Going for Broke by James Conti Don't look now, but the purpose of our being is being pre-empted. Somewhere en route to returning to God, we stumbled into a rut. Round and round and down it goes, a fabled groove supposedly filled with goodies. Ostensible freedom, fame, fortune, and fun are its marquee attractions. Never mind that each of them slips away. We live to be entertained. Once upon a while ago, I swear we were less insane. A person's character used to refer to substance instead of show. But today, it seems, in our craven chase of celebrity and its perks, we have run our sensibilities out of town. Renowned are the loudest and least mature, ignored are the modest and brave. When all is finally said and done, the meek may yet inherit the earth, but for now they are viewed as chumps. In today's circus atmosphere of salesmanship and hype, image reigns supreme. Blame the media? For what, being a mirror? I miss the days of Ernie Banks, of Bucky Fuller, of Fred Astaire. In these dollar-driven times, those who take the longer view are plainly in short supply. And so is the joy of living. Where is the athlete who plays for love of the game? Where is the striving for pure achievement, the higher ideal minus the ulterior motive, the unspun success? What ever happened to apprenticeship? I guess that Gotta Get It Now got the upper hand. Art for its own sake? Don't be a fool. Give us a shot at big bucks or forget it. Here's another mantra we like to repeat: Let not our pursuit of happiness be complicated by difficult moral choices. Work ethic? Only if it works for us. More than ever, it appears, quality and conviction yield to convenience. It's the new practicality. Honesty isn't exactly what it used to be either. Since our public leaders rarely submit to its worth, why should anyone else? Is there room in the average life these days for adhering to simple truths? It seems to depend on the entertainment value that a truth presents. What are its audience ratings? In this jazzy, computerized-graphics age, "it don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing." Simple truths have been driven to the margins of merit. What is in today is what is on. On the cover, on the screen, "on the air." If it makes a splash, it sells. Better to be notorious than nondescript. Better to leave a notable stain than barely a mark at all. In today's world of newsmaker dramas, the most horrific wins. Tuning in to "real TV" appears to be our substitute for attuning to higher self. Excuse me if my cynicism is showing. I normally have it under control. But sometimes the sheer absurdity of our ambitions overwhelms me. Maybe we have always been nuts — with blessed exceptions, thank God — but now we have the means to prove it with increasing flash and flair. What is most disturbing, however, is how slow we are to recognize the self-destructive nature of our immodest ways. Does anyone yet believe that a purely selfish, cruel, or excessive act does not in the end exact a price comparable to its effect? Long before we in the West ever heard about karma, Isaac Newton discovered and published its principle, stated in his Third Law of Motion: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Or, expressed abstrusely: You don't get away with getting your way if it isn't the way of the Way. Contrary to Madison Avenue's ideals, the purpose of our being is not about wearing designer clothes, owning luxury cars, or taking exotic vacations. Nor is it related to gaining power or fame, for as history demonstrates clearly, every rocket to stardom burns out short of the stars. In truth, we are here for one objective alone: to seek and experience God. Any other quest is mortal in scope, thus tethered to disappointment in the end. It can only tease; it cannot fulfill. If the medium is the message, as Marshall McLuhan declared, ours is entertainment itself. Our five senses have never been so assaulted by its demands. Immediate gratification seems the goal of personal, corporate, and collective agendas throughout the nation. Comparisons to latter-day Rome are unsettlingly many. For those swept along on the tide of egoistic pursuits, believing that outward style can satisfy the soul, disillusion awaits. As Pinocchio found to his despair, Fantasy Island becomes a scary place.