Sustainable Faith & Friends (2)
May 18, 2008
“We do not exist for ourselves alone, and it is only when we are fully convinced of this fact that we begin to love ourselves properly and thus also love others …. It is because of [our deficiencies] that we need others and others need us. We are not all weak in the same spots, and so we supplement and complete one another, each one making up in himself for the lack in another …. [The] meaning of my life is not merely in the sum total of my own achievements. It is seen only in the complete integration of my achievements and failures with the achievements and failures of my own generation, and society, and time. It is seen, above all, in my integration in the mystery of Christ.” (Thomas Merton, No Man is an Island)
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It is impossible to live the Christian life alone. Period. And what passes as “shared life” in most western world churches is so weak and tasteless that it’s an insult to the Christ who redeemed us to be his body.
The level of interaction between Christians in many local churches consists of nothing more than a coming to and going from a weekend event at a public building where those who profess Christ, right alongside those who are looking for him, sit together as strangers. If we do have conversations, they’re fleeting, shallow and safe because, after all, it isn’t the time and place and there’s too much to get into and you don’t know who can be trusted. We are alone in the same room (alone together), consuming what is passed out by “religious professionals” and then returning to our fortresses to live in relative isolation, apart from the the church: the body of Christ which is his people. And in this isolation we struggle to sort out family life, marriages, finances, vocations, and the press of daily life. Cloistered we struggle to overcome vice and to put into practice all the things we heard over the weekend.
How are we doing in this respect? Well, statistics say that collectively we’re failing miserably in this task, and that the life we have gained in turning to Christ is virtually indistinguishable from the life of those who have not turned to him. We lie as much, have affairs as often, and are addicted to the same level as the world in which we live. And in the area of divorce we slightly outpace the rest of society.
Many of us know that we’re failing. Deep down we know it but have been afraid to admit it, so we console ourselves with two fictions that help us live with the unease of not being in relationship and not living with much power. The first fiction is that we don’t have to be deeply involved in one another’s lives because “we’re a family linked in our perspectives and attitudes.” Because, then, we’re a “society of spirit,” even when we go our separate ways we’re still “together in our hearts.” This is real fellowship, we say.
But the truth is that no society of hearts is capable of existing only in the realm of the mind. If we’re to hold each other in mind when apart, it will only be because we’ve held each other close when together, which is the way it’s meant to be. If we’re to be saved at all, we will be saved together. Through Jesus, God has penetrated life in a new way in order to create a people who are necessarily linked. They are joined not only in their attitudes but in a type of life so different in kind from the society at large that it stands out sharper than fresh blood on white linen.
The second fiction we console ourselves with says that the profound brokenness we experience is okay, because what really sets us apart from the rest of society is a profession of faith that guarantees us eternal life. In other words, we’ve prayed the “sinner’s prayer” and others haven’t. We have a divine insurance policy and they don’t. But what good is a “sinner’s prayer” if it doesn’t, in communion with others sinners, lead us together from our individualism to become a holy ethnos, the new people, the body of Christ, the temple of God — all biblical images? At its worst it becomes a superstitious formula, some magic key that gives us, we believe, automatic entrance into the kingdom of God. It’s what we speak when God says, “Psst! What’s the password?”
The good news is that we can overcome this deficit of imagination and understanding. At least some of our inability to live in life-transforming relationships with one another is rooted in our ignorance of “the shared life” as it’s presented in the New Testament. We take our cues from present day church life and mistakenly believe it to be the truth. But what if we saw and decided to live the according to our calling? What if we looked at the portrait of the early church as it’s actually presented? And what if we allowed that picture and understanding to reform our current practice? There’s still space for a revolution.
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.