A Royal Waste of Time: Why I Wish I Wasted More

This is an intriguing question: How do you waste the most time every day?
Part of me wonders—do I waste enough?

Marva Dawn wrote a book I’ve returned to often, titled A Royal Waste of Time. She suggests that much of our modern thinking—even in worship—gets caught up in outcomes and effectiveness. Did it connect? Did it achieve anything? Was it useful? But perhaps the better question is: Was it offered to God? Or to another, with no strings attached?

I work 60 hours a week or more as the principal and CEO of a university residential college. I don’t have much opportunity to waste time. And the time I do spend outside of work doesn’t feel wasted—at least not in the ways we usually mean by that word.

Each morning I get up early and write. This isn’t a chore. It’s fun, even enlivening. I write my way to clarity—far more often than I think my way there. The writing becomes a mirror, a compass, a map. Often, it reveals what I need to do to live well. And, perhaps more importantly, it becomes the very thing that nudges me to do it.

I also walk our dog. She’s a working breed, so she needs the exercise—and frankly, so do I. This ritual has become a relational practice too. We’ve made connections with other dogs and their humans along our regular routes. It’s a quiet web of neighbours, nods, and brief conversations.

Meals in the dining hall are another discipline. I don’t work through lunch. I sit with residents. This is where trust is formed, and I’ve come to see that if people are central to my work, then unhurried time with them is not wasted. It’s foundational.

Each day I read a passage of Scripture. At the moment, I’m making my way through Isaiah. Honestly, it’s hard going. I’m in those long, weary chapters where Israel tries to secure her future through shaky alliances instead of trusting God. I used to think those parts of the Bible were boring. I never imagined how painfully relevant they’d feel. Often, I write a poem in response—an effort to listen deeply, to wrestle and reflect.

I don’t watch much TV—just the news at night. Anything more and I’d probably fall asleep. Every so often I’ll have a sports match on in the background, but even then, I’m usually doing something else.

Saturdays are for lunch with my wife. Afterwards, we sit by the ocean with coffee in hand for a couple of hours. No agenda. Just time together. Just the sea.

Sundays are slower. I go to church, talk to people, and then reflect. As a gift to the preacher, I write a poem—capturing in verse what I heard them say. Lately, I’ve been writing on Leviticus. I never thought I’d do that either. Some of these end up on my blog.

If I have a vice, it’s the occasional doomscroll. No more than five minutes. Usually just a signal that I’m too tired to do anything else.

So no—I don’t think I waste a lot of time. But I do wish I wasted more.
Not passively. Not destructively. But sabbathly.

I long for more other-centred time. Time not defined by productivity, not orbiting my career or usefulness. Time offered for relationship—with God, with my wife, my family and friends. With the dog. With beauty. With health. With presence. Maybe that’s the real invitation of this question—not to confess our distractedness, but to wonder:
What kind of time do we call wasted,
and what kind of time is holy?