Sustainable Faith & Friends (1)
May 13, 2008
A few years ago I petitioned the abbot of the the Abbey of Gethsemani for an extended stay at the monastery in order to write and also interview several of the monks. He granted the request on the condition that I also work with the brothers and participate in their seven daily prayer offices. Even though it meant getting up with the bells at 2:45 a.m. in order to make the 3:00 a.m. Vigils, I jumped at the chance. (I also hoped I’d probably get daily samples of the bourbon fudge and artisan cheeses they make.) In one of the most memorable interviews for me, I asked an older monk, “Over these many years, what’s been your greatest consolation in this way of life? His simple response was, “My brothers.” I then asked, “And what’s been your greatest difficulty? What have you struggled with most?” He chuckled and said with equal terseness, “My brothers.”
Sometimes I think I don’t need friends. Whenever I’ve gone away for an extended period to be alone, I’ve never really missed anybody, a fact which sometime concerns me more than a little, but what am I to do about it? Manufacture feelings? I love my children when I’m with them, but when they’re gone, sometimes a couple weeks can pass before they even enter my mind. The same goes for my wife who bore these children and to whom I’ve been married for over 30 years. The adage “out of sight, out of mind” applies perfectly in my case.
But there’s more. Not only do I not miss people, but I even enjoy the time alone. Alone I feel entirely at home. My fantasy (an open joke with my wife and friends) is that my ideal vacation would be to live alone in the wilderness (preferably in the mountains) for several months, having only the most basic things available to me, and indoor plumbing doesn’t fall into that category. A rude structure (e.g., a teepee or yurt) to keep me dry and warm, a little food to eat (I’d be happy to hunt & forage for my own), and some durable clothes. And something to write on.
So do I need friends? Contrary to my own personal fiction, yes. They’re a part of sustainable faith. They’ve not only been comfort and joy (in addition to being irritants), but they’ve saved my scrawny butt time and again. The old adage that there’s strength in numbers is in fact true, if for no other reason than finding protection in the pack. Another person with me in the wilderness I often desire (as long as that person’s not a complete idiot) will increase my chance of survival. Now my odds of being the one eaten by a grizzly bear are only 50%. But another friend anywhere is a good thing.
Studies have shown repeatedly that people who have close friends are happier, enjoy better health, and live longer than those who don’t. Even dogs and cats can help in these matters. When elderly people who live alone are given pets as companions, they fare better. What’s that all about? We don’t know all the reasons behind it, but generally speaking we’re hard-wired to thrive as social beings. In America we think of ourselves primarily as a collection of individuals, but it would be a lot more helpful (and healthful) if we could see ourselves as collectives, families, groups, etc. simply because that fits the physical reality.
We demonstrate our knowledge of community’s importance by the way we have and still do punish people: you shun, ostracize or isolate. Exile your enemy to a remote island (like John on the island of Patmos.) Punish someone emotionally by not talking to her. Put the prisoner in solitary confinement. It takes much more poison to kill a rat in community than it does to kill one in isolation. The child standing alone in the corner of the playground at recess is always weak and suspect.
Here’s an excerpt from a New York Times article, “The Lonely American Just Got a Bit Lonelier,” written by Henry Fountain almost two years ago:
There is a new installment in the annals of loneliness. Americans are not only lacking in bowling partners, now they’re lacking in people to tell their deepest, darkest secrets. They’ve hunkered down even more, their inner circle often contracting until it includes only family, only a spouse or, at worst, no one. And that is something the Internet may help ease, but is unlikely to cure.
A recent study by sociologists at Duke and the University of Arizona found that, on average, most adults only have two people they can talk to about the most important subjects in their lives — serious health problems, for example, or issues like who will care for their children should they die. And about one-quarter have no close confidants at all.
This aloneness and isolation is a social experiment of epic proportions. Never before in recorded history have we as humans willingly embarked on such a radical and stupid course. Shouldn’t this make us a little wary? A little nervous? Some of the strongest metaphors for the community of faith are based in this social understanding: we are “the people of God” (an ethnic grouping) or the “family-household of God” or the “assembly-church of God? Daniel Goleman’s book Social Intelligence highlights in wonderful and compelling ways how exquisitely formed we are in our neural hardwiring and chemistry to act socially.
This point was driven home both to me and my wife last night as we met with a younger couple really struggling in their marriage. We began the time with them by telling something of our own story and the great difficulties we faced for the first fifteen or so years. “And what helped you turn the corner,” the wife asked. As we reflected on that and gave answers, it was obvious to us that opening ourselves to others and coming into the experience of community was a key part of our healing. No surprise there. I still remember with crystal clarity one particular turning point from well over a decade ago. My friend Owen walked with me one morning through the streets of Norwood while I keened and wailed over the fact that my wife wasn’t my “soul mate” and didn’t enjoy the things I enjoyed to the degree that I enjoyed them. (Poor me. It all sounds so selfish and melodromatic in retrospect.) At the end of my lament Owen gently and simply said, “Why does it have to be your wife? I like all those things, and so do the other men in our group. Isn’t that enough for you? Why do you want to impose on her a burden of enjoyment she’s not wired or meant to bear?” Ouch. But it was a good ouch, and a tension along a marital faultline eased because I had a friend who acted like a friend.
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Dave….
Great thoughts here. A few years ago I felt myself slipping into the obscurity of the 13 floor library at Ohio State. I could sit for hours, day after day with little or no conversation. The solitude was both restful and energizing. I did eventually come to the conclusion that while I enjoyed reading and thinking in my own little corner of the world, what I really wanted to do was share what I was thinking about and talk about what I was reading. I wanted “beer, pipes, and male laughter,” as cs lewis put it so frequently.
So much formation has come to me through those around me…both then and now.
Walter Wangerin Jr. talks about a spouse being a mirror reflecting back to the other bits and pieces of soul and life and brokenness. When she laughs…I know there is something in me that is joyful. When she cries (b/c of something I have done)…I know that there is something in me that is hurtful. I’ve experienced this with my spouse and with my friends.
The joy and laughter part are of course better and…well, more enjoyable. But the times where frustration or hurt get reflected back are equally informative…and formative.