Facebook Hiatus

Hi Everyone,

As tomorrow is Ash Wednesday, and Lent will be upon us, I thought I’d take the chance to talk about one of my goals for Lent this year: I am choosing to give up Facebook for the six weeks leading up to Easter.

Christians approach this season with a number of different priorities.  Some people will fast from something, a certain type of food or from cigarettes, for example, to remind them of the enormity of Jesus’ sacrifice on the cross.  When you understand how hard it is to give up something like chocolate or meat, you will more fully appreciate what Jesus gave up in order to save people from their own sinful natures.

Others give up things during Lent in order to purify their bodies, thoughts or hearts.  Perhaps someone might try to give up anger during this time, or comparing him or herself to others.  These kinds of attempts are trickier to measure, but they too aim to focus one’s attention on Jesus, who, Christians believe, was the only example of pure holiness in human form.

Others choose to focus not on what they can give up but on what they can add to their lives (though, of course, this is really just the other side of the coin, since it’s impossible to add anything to our lives without taking something away, and vice versa).  Perhaps they might aim to take five minutes to pray every morning before work.  Or perhaps they might choose to tithe regularly for the first time.  

Though the intention of Lent is good, it can, like anything, be abused.  People can approach it with self-centered motivations (“If I give up snacking for Lent, I’ll surely lose weight!”).  People can use it as a way to try to gain God’s favor (“If I can just give up coffee this year, I will show God that I’m really dedicated.”).  Probably most common, people can use this time to show off and to boast about their own self-perceived holiness (“So for Lent this year, I think God is calling me to meditate for two hours each day because last year, when I did only one hour, it just didn’t feel challenging enough.”).

As with Lent, people approach Facebook with a wide variety of motivations, some more worthwhile than others.  Facebook has been around for less than ten years, but there are already over one billion people who use the site, and it has already changed the way we communicate, the way we run our businesses, and even the way we think about ourselves.  Precisely because it is so widespread, Facebook is many different things to different people.  It can be used to reunite long-lost friends, to organize an event, to learn about major happenings in the lives of friends, to share videos and photos, to express an opinion, to discover entertainment or information on the internet, to chat with people, and the list goes on and on.  

What’s more, people all have their own Facebook protocol or etiquette, which can lead to embarrassment (“How could he tag that photo of me without asking?”), or to confusion, (“Does ‘It’s complicated’ mean we’re together or that we’ve broken up?”), or to anger (“She knows I hate bringing up my political views in public -- why would she write that comment on my wall?”).  

So why, exactly, am I giving up Facebook for Lent?  This summer, The Atlantic Monthly published an article entitled, “Is Facebook Making Us Lonely?”  [Here’s the link to the article if you’re interested.]  The general conclusion was that though studies have shown that people can feel more lonely after using Facebook, they can also use it to boost their social life.  In other words, like all forms of communication, it is a neutral tool, able to be used for positive and negative ends.  And I believe this to be true, based on my own experiences with Facebook.  I certainly don’t think using Facebook is a sin in an of itself, but I do believe there are better and worse ways of using it.  Furthermore, I also believe it to be a luxury, and I think it’s good to have periods without luxuries every so often, so that we understand a.) that we can function without them, and b.) how best to appreciate them.  

There is great freedom in the way that Christians can celebrate Lent, just as there is great freedom in the way that people can make use of Facebook.  The important thing is  to examine your own life and discern what degree of restraint is appropriate for you.  I know enough people who I respect greatly who have given up Facebook altogether that I have been wondering whether I too should give it up for good.  But my litmus test is: does it help relationships or hurt them?  Is it making my relationships more superficial or more profound?  For me, Facebook still provides enough opportunities for genuine connection to people for it to be worthwhile.  My hope is that by giving it up for six weeks, I’ll be more attuned to the ways it can foster relationships, and more ready to ignore the ways it can trivialize ties between people.

Though the methods of celebrating Lent may vary, the common denominator is that they  all prepare us for and point to Easter.  So what does Facebook point to?  In the end, it seems that Facebook is about connections, whether between one friend and another, between a company and a consumer, or between a grandparent and his faraway grandchild.

And in the end, Lent is about connecting too.  It’s about realizing that our sublimely profound God, who we, in our utmost triviality and depravity could never approach, has deigned to look our direction; He has “friended” us.  

To those who celebrate it, peace and joy during this Lenten season, and to everyone, have a good week!

Sarah/Mouse

Human, Only More So

Hi Everyone,

When I was living in South Africa in 2008, someone told me something that helped explain some of the frustrations I was having: “Every major problem in the world exists in South Africa in full force.”  I’m sure this could be said of many countries, but it definitely rang true with South Africa: it seemed that everywhere you turned, you faced corruption, environmental degradation, racism, greed, devastating poverty, educational apathy, sexism, serious health crises, and on and on.  However, I had to acknowledge that the opposite was also true: South Africa is saturated with potential, kind people, gorgeous scenery, thriving creative centers, promising youths, wise elders, a recent history that provides examples both of how to be and how not to be.  I came away from my year there with an admittedly biased conviction that South Africa was a microcosm of the world.

Since I’ve been working with the three- and four-year-olds at my work, I have started thinking similar thoughts about preschoolers.  Ideas about childhood have varied drastically throughout the millennia and usually reflect more about the society that came up with them than the children they describe, so I understand that it is highly presumptuous and ridiculous to put forth any general theory about childhood after working in a preschool for four months. Nevertheless, when people ask why I love working with young children, I’ve started saying, “I love that they’re just like other humans, only more so.”  I’m beginning to suspect that all of what it really means to be a person can be found in a preschool classroom. 

On a daily basis, these kids embody both extremes of virtually any adjectival spectrum I could imagine:

They can be so kind to each other one minute (welcoming a new student to the class by showing her where to sit at circle time) and so ugly the next (“I’m not your friend.  Get away from me!”).  

They experience extreme sadness (wailing at the top of their lungs because a classmate has ripped one of their drawings in half) and extreme joy (jumping on a mini-trampoline cures all woes).  

They can be others oriented (“Oh, Zach! You’re here! I’m so glad! I’m your friend today!”) and totally self-centered (I ask, “Who lives on planet Earth?”  And James replies, “I do!”  When his friends also claim to live on Earth, he bursts out crying, yelling, “No fair! Only I lives on planet Earth!”).  

They are at once optimistic (Kevin: “Hey, one day, I was swimming and a shark came up to me.”  Ryan: “And did you die?”  Kevin [elated]: “No, I didn’t!”) and pessimistic (“Jenny is on the trampoline and it’s my turn and she won’t give me a turn.” I ask, “Have you asked her for a turn?” “No, but she won’t give me one”).  

They are brutally honest (“Someone is making a pooping smell!”) and imaginatively deceptive (My co-teacher asks Megan what she is going to clean up during clean-up time, and Megan says, “Maybe my head is gone.”  She looks around for her head for a while, then says, “Maybe it’s around here somewhere.  I know... follow me!”) 

They are logical (“When I grow up, then I’m gonna be a Mommy.” “When I be little, I’m gonna be a baby!”) and totally nonsensical (After measuring me with a yardstick, Kristin declares, “You’re a humpback whale!” — at least, I hope this wasn’t based in reality!).  

They are easily excited (“Jordan’s sitting by me, and I’m sitting by me too!”) and easily bored (While reading Baby Baluga together for the fourth or fifth time in a row, Peter tells James, “This is Baby Baluga,” and James replies with a tired sigh, “Yes... I know...”).  

They are meticulous imitators (Sophie pretends to be a receptionist at a doctor’s office and as she escorts me and two other children to “the back,” she assures us in a comforting tone that “the doctor will be back soon.”) and they are fabulously creative (“My socks have red stripes on them. Do you want to know the red stripe song? [humming] Mmm-mmm, mmm-mmm...” [I later learned that this boy loves listening to the band The White Stripes]). 

They are frightened (being scared of the toilet flushing) and they are brave (“If the Big Bad Wolf messes with me, I’m gonna smack him like this!”).

They are naïve and inexperienced (“If you have a sister, you’re going to be a mom.  If you have a brother, you’re going to be a dad.”), and they are wiser than they’ll ever know (While reading a picture book with me and Kelly, Allie points to a character who is walking off the page and says, “That’s God.”  I ask where God is going, and she says, “He’s going home.”  I ask where God lives, and Kelly chimes in: “In a tunnel.  Wanna see?”  I say, “Definitely!” and she says, “Well, we can’t.”  Though they obviously didn’t know it, in this brief exchange, these girls summed up much of my theology.).

Every major emotion or characteristic people can exhibit exists in the extreme in our classroom every day.  They are fiercely human, these tiny people.

Recently, I reread C.S. Lewis’ essay,"The Weight of Glory," which is one of my very favorite pieces of writing.  In it, Lewis discusses the Christian concept of glory, and how it is manifested among people.  The whole essay is worth reading, but my favorite part is when he says, “Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbour is the holiest object presented to your senses.”  Lewis reminds us that all people are human, only more so.  We certainly can’t spend our entire lives in speechless awe of humanity — we would lead incredibly unproductive ones if we did.  But I, at least, am never in danger of that.  More often, I’m tempted to forget that anyone I encounter — whether I have known them my whole life or am passing them momentarily in a grocery store parking lot — is a gift.  In those rare moments when I remember to remember how sacred people are, I feel a deep and thrilling honor, and under my breath, I whisper, “Wow! I get to be in this world with you!  With you!”  

The trick, of course, is remembering this while cleaning up the third milk spill of the day, and trying to prevent World War III from breaking out over a particularly desirous Lego.  But that’s the great thing about kids.  Just when you think you’re going to have to ship one of them to another country so that he doesn’t make any more of his classmates cry, he will “do teamwork” with one of them, putting away a puzzle, or constructing a rocket ship out of blocks.  The longer I spend with these inconsistent, mysterious, holy little humans, the more of that sense of honor I feel.  

And know that far more often than I make time to relate, I remember that I am profoundly honored to know each of you.

Have a great week!

Sarah/Mouse