We’re Doing Fine

the Absurdity of Simplicity

Have you seen the viral TikTok trend “Show me two clips that give off the same energy”?

Well… Here’s my entry. In written form.

One’s from a child and his tiger.

The other’s from a big blue goober in spandex.

And both are ridiculous.

And yet, somehow both feel holy.

I wouldn’t have even heard about that Tick clip if it weren’t for a recent coffee conversation with a friend who is wrestling with some deep questions about faith. We were lamenting the days when faith felt “simple” and “easy.” How it used to feel like home. And now? It felt more like a storage unit: crowded, hard to breathe in, full of stuff they weren’t sure they needed to keep anymore.

Then they said: “There’s this scene in The Tick… it’s weird, but I think about it a lot.”

Basically, in this scene (and correct me if I get it wrong because I only know about the Tick… I never really watched either the animated or the short-lived live shows) he’s guided by a voice—his “Consciousness”—which basically plays the role of his inner narrator. It’s snarky, exasperated, and desperately wants him to ask a deep, meaningful, world-shattering question when he reaches the center of himself.

Finally, he arrives at what the voice calls “The Pinnacle of Self,” his ultimate inner sanctum, where he can ask the one great question of his existence. One chance to get the answer to the biggest mystery in the universe.

And instead of going full Socratic or mystical or Doctor-Strange-in-the-Multiverse, he leans forward and just says:

“How ya doing?”

I laughed.

Because of course he did.

Of all the questions he could ask… I mean, growing up, we were told that when we get to heaven, we’ll have the opportunity to ask whatever question we want to God and God will answer it. (Like, how did a good section of the church come to this conclusion?) Imagine being in front of God and all you ask is, “How are you doing?”

As silly (and maybe even short-sighted) that question might be… the more I sat with this clip the more I started thinking…

Maybe that’s the real question.

Not “What’s your theology of atonement?”

Not “What’s your stance on this controversial issue?”

Not “What do you believe about transubstantiation or predestination or the end times?”

But this:

Are you okay?

Are you still here?

Are you still choosing to love and be loved?

This Tick clip, and my favorite comic strip of all time, got me thinking.

Let’s start with two ridiculous questions.

First, from Calvin & Hobbes.

Calvin, with the chaotic brilliance of a kid theologian on a sugar high, asks:

“If you could have anything in the world right now, what would it be?”

And Hobbes, after a beat, answers:

“A sandwich.”

Calvin absolutely flips out.

A sandwich?! That’s it?!

He launches into a full Calvin monologue: a trillion billion dollars, his own continent, a personal space shuttle.

And Hobbes? Just munches quietly and says:

“I got my wish.” (Also, Calvin’s face in that moment? The look of someone who wants to resist the moral lesson being taught here).

Then there’s The Tick. Our big blue accidental prophet.

He journeys through a surreal, introspective odyssey, floating through space, confronting shadow versions of himself, landing in the core of his being. And when the moment comes, the grand cosmic opportunity to ask anything, he simply says:

“How ya doing?”

His brain explodes in outrage:

“THAT’S your big truth?! You GOOBER!”

But the Tick smiles, gives a thumbs-up, and says:

“We’re doing fine.”

Here’s the thing: both scenes are funny.

And both are right.

In the eyes of their companions (the sarcastic child, the disembodied voice of logic) the answers are absurd. Too small. Underwhelming. Disappointing.

Calvin wanted scale.

The brain wanted brilliance.

But both Hobbes and the Tick chose something else.

Something ordinary.

Something enough.

That’s the absurdity of simplicity.

It looks like failure in a culture addicted to scale.

It looks like laziness in a world that rewards complexity.

It looks like a missed opportunity when your god is hustle.

But the Gospel has always had a weird relationship with “big.”

It’s rarely loud.

Rarely flashy.

Rarely interested in the show.

It’s a mustard seed.

A few loaves and fish.

A whisper on a mountain.

A stable, not a throne.

We are constantly being told that more is the goal:

More answers. More vision. More “impact.” More certainty.

More stuff, more status, more followers, more fire. More, more, more.

But what if holiness is actually found in subtraction?

What if the truest faith doesn’t hinge on how much we can articulate, but how well we can love, stay, breathe, and be?

What if daily bread is the goal, not divine fireworks?

This is what simplicity asks of us:

Not to be small for smallness’s sake.

But to know what’s enough.

To say “I got my wish,” not because it’s everything you’ve ever wanted, but because you are alive, you are loved, you are here.

To say “We’re doing fine,” not because everything is perfect, but because the Spirit still moves, and your heart still beats, and that is something.

Simplicity is not stupidity. It’s clarity.

It’s knowing who you are when the performance ends.

It’s trusting that love doesn’t need to be loud to be real.

It’s refusing to despise the small things.

There’s power in asking questions that don’t come with answers.

There’s grace in naming a longing without trying to fix it.

There’s beauty in receiving what is —in the right here, right now—as a kind of miracle.

A sandwich.

A thumbs-up.

A sacred, absurd, enoughness.

So the next time you’re offered the floor to speak…

the next time the world demands that you go big or go home…

the next time your inner Calvin or inner Brain screams that you’ve wasted your one big shot…

Remember:

You don’t need to ask for a continent.

You don’t need to solve the cosmos.

You don’t need to impress the universe.

Sometimes, the holiest thing you can say is:

“I got my wish.”

“We’re doing fine.”

And sometimes, that’s more than enough.