Roots

I found myself sitting in the hallway outside of my uncle’s home office the night before I left Los Angeles. The door to the room was propped open. Light spilled into the hallway and leaked across the rug and the parts of the walls.

Inside, my uncle sat at his desk. In one hand, he held the book on which he was concentrating. In the other, a pencil rested between his fingers as he held it up just enough for its end to touch his cheek. He was motionless until, all at once, the pencil would come flying down. A few marks would be made. A few lines would be drawn. Then, just as quickly, the pencil would return to its place.

The door to the guest bedroom further down the hall opened. I stepped out. Pausing briefly to step sideways, I leaned against the wall for a moment before sliding to the ground.

I let out a sigh. Just behind me, some of the light from my uncle’s office rested on my belongings, having been packed and repacked several times over the course of the past month. This time was the last for a while though. It had to be as compact as possible to fit into the back of my car as well as have enough space for two other people and their gear.

A silence returned to the hallway as I thought about the road ahead. The frames of my uncle’s glasses were just visible over the pages he was reading. He flipped a page. Silence again.

Minutes passed. Pages were turned. The pencil made marks. Silence. I began to wonder why I didn’t leave. But something, some impression of a thing, was building up in my stomach.

I knocked on the door frame. The book came down a bit. My uncle looked at me quizzically as I sat with my back against the wall in his hallway.

“You know,” I started, unsure of where I was going exactly, “I don’t think I have many regrets from my time at college.”

I fell silent, trying to figure out what I was trying to say or rather, why. I looked up to see that I had my uncle’s attention. The book remained propped up in his hand, but it hung more limply than it did before.

“I guess I have one or two though.”

He cleared his throat. “What’s that?”

“Well, I suppose that my main regret is that I came into APU like an idiot who just didn’t want to live under your shadow and ran from community when you offered it. I wanted to see if I could do this whole ‘adulting’ thing on my own. I wanted to try and pull myself up by my bootstraps. I think I was partially trained to think that way – to be self-sustaining, to not need anyone. And, well, I missed out on a great resource and relationship with you because of it.”

My uncle set his book down on the desk in front of him before saying: “The thing is, none of us are self-sufficient. We don’t even know how complicated and interconnected our society is because we don’t think about it. I don’t know how many people it took to produce a hamburger on my plate. I don’t know how many countless others it takes for every single activity of my day to happen!”

“Yeah,” I remarked, “I get that intellectually. But at my core, I still live out of a false story where true rugged individualism could be a reality. I never let that lesson to affect me and I guess I have to pay the consequences of that decision.”

Something clicked in my mind at that moment.

“I guess what I’m getting at is I’m sorry for not reaching out – and reaching out more. I’ve treated you like simply a stop on the way somewhere else.”

I paused. “I know it might not mean much now, being the night before I leave and all, but can you forgive me?”

I feel pulled. Pulled to stay and pulled to go. On one hand, culture has time and time again told us of the potential of the open road. The adventures you’ll have. The people you’ll meet.

On the other hand though, I’m been feeling an ache to put down roots somewhere for a while.

Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove tells the story of his friend Will and his family moving to a new place and attending a church known for taking community seriously. But after a while, Will realized that he’s not satisfied. Meeting with the pastor of the church to discuss his concerns about community, the pastor simply asked Will how long they had been attending, to which he replied a year.

“Then I guess you’ve got about a year’s worth of community,” his pastor said matter-of-factly, “Stay another year and you’ll have two years’ worth. Stay thirty and you might find some of what you’re looking for.”[1]

I was reminded again of the quote from Soong-Chan Rah I had come across in earlier readings where he stated that “Contemporary life is characterized by movement, oftentimes at high speeds, with the absence of any real connection to the world around us.”[2] When we move constantly, onwards and upwards to the next best thing, the world gets blurred. We can see miles of road, but the details and the depth to a place are lost.

American culture has taught us of the superiority of mobility. Out there is always the possibility of a new field, greener than any you’ve encountered so far. But we don’t take enough time to gather more than a surface level nutrition from the one we’re in now.

In an analogous fashion, C. S. Lewis likened his work of Mere Christianity to our desire to stay on the go. We treat our communities the same way Lewis foresaw how some might be tempted to use his book – as the end-all, be-all in life. But, Lewis wrote, Mere Christianity is simply getting a person to walk the halls of the faith. We must commit to one of the house’s many rooms to find that there are warm fires and hot meals, good books and comfortable chairs in which to rest.

In the same way, we must commit to community to begin to grow in a way we might not otherwise. Wilson-Hartgrove remarked that “I wanted to love my neighbor, but I had not stayed in one place long enough to know my neighbor or my neighborhood.”[3] This, of course, is not just an idealized love, but one where person begins to rub shoulders with one another and butt heads as time goes on – learning to live with one another despite our differences because of the reality that of community on which is based. The German theologian Bonhoeffer reminded his audience that:

Christian community is not an ideal we have to realize, but rather a reality created by God in Christ in which we may participate. The more clearly we learn to recognize that the ground and strength and promise of all our community is in Jesus Christ alone, the more calmly we will learn to think about our community and pray and hope for it.[4]

I feel pulled. Pulled because my heart longs for the road and longs for home all at once. It seeks for something impossible – an in-depth community at the speed of sound. And yet, what I may need is to slow down enough to let my roots sink down into the earth between my toes.

It’s happened once. It happened around a table with people who committed to show up for four years and to wrestle with some of life’s recurring questions. When I stopped living how I was living for just enough to let me invest and be invested into. When I didn’t fear living in the shadow of others.

I wonder how they’re doing?

Back in the hallway of my uncle’s house, I waited for my uncle’s response. It was quiet for a moment. One of those wonderful moments where there is a holy stillness of sorts as someone really listens to you and doesn’t simply brush you off.

Then, he spoke. “Of course. Just make sure to stay in touch and call us every once in a while. We’d love to see how you’re doing.”

I thanked him and began to head down the hallway when he called me. I started to turn around.

“Remember,” he said, “Keep in touch.”

“Oh,” I said with a slight smile, “I will.”

 

 

[1] Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove, The Wisdom of Stability (Brewster, MA: Paraclete Press, 2010), 19.

[2] Soong-Chan Rah, The Next Evangelicalism (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Books, 2009), 148.

[3] Wilson-Hartgrove, 36.

[4] Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Life Together (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2015), 13.

Advertisements

A Snapchat Story Kind of Life

I dropped my brother off at the airport the other day. He had grabbed a friend of his one Friday afternoon and started driving from the Massachusetts coast in a southwesterly direction. His plan, to my knowledge, was to make his way to Chicago and then take Route 66 all the way to my college town just outside of Los Angeles, taking detours whenever they saw fit to see some genuine Americana along the way.

If I hadn’t been informed that he had planned to end his journey across the country at my apartment, I would have thought he might have just intended to wander for a while.

As he picked his way west, he documented his progress on his Snapchat story within a series of Captain’s Logs – so-called for the unspoken reason that it just seemed to fit the spirit of the occasion. This was an adventure after all. And adventures require a bit of whimsy from time to time.

And even though my brother and his buddy documented their journey, I still feel tempted to say that they didn’t get to really see some genuine Americana. They didn’t have time to, anyways. They were going too fast.

I sat in the airport parking lot for an hour, wondering whether increased mobility is always a good thing. As I watched my brother’s Snapchat story updates, I noticed how the landscape behind him seemed to blend together into a vibrant blur. Galileo once noted that “the only motion which is observable to us is the one which we do not share.” But when we’re the ones moving, everything else seems to become less distinct.

The author Soong-Chan Rah writes that “Contemporary life is characterized by movement, oftentimes at high speeds, with the absence of any real connection to the world around us.”[1] When we have the ability to move, especially to a pasture that seems greener, we become less invested in the one we find ourselves in at the moment. “We learn early on to keep our options open,” writes Kathleen Norris in the foreword to Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove’s The Wisdom of Stability, “We consider stability tedious at best. At its worst it is seen to restrict our freedom and limit our potential.”[2]

I drove back toward my college town, lost in thought. The headlights of those heading back into the city appeared like bright streaks through the windshield, passing by without much of a second thought and disappearing into the darkness. Upon getting to my exit, I continued onwards, eventually finding myself driving up into the nearby mountains and parking at a place that gives a view of the surrounding towns. Below, stood a thousand, no- ten thousand points of light against the black backdrop.

How many of those lights had I been to? How many of them represented families or businesses I had never met or frequented? When we are trying to get to the next place, we miss out on all of the millions of possible experiences around you in the current moment. We instead get an idea of what some place or some people are like without much else. We mistake the shallow glimpses as the full thing.

But how did we get here in the first place?

In my summer class, we’ve been going over some of Kierkegaard’s works. In his Either/Or, I think I found my answer. Kierkegaard, in the persona of an aesthete, writes that “The more you limit yourself, the more resourceful you become.”[3] Here, the aesthete is concerned with not being bound by meaningful commitments – as that would demand his or her involvement in living in a manner which also has to take the other party into consideration. Instead, it is good to always practice what the aesthete describes as crop rotation – that is, avoiding activities that require repeated efforts in order to avoid boredom but instead doing the thing that is always new, always fresh.

The catch, of course, is that eventually, even that will become boring, as all activities will become run of the mill, leading him or her to despair.

I think the same mentality has gotten into the psyche of a good many people, myself included. Many of our problems, suggests Wilson-Hartgrove, come from our mentality that success is always defined by moving up and out.[4] It’s because we’re afraid of restricting ourselves.

As I looked out over the city, I glanced at my smartphone. A green light indicated that I had received a message on Facebook. It was from a guy who I’ve gotten to know over the course of the past year.

Do you ever think that some people are more special than others? My screen read. Because I think that God made me for something big… That I am made more important and more special than others.

I think the funny thing is that we all happen to foster some of the same attitude expressed by my friend. I think that’s why we feel driven to constantly move to the bigger and better-looking experience. We don’t want to settle for anything less than what God has for us.

And yet, the Christian thinker G.K. Chesterton wrote why, practically speaking, this mentality is unhelpful at best, and paralyzing at worst. He states:

All the will-worshippers […] cannot will, they can hardly wish […] they always talk of will as something that expands and breaks out. But it is quite the opposite. Every act of will is an act of self-limitation. To desire action is to desire limitation. In that sense, every act is an act of self-sacrifice. When you choose anything, you reject everything else… it is impossible to be an artist and not care for laws and limits. Art is limitation; the essence of every picture is the frame.[5]

Perhaps then, as we constantly strive for the greener pastures and commute out of the less favorable places, we should keep this notion in mind. In order to be invested, in order to affect meaningful change, we ought to consider that perhaps the place where God is calling us is the neighborhood right where we are living.

As I drove down the mountain back towards my university, I recalled the ending of the story of the demoniac at the Gerasenes. As Christ and his disciples begin to head off into the sunset, the former demoniac runs after them and begs Jesus to take him with them. But Christ refuses. Instead, Jesus suggests, tell everyone in the surrounding area of what happened here. And with that, they push off from shore and sail off into the distance, the demoniac still standing at the seashore.

What if our greatest form of ministry is right in front of us, and yet we miss it because we think Jesus wants us somewhere else? What if our call to ministry is a call to put down roots somewhere and stay for years on end?

“Mobility, and the speed of that mobility, result in the ability and the power to disregard and disconnect from suffering.” Rah concludes, noting that “There is no space or time for the theology of celebration to intersect with the theology of suffering—there is only motion that dulls the senses.”[6]

To be a minister of the gospel means, I think in part, to embed oneself in the story of a place and see how healing and the newness of life can be brought forth from it. If we simply plan to pass on through, we barely get a glimpse of it as it blurs together through the rearview mirror. There must be something more, something longer lasting than a shallow engagement with the world around us to change it for the better.

It’s a challenging thought, I know, I stand guilty of it myself. But as I pulled into the parking lot of my university late that evening, I paused once more to take another look at the place where I have called home for three years and for at least one year more.

There’s a lot of living to be done in one place. And a Snapchat story kind of life simply can’t cut it.

[1] Soong-Chan Rah, The Next Evangelicalism (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Books, 2009), 148.

[2] Kathleen Norris, foreword to The Wisdom of Stability: Rooting Faith in a Mobile Culture, by Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove (Brewster, MA: Paraclete Press, 2010), vii.

[3] Søren Kierkegaard, Either/Or: A Fragment of Life, ed. Victor Eremita & Alastair Hannay (New York, NY: Penguin Books USA, 2004), 233.

[4] Wilson-Hartgrove, 46.

[5] G. K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy (San Francisco, CA: Ignatius Press, 1995), 45.

[6] Rah, 148.