A Homily on the Hovering Now

Friends, look at us. We have just crossed the threshold of another year. The calendar on the wall has changed, the date on our screens has rolled over, and there is a collective, silent panic humming beneath the noise of our celebrations. We are obsessed with duration. We treat our lives like batteries, constantly checking the charge, terrified of the red bar that signals the end.

We live in a world that demands precision. We have atomic clocks, GPS locations down to the meter, and schedules that slice our days into fifteen-minute increments. We are addicted to being "dead on"—dead on time, dead on target, dead on arrival. And that phrasing is no accident. When you are rigid, when you are fixed, you are closer to death than you realize.

But I come to you today with a new word, a word from the Book of Circa: Approximate.

We read in our text today: "You chafe against the sunset, longing for a day that never ends. You seek to extend the vessel of clay... But I say to you: do not cling to the duration of the form."

This is the voice of Jesus the Zennist. It is the voice that stands on the Mount of Olives and looks not at the future, but at the Now. We are gathered here to explore a dangerous idea: that your desire to live forever is the very thing that is killing you.

I. The Fallacy of Length: Extending the Clay

Let’s be honest about our "spiritual" goals. When most of us pray for "eternal life," what we are really asking for is an extension on our lease. We want this body, this ego, this personality—John, Sarah, Michael—to go on indefinitely. We want to be the same, just... longer.

But the Gospel of the Hovering Now tells us this is a trap. "To chase physical immortality is to try to hold the wind in a net; 'the faster you hurry, the slower you go'."

Think of how we live. We buy creams to hide the wrinkles. We take supplements to optimize the machine. We are terrified of the "sunset." Why? Because we believe that "time" is the only container for "life." We think if the container breaks, the contents spill out and vanish.

But listen to the wisdom of the Bhagavad Gita, a text that sings in harmony with our reading today. In the Gita, Lord Krishna tells Arjuna that the soul casts off bodies like a man casts off old, worn-out clothes to put on new ones (Bhagavad Gita 2:22).

The "life of the skin" is a deadline. It has an expiration date. If you attach your happiness to the skin, you are setting yourself up for a tragedy. But the "life of the Spirit" is "Circa." It is the vastness around the point. It is not a line that stretches forward; it is a depth that drops down.

II. The Treasure of the Liminal: Finding God in the "About"

What does it mean to live "Circa"? It literally means "around" or "approximately."

This is the most comforting theology you will ever hear. God is not a God of the "Exact." God is the God of the "About." God is found about here. About now.

"The Kingdom is not a destination you arrive at; it is the 'Circa' in which you walk."

We are so hard on ourselves. We think we have to be "perfect"—perfectly moral, perfectly successful, perfectly enlightened. But Jesus the Zennist says: "Rest in the approximate perfection of God."

This reminds me of the great Sufi mystics of Islam, particularly the poetry of Rumi. Rumi speaks of the "drop" entering the "ocean."

The "Treasure of the Liminal" is this: You do not need to be finished to be whole. You are a work in progress, and that is your holiness. The "frozen future" we long for—a heaven where everything is static and perfect—is actually a description of death. Life is messy. Life is "Circa." Life is "roughly 10:00 PM." And that is exactly where the Kingdom hides.

III. The News of the Week: A Resolution for the Now

Now, let us ground this. We cannot speak of "Circa" and "Time" without addressing the heavy atmosphere of this past week. We have just turned the page to 2026.

Think about the news cycle of the last few days. It has been dominated by one thing: Prediction. Economists predicting the markets. Climate scientists predicting the weather patterns. Politicians predicting the polls. And us, in our living rooms, making "New Year's Resolutions"—which are really just predictions we make about our own behavior. I will lose ten pounds. I will pray more. I will stop getting angry.

We are obsessed with the "Next." We are collectively leaning forward, straining our eyes to see what this year will bring, terrified that it might be worse than the last. We are doing exactly what the text warns against: "Store up your hope in a resurrection... where moth and rust destroy."

When we place our peace in 2026—in the hope that this year will be better, or this year the war will end, or this year the economy will stabilize—we are building a house on sand. We are "chasing the wind."

Here is the sharp, practical application for this week: Cancel your resolutions.

I don't mean give up on goodness. I mean give up on the future version of yourself. That person doesn't exist. You say, "I want to be a person who is peaceful in 2026." Jesus the Zennist says: "Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things." If you want peace, be peaceful now. In this breath. Roughly. Approximately. If you screw it up in five minutes, that's fine. Come back to the "Circa."

The biggest news event of your life is not what happens on CNN or the BBC this year. The biggest news event is the breath you are taking right now. That is the only place where God lives. "Not here, not there—but everywhere always right before your eyes."

IV. The Grasping Hand vs. The Open Palm

Our text uses a beautiful image: "To chase physical immortality is to try to hold the wind in a net."

Have you ever tried to catch the wind? The harder you clench your fist, the less air you hold. To hold the air, you must open your hand. To "have" life, you must let go of "keeping" it.

This is the paradox of the Lilies of the Field.

"Consider the lilies... they neither toil nor spin." A lily does not have a five-year plan. A lily does not have an insurance policy. A lily does not worry about whether it will bloom "long enough." It just blooms. And when the season turns, it fades. It exists in the "grace of the approximate now."

We are the only creatures on earth who ruin the present by obsessing over its duration. We are at a beautiful dinner with friends, and halfway through, we get sad because we know it has to end. We ruin the flavor of the wine by counting the sips left in the bottle.

Jesus the Zennist asks: Can you just drink the wine? Can you just be at the dinner?

"If the mind makes no discriminations, all things are as they are, of One-essence." When you stop distinguishing between "now" and "later," between "life" and "death," you enter the One-essence.

Conclusion: The Softening of Edges

So, how do we live this? How do we walk out of these doors and back into a world of clocks and deadlines?

We practice the "Softening of the Edges." Our text says: "In this emptiness, death is not a wall, but a softening of the edges."

When you feel anxiety tightening your chest—anxiety about your health, your job, your children's future—visualize that anxiety as a hard, sharp edge. A wall you are trying to build to keep safety in and danger out. Then, remember "Circa." Blur the lines. Remind yourself: I am not a fixed point. I am a tapestry woven into the Unborn. Remind yourself: I do not need to control the outcome. I only need to be salt dissolved in the ocean.

"Changes that seem to occur in the world appear real only because of ignorance." The real You—the "Circa" You—cannot be born and cannot die. It just is.

Go into this New Year not with a list of demands, but with an open hand. Stop chafing against the sunset. Love the light while it is here. Love the dark when it comes. For "one instant is eternity." And you are standing right in the center of it.

Amen.