Thursday, March 28, 2013

A Third Person Reality



This week has kicked off the lovely time of year known as March Madness. It is a time when those that may regularly care nothing for college basketball are drawn into cheering for teams to which they have no real ties, other than they may have picked them in a work bracket pool. I have watched more college basketball in the last 72 hours than I care to admit. Of course, along with the watching of hours and hours of television comes the undesirable reality of sitting through hours of commercials, advertisements, and promos for fabric softener, beer, life insurance, cars and one that included Michael Jordan and a man wearing a shirt made of kittens.

There is nothing quite as maddening as watching commercials, except maybe watching the same commercial again and again. Niklas Luhmann, author of The Reality of the Mass Media, which I read recently, astutely observes that “advertising is one of the most puzzling phenomena… How can well-to-do members of society be so stupid as to spend large amounts of money on advertising in order to confirm their belief in the stupidity of others?” Most of us may roll our eyes when a commercial contains the shameless ploys of a sexy girl, a hilarious catch phrase, or a blatant questioning of the viewer’s adequacy without such and such a product. The baffling thing is that it works. Luhmann goes on to say that “advertising has already achieved success when people even ask themselves the question whether or not a new kitchen ought to be bought, since initially it is more likely that the mind is not preoccupied with one’s kitchen but with something else.” In other words, advertising creates a situation in which a decision on a need must be made. It also initiates very natural questions relating to self-inspection. Would this improve my quality of life? How am I being perceived by others? How can I take advantage of more of my time? What is missing in my life? These are all very fine self-examining questions to ask of ourselves on a regular basis. However, it may be helpful to take it a step further by asking what realities are influencing you to ask these questions of yourself.

Again in Luhmann’s book, he describes the complications that arise when we have allowed too many sources to influence our reality. “The more complex the system becomes and the more it exposes itself to irritations, the more variety the world can permit without relinquishing any reality - and the more the system can afford to work with negations, with fictions, with merely analytical or statistical assumptions which distance it from the world as it is.” We exist in the most complex, media saturated, and media driven society in the history of the world. That may sound dramatic, but we live in a time in which the majority of the world is connected through little devices through which anyone in the world can share an opinion, a story, a picture, etc., with nearly anyone else. That has never been true before in the history of our planet and most clearly magnifies the onslaught of perspectives and alternate realities we can interact with, billions of times over. While this is in some ways a positive experience, it leaves the door wide open to have one’s self completely affected by dozens of smaller, fictional, more hidden and potentially more destructive influences on our reality.
We are surrounded by an unlimited amount of other realities. Between the phone, television, or internet, we can even create our own catalog of many different identities and forms of interaction. However, we risk solidifying an authentic reality by participating in so many fractured and manufactured ones. We also risk overloading our ability to seriously examine the legitimacy and the detriment of participating in various micro realities. The frequent and dangerous result is that we live in so many manufactured realities that we cease to understand our own.

This phenomena can result in individuals feeling divided, isolated, and unsure of who they really are. I realize this may sound self-appeasing coming from a blog, but the technology of dissemination is not the problem. The problem is not Facebook, Twitter, YouTube or any other form of social media. The problem is the deliberately edited profiles, the hand selected pictures, the crafted comments that embellish or craft a careful image of ourselves. The error is in being concerned with our perceived selves rather than who we really are. I speak from far too much experience studying what I should identify myself with that would gain me the most approval from those I wished to draw attention from. I played off much of this falsehood under the cover of “humility”, when it could have more accurately been titled “insecurity”. In many ways, we can easily become spectators of our own lives, watching our lives happen almost as if watching someone else. We can live in the pockets of insecurity that are naturally created in our own minds and are exemplified in the exaggerated explanations of our professions, the fantasies of numerous shallow relationships, or embellishments of our perceived selves. We can continually do this rather than ever really living. 

If I may return for a moment to the March Madness, perhaps this is why we are so attached to these different forms of entertainment, whether it’s the Indiana Hoosiers, the Boston Red Sox, the reality show Survivor, or Downton Abbey. We have become accustomed to feeling pain and triumph through being spectators of someone else’s living and dying. Maybe it’s easier that way. But it is a sad existence if we can call it that at all. Frederick Buechner proposes some litmus test questions to discern whether you’ve been living your own life.

“Have you wept at anything during the past year?
Has your heart beat faster at the sight of young beauty?
Have you thought seriously about the fact that someday you are going to die?
More often than not do you really listen when people are speaking to you instead of just waiting for your turn to speak?
Is there anybody you know in whose place, if one of you had to suffer great pain, you would volunteer yourself?
If your answer to most of these questions is no, the chances are that you’re dead.”

I love this excerpt. However, I think it’s possible to answer “yes” to all of these questions and still be “dead” in the sense that Buechner means. Let’s look at some examples.
Have you wept at anything during the past year? Yes, I started tearing up as I watched Peyton Manning give his farewell speech to the Indianapolis Colts. Also, when Sybil died in that Downton Abbey show.
Has your heart beat faster at the sight of beauty? Why of course. If you mean beauty in nature, I watched this fantastic display of lightning on a time lapse video that was breath taking. Oh and if you mean human beauty, following the Knicks game a commercial aired featuring Diane Lane. She is so pretty.
Have you thought seriously about the fact that someday you are going to die? Yes, and I often wonder if people will write post mortem messages on my Facebook wall.  
More often than not do you really listen when people are speaking to you instead of just waiting for your turn to speak? Yes, but I have so much to say and want people to know how brilliant I am!
Is there anybody you know in whose place, if one of you had to suffer great pain, you would volunteer yourself? Yes, my wife. Except for child birth, that looks like too much pain.

In the examples I’ve given, the detachment from the integrity of these questions is obvious. The questioner is seeking an authentic and personal reflection and answers like these take the seriousness of life too lightly or perhaps welcome the distractions from true reality too easily. Both tendencies point toward similar limitations of living true life, feeling true pain, and experiencing true joy. Let us not be constantly waiting for one distraction or another to end before we can get down to the business of really living our lives. Let’s seek to have the maturity, authenticity, transparency, and shrewdness to examine what we allow to influence and distract us from our own reality.

Thursday, March 14, 2013

On Francis of Assisi, my favorite saint

Last summer, Tim and I bought a Saint Francis statuette to grace our home. Our Saint Francis was about a foot tall and wore a dark beard and subdued red and green garments, with a cardinal perched on one arm and a large brown basket in his hands. The platform he stood on confidently proclaimed, “His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me.” Saint Francis spent much of his young life in the DeLuca household indoors, holding scrumptious Jelly Bellies or licorice in his basket. When Tim and I moved to Rowley, however, we decided to let him have a go of feeding the real live birds out on our porch. After all, the out of doors seems like a good place for a Saint Francis to be. Francis’ first round of birdseed was quickly devoured but, after realizing that we didn’t have any more traditional bird food, Tim and I stocked his basket with dry lentils, which were significantly less popular. Soon the birds forgot about Saint Francis and I mostly did too.

That is, until a few weeks ago. It had gotten progressively colder over the last few months, as winters generally do in New England, but I figured Saint Francis could handle it. I mean, he’s an ascetic, right? Well, I was wrong. Saint Francis had had quite enough and had cracked completely in two at the waist. His top half had fallen off and rolled a few inches away from his bottom half, spilling lentils on the way. It was a sad scene to see such a lively and joyful saint come to such a sudden and frightful end. I originally thought we could piece him back together, Humpty Dumpty style, and respectfully laid his torso in front of his feet until we could conjure up some superglue. But Tim rightfully judged that his reassembly was a lost cause, primarily because we had discovered that Saint Francis was completely hollow, a disappointment in itself! So off he went unceremoniously to the dumpster.

I was sad to see him go for a number of reasons. Saint Francis has long been my favorite saint for his love of nature, his desire to see every aspect of creation shouting out in praise to its Creator, his wild abandon, his joy, and his freedom. I often find myself fighting against a part of me that wants safety and protection, that wants to close up, to clench my fists tight around anything and everything I have to hold on to. The grip winds up suffocating, the shelter becomes cold and dark, and my heart feels as dead and hard as the bare winter ground. My inner Saint Francis has cracked in half.

For Saint Francis reminds me not only that life and freedom are possible, but how and why and for what purpose. First, the how. Saint Francis demonstrates that freedom comes from letting go. Francis held very loosely to everything that belonged to this world and consequently, relinquished the control that material possessions could have had on him. As a child I watched the movie Brother Sun, Sister Moon at my grandmother’s house. I vividly remember Francis, stripped down to his bare bum, gleefully throwing fine linens and money out of his father’s castle window as if to say, “These things mean absolutely nothing to me.” I had the feeling that this guy was completely crazy and at the same time, really onto something.

In this Lenten season, I’ve been reminded that the purpose of fasting is to fast from control of my life. To practice that kind of fast takes intentional and continual unclenching of the fists that grip every false security blanket. Francis was able to do that by naming things for what they truly are. Money, clothes, notoriety, and health, while good in certain contexts, are all fleeting and fading. Francis’ joy overflowed from that truth; he saw himself as an object of God’s unfading love rather than a being defined by the anxiety of trying to pin down things that never last. His complete trust in God enabled him to act passionately and purposefully at a moment’s notice, even after intense periods of questioning his own vocation.

Secondly, why is this kind of freedom and life possible? I suppose I could also phrase this question as a how, rather than a why, but on a larger scale than what I’ve already discussed. The answer lies in Jesus’ resurrection and the imminent redemption of all creation. A full articulation of this concept is not possible in this space but N.T. Wright’s Surprised by Hope is a clear and brilliant introduction. In short, Jesus’ resurrection was a poking through of the eternal into the everyday. It has allowed us to experience and live in the realities of everlasting life during our temporal, finite existence. As Paul says in Ephesians 2, “because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions.” It’s paradoxical and surprising but it’s confirmed in my experience and countless others, including Saint Francis.

Thirdly, for what purpose do we have access to this freedom? I suppose you could say that human beings were always meant to be so free from inhibition and worry. In that sense it’s a return to our intended state, a place where I as a human being sense that I am more fully myself than ever before. That transformation is valuable in itself. In another sense, we experience this freedom as an opportunity to bring life to other people and things, mimicking and participating in the way that Jesus imparted life and freedom to others.

The Little Flowers are full of stories of Saint Francis as a vehicle of restoration and renewal, both to people and animals. While Francis had once thought of lepers as the most detestable people in the world, he meets one on the road and is urged to embrace and kiss him. Later on he lives with a colony of lepers, caring for them and washing their sores. In another instance, Francis mediates between a wolf and the village people that said wolf was terrorizing. Once Francis is done with the situation, the wolf becomes almost a mascot and protector of the town. There’s also the famous story of Saint Francis extolling a group of intently listening birds to thank God and to be fully who God made them to be. Take these stories less as historical accounts and more as folklore or rhetorical representation of what Francis’ life was about. In his own words, Francis sought to “preach the gospel and if necessary, use words.”

Denison Witmer describes this purpose beautifully in his song Little Flowers. It’s obviously a song about Saint Francis and the themes of his life. Specifically, the song addresses looking for and finding God’s love in the things he has created (“you were waving flags that bare the colors of your love I didn’t know”) as well as demonstrating God’s love in a simple and compelling way to other people (“little flowers that you have sown show people you have known that I am love”).
A person who is living in the fullness of what it means to be human, not exempt from suffering but conscious of God’s love in all situations and free from the tyranny and exhaustion of fleeting pursuits, is inherently attractive to others. Confusing sometimes, but attractive. That’s what defines Saint Francis and what I’d also like to emulate.

There’s another song that I think Saint Francis should have written, which in reality was written by Isaac Watts several centuries later. While I myself have yet to pen any eloquent song lyrics, I often rely on them to sum up in a few stanzas what it’s taken me many paragraphs to communicate. Watts’ I’ll Praise My Maker does just that.

Why should I make a man my trust?     
Princes must die and turn to dust;
vain is the help of flesh and blood:
their breath departs, their pomp, and power,
and thoughts, all vanish in an hour,
nor can they make their promise good.

Happy the man whose hopes rely
on Israel's God: he made the sky,
and earth, and seas, all they contain:
his truth forever stands secure,
he saves th'oppressed, he feeds the poor,
and none shall find his promise vain.

I'll praise him while he lends me breath,
and when my voice is lost in death,
praise shall employ my nobler powers;
my days of praise shall ne'er be past,
while life, and thought, and being last,
or immortality endures.

- Ruth