go of the complexity, calculations, judgment upon which our minds insist. Instead of scarcity, see the abundance of each moment as enough.

Gratefully Enough

Dave Brisbin 12.7.25
We all know when we go too far. That can be measured. 

When we cross a line, feel the negative reaction or outcome, we can evaluate and pull back. But how do we know when we haven’t gone far enough? How do you measure a negative, the absence of something? Can’t do it directly, but there is a way. 

We can measure our disturbance.

Not going far enough, means something inside is resisting, slowing or stopping forward motion. Unfamiliar ideas and landscape challenge the way we believe things should look and feel. That’s disturbing and always seeks relief. Hard to remain in disturbing places. But we can’t grow in comfortable places, smack in the middle of everything we already believe. Something different always creates dissonance, which feels like disturbance; something radically different creates radical disturbance, which feels like anger, outrage, panic. 

No disturbance, no growth.

We need rites of passage, to embrace all three phases: separation, transition, reincorporation. The movement from child to adult, from any perspective to another is always preceded by the painful separation from what is comfortable and familiar, followed by the disorienting transition through a new world of altered concepts and action. Only after such a journey can we reincorporate into our relationships, whitened like Moses by the experience, offering more.

Nothing is more radically different than the impossible love, with all its implications, that Jesus is teaching and living in the gospels. But if our reading of it is not disturbing, if our attempts at applying it in our lives is not disorienting, then we haven’t yet separated from the world we imagined for ourselves. We haven’t let love be impossible. Let it take us far enough and not too far at the same time.

In a prayer attributed to Sir Francis Drake as he set sail to successfully circumnavigate the globe: Disturb us, Lord, when we are too pleased with ourselves, when our dreams have come true because we dreamed too little, when we arrived safely because we sailed too close to the shore…

Measure your disturbance. If you can’t find any, you’re too close to the shore.

Disturb Us, Lord

Dave Brisbin 12.14.25
Christmas is our biggest cultural holiday, but even among those still celebrating Jesus’ birth, what do we really know about it? Only Matthew and Luke relate any birth narratives, but Matthew tells only of the visit of the Magi, leaving Luke to give all the birth details we have. And there aren’t many.

Luke tells us Jesus was wrapped in cloths and laid in a manger because there was no room in the inn. That’s it. In any good story, details are critical, never random, always set with purpose. So what do these details tell us? That Jesus’ birth followed ordinary Hebrew practice—so unremarkable that those in the house where Joseph and Mary were staying, most likely relatives or friends, didn’t even make room for them in their living space. That’s what the word mistranslated as “inn” means. Not a hotel, but the interior living space of every Hebrew home that was separate from the cooking space and that reserved for animals. Luke goes on to say that local shepherds are caught up in spectacular sights, and Matthew tells of astronomer-priests who travel a thousand miles to worship at the feet of a poor child they believe is king. 

How did those right in the house with the holy family miss all this?

Truth is, every one of us can only see what we’re prepared to see. Confirmation bias eats up the rest. The point these few birth details make is that our God is an unassuming God, a humble, vulnerable God who must be believed to be seen. To see significance under an unremarkable exterior is the preparation, the goal of spiritual formation. If you’re already poor and marginalized, it’s easier to disregard facades, but no guarantee. The genius of the Magi is that they were wealthy, powerful, educated, and yet still humble, vulnerable, willing to make fools of themselves on a long, risky journey with no guaranteed outcome.

If we’re to understand Christmas, it will be through the Magi’s eyes, because we are wealthy and educated too. To let that go, sell all we have is the only way to see the promise of our star in an unformed child. 

We will always find our God as a child. Unformed and forming. Are we prepared to see?

Preparing for Promise

Dave Brisbin | 4.29.18
From the account of Pentecost in Acts 2, it can seem that the Spirit descending on Jesus’ followers like tongues of fire on each was an event that happened at a particular place and time as they passively waited. But the truth is, there’s nothing passive about the spiritual life. We need to resist the temptation to think of Pentecost or baptism of the spirit or the born again experience as the moment when Spirit is unleashed, no longer withheld. Spirit is always unleashed, permanently permeating everything all the time—never withheld. Pentecost is a conscious choice to return to unity with Spirit as we become aware of its presence in a fundamentally new way. It can be a gradual process, a process of becoming more and more aware until we realize at some point we have a very different relationship with Presence. What is this process? How does it work? Jesus’ Way to Father can be looked at as a return to the Garden of Eden, a return to the kind of connection with which each of started as children. And Jesus’ insistence on loving the enemy, the willingness and practice of embracing what is different and difficult in our lives—people, ideas, circumstances that offend—is the process itself. Each time we love enemy as Jesus did by breaking through the ritual, theological, and social barriers we have set up to keep ourselves safe, we are returning to the borderless relationship beyond tribe and self that is Pentecost.

A Gradual Pentecost

Dave Brisbin | 8.26.18
Some twenty five plus years ago, as I was attempting to go into bible battle over a particular interpretation with a Franciscan priest. He held up his hand in the universal stop sign and said, “All I can tell you is what I’m convinced of. You go become convinced of what you’re convinced of.” Coming through my mindset then, it seemed like a complete copout. But later and after all these years, I realize it’s the only thing one human can say to another in matters of faith and spirit. In our fear, we want to be certain, absolute about everything including the things that can never be absolute without ceasing to be what they are—articles of faith that exist only in the presence of mystery. But those of us who sincerely seek the truth that Jesus said would make us free come to understand that such truth can’t be proven in words or diagrams that feed the fear, but in the experience of truth-as-a-person that feeds the heart. And those same seekers, like pioneers or astronauts taking first steps into uncharted territory, experience truth as if for the first time and yet with the sameness that unchanging truth demands. Holding the conviction of the contemplatives and mystics in the Christian tradition against the conviction of Paul in the New Testament, we encounter a record of experience with a God who always sees us as if for the first time. As we guilt over our mistakes and sins of the past and worry over our imagined unworthiness in the future, our Father sees only the person standing in his moment, the only moment that exists. It’s as if he takes a snapshot of who we are right now and loves us, however scarred or unfinished, simply because we’re there in his presence—as if there is no other information that exists. Because the only moment that exists already contains all there is. If we’re in that moment with God, we are one with all there is, and all will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of thing will be well.

Snapshot

Dave Brisbin | 9.2.18
In the first and second of the Ten Commandments and many other places in the scriptures, God tells his people that he is their only God and that they are prohibited from making any carved images—what King James called graven images—of him or any of the gods of the near east pantheon because he is a jealous God who will visit iniquity on the people who defy him to the third and fourth generations. As we are looking at the contemplative practice of coming to know God intimately, how are we to deal with a passage like this? The image of a jealous God visiting iniquity on innocent generations seems the antithesis of a God who looks so different in Jesus’ eyes, life, and message. As we peer through the Hebrew context, words take on different meanings, but primarily, to understand the scope of graven images really points us in better directions. To carve an image is to literally set it in stone, presenting a false view of a transcendent God and killing the experience of a living relationship. But we do the same with our mental and verbal images, and we do the same with our written word-images as well. As far as we know, Jesus never wrote anything down, kept all his teaching and interaction freely moving in real time. Were his words experienced only as oral tradition for the next two to three generations perhaps to avoid the veneration of a static manuscript in place of the living relationship it described? When our knowing of God is not based in graven images made out of any possible material—even thoughts and words—but in a living, daily experience of presence balanced with knowledge of scripture understood through Hebrew eyes, we find a jealous God who is no longer threatening, but consistently and exactly who Jesus portrayed him to be.

Graven Images

Dave Brisbin | 9.9.18
Speaking more from a personal point of view, Pastor Dave talks about how the recent series on the contemplative journey and lives of mystics in the Christian tradition has stirred up emotional memories of his own journey and the questions they pose on the nature of the deep desire in some of us to engage this journey at all costs. Where does this desire come from? Why is it so strong in some of us and not others? How is it sustained? And most importantly, where do we direct it and nurture it into a conscious contact with God and each other? As always, we go to Jesus and see that he had a very defined Way of bringing his people to their Father, and it roughly breaks down into four main areas of growth: healing, teaching, mentoring, and serving. When the desire in us becomes strong enough, we become ready to stop being victims and start healing at least enough to build a stable platform for learning about a Way of living that changes everything. Then at some point the student becomes ready to actually engage the Way with a mentor who can guide and provide accountability until the student becomes the teacher and can serve. This is the contemplative way, the Way of Jesus that takes us from fearful brokenness to an assured humility and willingness to be openly vulnerable in our moment by moment experience.

Contemplative Way

Dave Brisbin | 9.16.18
Movies are our dominant storytelling media these days, and though we can say it’s a shame people aren’t reading as much anymore, sometimes the combination of a great script, great actors, and great pictures really brings a message home. Spinning the dial, I came across the movie Jackie and became involved in the story of Jackie Kennedy coping with the first seven days after the assassination of her husband/president. But what riveted me was the series of scenes between her and a priest counselor in which she asked the classic questions of grief, loss, and life in general. She questions God and his cruelty, she questions her actions and what she did to deserve the trauma and pain, and she questions her life as she reveals she’d been praying every night to die. The priest carefully tries to steer her down a middle course between the extremes of an indifferent God and one who actively creates or allows pain, but ultimately confesses there are no answers. Delivered by the great actor John Hurt just weeks before his own death to pancreatic cancer, a death he knew was coming, makes even more pointed the truth that at its most mature, our spiritual journey ceases as a search for rational answers that aren’t coming—and becomes a conscious immersion in moments we may not understand, but that God in his infinite wisdom has made sure are just enough for us.

Just Enough

Dave Brisbin | 10.7.18
Sometimes insightful messages come in sets of threes, it seems. Or maybe it’s that as the first time goes right over our heads, second brings awareness, and the third really hits home, we’re just sensitive to the threeness of things. I suppose it’s always our choice to see life as either a series of coincidences or having divine influence or somewhere in between. And that’s the point: how we see the events in our lives and our place in them is a choice. Any worldview we choose will answer some questions and beg others, but whether we hit an objective accuracy we could never prove anyway, some views of life are just more fun. A series of events of the past week from a trip to the zoo to the homecoming greeting by our pet dog, to an email from a friend in crisis telling the story of a young boy running into the pool with his swimmies on, a pattern of experiences and images formed with an impact that seemed to far outweigh mere coincidence. Jesus always points to children as the emblems of kingdom, but more than that, when we dig beneath some limiting translations, we find that he’s really saying that kingdom is us and we are kingdom when we look at life in a particular way—a way that makes us look like children. Whether to see the threeness of this last week as God’s guiding hand is my choice. And yours as well. But whatever the mechanics of life, some choices are just much more fun and childlike. Kingdomlike.

Running with Swimmies

True North with Dave Brisbin is a podcast about the things that can bring you back to center, whether God, spirituality, community or family or all of them. Never esoteric or abstract for its own sake; always practical and full of common sense, we’re interested in exploring the effect of what we believe on our lives and questioning what we believe in light of the deep connection we’re meant to live. Dave Brisbin is an author, speaker, coach, and songwriter. He is the teaching pastor of theeffect, a faith community and recovery ministry in San Clemente, CA and executive director of Encompass Recovery, an addiction treatment center in San Juan Capistrano. For more on finding deeper spiritual expression free from limiting beliefs and behavior, go to davebrisbin.com.

A Gradual Pentecost

True North with Dave Brisbin

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