"Every Thursday for the past decade, I've sat with the same group of guys for a beer after work. I don't think any of them has changed a bit in 10 years. Nothing. They've done nothing to grow themselves or their talents. Each one of them, if they were to die today, would get nearly the same eulogy: Nice man. Worked hard. Loved his children. Nothing wrong with any of that. Or is there?"
"Do you really love these guys? Do you appreciate each one in his radiant singularity, while knowing in your heart that behind and beyond this singularity you share the same immortal, compassionate essence? Can you look at any one of your buddies holding a beer and getting louder (or quieter) as the evening progresses, and recognize his struggle as a child of God in a fallen world?"
"Because if you loved them like that, you'd know that plenty has happened in their lives in 10 years, and that they have most certainly changed or been changed. Nature is a Heraclitean fire, as the poet said: Everything's moving, burning, rushing, altering its state. And we drink beer with our buddies-or I do-partly to slow it all down. To anchor myself woozily in space with dudes I love."
A man meets the same group of men for beer weekly for a decade and perceives no outward change, labeling them steady, hardworking family men. He questions whether these friends strive for self-improvement, neighborly service, or broader obligations beyond themselves. He probes whether genuine love would perceive each friend's unique inner life and shared compassionate essence, and sees personal struggles as part of a fallen human condition. He counters the perception of stasis by invoking Heraclitus: everything changes, and shared drinking partly serves to slow or anchor the sense of flux and continuity among friends.
Read at The Atlantic
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