The real world

When I was a young lawyer I was very susceptible to stress, and found the day to day conflict of private practice challenging. Also toxic, in plenty of ways. In that aspect I think I was correct, but some of the stress that felt unmanageable to me then would like feel manageable to me now.

I would tell foolish old men not to be foolish.

At the time I thought the combination of stress and boredom would kill me.

And one possible narrative of my career would be that I chose a path of practicality and boredom and then found the reality of it so overwhelming that I switched over to a world of my own making - a made-up place. I studied theology - the ultimate study of unprovable assertions.

And then, having loved the immersion in the idea of ultimate reality (which may reflect no reality at all) I went to work and started what became Faith in Place (what follows reflects only on me, with respect to that organization, which has gone on to occupy a very useful role in the climate movement and to do excellent work).

Being strongly influenced by Vaclav Havel in seminary, and by the Polish Solidarity movement, I take alternative narratives very seriously. I believe that the stories we tell ourselves shape what happens. But I also got to make up essentially everything about the organization I founded from our theory of how to work in faith communities to our notion of how faith provides the foundation by which people can face up to the damage we’ve done to the planet.

I could also surround myself very selectively with kind, hopeful, and imaginative people. It was all invented in the image of the world I wanted.

How extraordinary to get away with that for so long. But was it also a little cowardly? Did I extract myself from the larger reality and figure out how to make a living anyway?

Now I operate in a more blended reality. The world of philanthropy is closer to the world I stepped away from and contains more of its stress. It is stress I am better able to manage, and it brings good things to me, to the grantee partners I get to work with, to my family.

Maybe I am braver now, or maybe I am more worn down by compromise. Or maybe this is just a coda on a fairly creative and reasonably well-lived life.

The narrative question is interesting from so many directions.

The narratives of capitalism are no more real than the narratives of theology. Beyond food, clothing, and shelter the world is mostly made up.

My narratives of choice emphasize what kinds of humans we choose to be. Who we are and how we are together. The narratives of business speak to home, family, an ideal that can be captured through the right purchases. The narratives of business involve concrete objects so they feel more solid than the narratives of eschatology and ontology.

But they’re just as random and just as real and unreal.

I stayed among the ones I prefer. And I’m not just among them with my fingers in my ears. I authentically and with my whole heart love the narratives of theology and faith in which the world is made good and beautiful and given to us through grace.

The pandemic has shaken so many of the narratives of business to their foundations.

The wheels of industry grind on and its participant cogs feel useful until they look down. We’ve spent three years looking down and it’s made us lose our minds.

No one wants to work in the same way because the true nature of our economy and its meaninglessness has been thoroughly revealed. A huge swath of its workers were made to realize that they could just stop doing their jobs, and as long as the government fed them it made no difference.

Some have found that they are actually essential. Doctors, nurses, food production and sale, teachers. But no one wants to pay them more because of it, or make it possible for them to do their jobs well and reap some reward.

So much worse, though, for those who used to think they had a purpose and now see plainly that they were simply holding a place in a machine that creates money for someone.

I prefer my narratives and my priorities to these. Who we are and how are enduring questions. They hold up.

A few months ago on a bus home from downtown, a man dressed for hybrid work (shorts, t-shirt, cell phone, ear piece, clean, not homeless) had trouble getting the back door touch pad to work to get off the bus.

Suddenly he was screaming. “Open the f***ing door! Let me off this f***ing bus!” And then, before anyone could respond but we’d all awakened from our own distractions, he started slamming his head into to the door over and over.

This man has lost himself.

The pandemic probably unhinged him from whatever narrative he was relying on to make his world feel real.

Or maybe he was out to sea already, but he didn’t look like someone who’d been lost for a long time.

So close to the edge.

No “back door please” left in him.

Just his own head, so hard that I was afraid he’d split it open. Bam, bam, bam.

The driver opened the door and he got off.

So clearly not ok.

Narratives do matter. Whether I found the ones I rely on through fear or curiosity or some combination of both I am grateful for the wonder