The Fellows Program is an explosion of activity. Most of us are fresh out of a college, just off our 12-hour weeks and 12:30 classes. Now we are reading books and writing papers in graduate school one day, answering calls from angry constituents or creating spreadsheets on Capitol Hill another, and trying to lead a group of boisterous 6th graders or melodramatic seniors the next. The sheer volume and variety of experiences is part of what makes the Fellows program so challenging and rewarding. From Sunday to Saturday, we never stop living and learning, sharing it all with the 12 friends at our side. Yet, while all these things are a piece of the program, they are not its essence; Monday is.
Every Monday morning we get up early. The guys and girls meet separately for breakfast and accountability. Here we hold each other to higher standards we profess and lift each other up towards the Lord in any and every area of life. Then, we head to class for three hours in the morning. During the first semester, the Rev. Dr. Art Lindsley firmly planted our feet in the foundations of our faith. During this second semester, Dr. Steve Garber challenges us to decompartmentalize our lives, to connect what we know and believe to how we actually live every day, and to see in all things what is good and true and beautiful. At night we come together as whole group over a meal to join in fellowship, worship, and discussion, growing as a family in our journey to follow Christ in a broken world.
Monday is about accountability, coherency, and community. Monday is the Fellows Program; everything else is practice. And it is all the Mondays which I will take with me for the rest of my life, no longer just a wide-eyed college student but much more of a mature and complete man of God. Yes, I will always remember and treasure my time on Monday, because life is full of Tuesday-through-Sundays.
One fellow's response to "Sex is Easier than Love" by Steve Garber
I sometimes amuse myself by entertaining the thought that our generation, our current society, is the most debauched and soulless in all of human history, as if Los Angeles had somehow surpassed Babylon, Prague had become worse than Sodom, and modern Rome had sunk far below its ancient counterpart. It seems a natural thought to assume that just as we think our triumphs and advances go far beyond all that was achieved before us, so too do our dire circumstances and grave challenges make the storms of the past appear only summer showers. We so long to be the greatest—or the worst, as it were—that we often imagine it were the case. The truth is simultaneously more horrifying and more encouraging.
Yes, the current age of godless secularists and half-hearted theists abounds in immorality of every kind. But what ageage has not? We’d have to go back to the time before the angels guarded Eden with their swords of fire. We’ve traded the gross idolaters of the past for the gross idolaters of the present. The names of the false gods may have changed, but their preferred method of worship remains the same. As Professor Garber stated in his article, there is something very basic, very human, about sexuality. It is no surprise, then, that the primary manifestation of this false worship is a corrupt practice of sex. If you were creating a god, and your deepest desire was for sexual intimacy, would you not create a god who allowed it if not demanded it? They are deluded, of course, and merely ruin what they hope to obtain, but they know nothing else. In many ways it is a sobering thought, offering little hope. Like Sisyphus, we push and pull, but any progress we make is instantly erased.
I distinctly feel this tension as a child of God in a fallen world but even more so as a redeemed soul in a fallen body. I can sympathize with those whose deepest desire is for intimacy of mind and body. Sometimes I, too, chase that desire through fruitless means and come up empty. What I know, however—and what the world cannot understand—is that my deepest desires, sexually or otherwise, are not mountaintops to which the stone can never quite be rolled. Rather, I have real hope, for both this world and my own flesh. My deepest desires do not exist to torment me or lead me astray but are instead the desires of God himself. Distorted though they may be, by my own doing, they are waiting to be redeemed. The fact they can be called “distorted” at all implies that they are good at root. As Plantinga puts it, even to do what is evil we must use what is good. Therefore, the goal of our lives, as young people, is not to eliminate our desires or even to control them, to squirrel them away until we can finally unleash them, but to use them as God intended in every relationship. Like in everything else, we are to live in peace with our longings, not fighting them tooth and nail. As a Christian in America I have a hard time submitting to this and even harder time imagining what it might look like, so ingrained I am to resist sexual desire and to feel guilty if I entertain it in the slightest. I think what I need is a fuller understanding that all good things ultimately come from God. No exceptions. God created sex, and he did not make Adam and Eve wait, holding it over their heads as some sort of incentive. It was a gift, free and good. Sin changed everything, but God’s gifts were still present. We merely misused them. To use them correctly is to honor God. To hide them is to disown Him. Now that Christ has come, we are no longer slaves to distorting sin but can use every good gift God has given us to glorify his name and advance his purposes on the earth.
So then, there is hope for both me and the world. My body is marred by the fall, but it is still a gift from God. So too were Canaan, Babylon, Assyria, and Rome under the weight of sin, each in its time, as America is now. Yet Christ did not come to destroy the earth but to renew it. This world may be ever in decline, but take heart. The Kingdom of Heaven hastens its arrival.
Yes, the current age of godless secularists and half-hearted theists abounds in immorality of every kind. But what ageage has not? We’d have to go back to the time before the angels guarded Eden with their swords of fire. We’ve traded the gross idolaters of the past for the gross idolaters of the present. The names of the false gods may have changed, but their preferred method of worship remains the same. As Professor Garber stated in his article, there is something very basic, very human, about sexuality. It is no surprise, then, that the primary manifestation of this false worship is a corrupt practice of sex. If you were creating a god, and your deepest desire was for sexual intimacy, would you not create a god who allowed it if not demanded it? They are deluded, of course, and merely ruin what they hope to obtain, but they know nothing else. In many ways it is a sobering thought, offering little hope. Like Sisyphus, we push and pull, but any progress we make is instantly erased.
I distinctly feel this tension as a child of God in a fallen world but even more so as a redeemed soul in a fallen body. I can sympathize with those whose deepest desire is for intimacy of mind and body. Sometimes I, too, chase that desire through fruitless means and come up empty. What I know, however—and what the world cannot understand—is that my deepest desires, sexually or otherwise, are not mountaintops to which the stone can never quite be rolled. Rather, I have real hope, for both this world and my own flesh. My deepest desires do not exist to torment me or lead me astray but are instead the desires of God himself. Distorted though they may be, by my own doing, they are waiting to be redeemed. The fact they can be called “distorted” at all implies that they are good at root. As Plantinga puts it, even to do what is evil we must use what is good. Therefore, the goal of our lives, as young people, is not to eliminate our desires or even to control them, to squirrel them away until we can finally unleash them, but to use them as God intended in every relationship. Like in everything else, we are to live in peace with our longings, not fighting them tooth and nail. As a Christian in America I have a hard time submitting to this and even harder time imagining what it might look like, so ingrained I am to resist sexual desire and to feel guilty if I entertain it in the slightest. I think what I need is a fuller understanding that all good things ultimately come from God. No exceptions. God created sex, and he did not make Adam and Eve wait, holding it over their heads as some sort of incentive. It was a gift, free and good. Sin changed everything, but God’s gifts were still present. We merely misused them. To use them correctly is to honor God. To hide them is to disown Him. Now that Christ has come, we are no longer slaves to distorting sin but can use every good gift God has given us to glorify his name and advance his purposes on the earth.
So then, there is hope for both me and the world. My body is marred by the fall, but it is still a gift from God. So too were Canaan, Babylon, Assyria, and Rome under the weight of sin, each in its time, as America is now. Yet Christ did not come to destroy the earth but to renew it. This world may be ever in decline, but take heart. The Kingdom of Heaven hastens its arrival.
Living on a Prayer...
By Anne Womack
…At least that’s how I feel. A prayer of gratitude and of joy. As I sit down to reflect on the past four months in my life; months of change and transition, of growth and refinement, I desire so badly to pinpoint some specific truth or insight that has shaped this time-some exact lesson that I have learned. And, I suppose, I could do that if I really tried. But rather than do that, I think I have to focus on the simple (or maybe not so simple) fact that the Lord is faithful and is constantly carrying out His redemptive work in my life.
I can’t help but see it. I see it in seminary class; in having deep theological questions answered and having new ones arise. I see it in Bible study, in the fact that though many times I have not run after Him, He has pursued me and has met me in places that I never would have imagined. I see it in good conversations, in the affirmation from others of the work of the Holy Spirit in and through my life when I feel ill-equipped and unproductive.
And mostly, I see it in relationships. I see it in a host-family who is not afraid to love me—to give selflessly and care not just for my needs, but also for my character. I see it in a director who cares limitlessly for us, not just as “Fellows,” but as humans-as travelers down this road together. I see it in old friends taking new roles and new shapes. I see it in new friends, friends that from the beginning have taken a risk in loving me--not knowing what they would receive in return. And as those new friendships have grown I have seen the Lord’s faithfulness in the deepening of those friendships; the fear of new relationships being replaced by the joy of love and life in community.
So in light of these relationships and this community, and in light of the Lord’s faithfulness to this midway point, I can’t help but offer the words of the great 80’s poet, Bon Jovi, to those joining me this year on our journey:
…At least that’s how I feel. A prayer of gratitude and of joy. As I sit down to reflect on the past four months in my life; months of change and transition, of growth and refinement, I desire so badly to pinpoint some specific truth or insight that has shaped this time-some exact lesson that I have learned. And, I suppose, I could do that if I really tried. But rather than do that, I think I have to focus on the simple (or maybe not so simple) fact that the Lord is faithful and is constantly carrying out His redemptive work in my life.
I can’t help but see it. I see it in seminary class; in having deep theological questions answered and having new ones arise. I see it in Bible study, in the fact that though many times I have not run after Him, He has pursued me and has met me in places that I never would have imagined. I see it in good conversations, in the affirmation from others of the work of the Holy Spirit in and through my life when I feel ill-equipped and unproductive.
And mostly, I see it in relationships. I see it in a host-family who is not afraid to love me—to give selflessly and care not just for my needs, but also for my character. I see it in a director who cares limitlessly for us, not just as “Fellows,” but as humans-as travelers down this road together. I see it in old friends taking new roles and new shapes. I see it in new friends, friends that from the beginning have taken a risk in loving me--not knowing what they would receive in return. And as those new friendships have grown I have seen the Lord’s faithfulness in the deepening of those friendships; the fear of new relationships being replaced by the joy of love and life in community.
So in light of these relationships and this community, and in light of the Lord’s faithfulness to this midway point, I can’t help but offer the words of the great 80’s poet, Bon Jovi, to those joining me this year on our journey:
“Oh, we’re halfway there.
Oh, livin on a prayer.
Take my hand and we’ll make it, I swear.
Oh, livin on a prayer.”
Love Stinks!
By John MeinenWe all know (and some via painful experience) that "guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days." We're human – read: selfish, spoiled, and rotten. To put it bluntly, we stink! Peter, fisherman by trade and famous disciple who denied Jesus three times, would most certainly agree. You see, Peter was no stranger to the brokenness of the human condition, nor was he a stranger to the God-awful stench of rotting fish. Maybe that's why in his first letter to His elect, Peter writes, "Love each other deeply…[and] offer hospitality to one another without grumbling" (1 Peter 8-9).
I love the juxtaposition of these two verses – to love each other deeply and to be hospitable without grumbling. In a way, to love is to be hospitable, and to be hospitable is to love. Either way you look at it, love and hospitality are hard work, hence Peter's shushing.
In light of this truth, what my host family has done for me this year is nothing short of amazing. I was a stranger; they opened their home (and hearts) to me. I was hungry; they let me raid their fridge. I was tired; they gave me a bed to sleep in (rent free). Growing up, I longed for a younger brother; now, I've "adopted" two. My room is messy, I squeeze the toothpaste from the middle, and occasionally I leave the dishes in the sink – and trust me folks, we're way beyond day three! And though I can only imagine how hard it must be at times, the Taylors love me despite my figurative – shoot, maybe even my literal – smell. God knows I love them too.
The funny thing is this: Jesus commands us to love our neighbors as ourselves. Sometimes that's a whole lot easier than loving those under the same roof. Yet day in and day out, the Taylor family loves deeply. And in doing so, my host family is imparting me with one of the greatest – if not the greatest – lessons to be learned as a TFC Fellow: how to love. And there's nothing fishy about that!
Walking Down the Streets of Their Hometown...
In my first week in Falls Church, I had to ask a lot of questions, so I could get to work. “Which bus route comes by the house and goes to the metro station?” “Which metro line takes me to my office?” I was new to the neighborhood. I needed answers to these questions, so I could become a functioning member of the community. Asking someone for help wasn’t hard. It just made sense. So why was it hard for me to ask for help in Anacostia?
During the last weekend in October, The Falls Church Fellows spent a fun and rainy weekend living, eating, working, and playing at the Southeast White House in Anacostia. Part of our weekend was spent experiencing life as members of the community. In our scenario, we had fifteen dollars to purchase a four-person meal from a local grocery. We also didn’t have a car, and one member of our team had asthma, meaning we couldn’t walk more than four blocks at a time.
Before we headed out into the rain, we sprawled out bus maps in the dining room trying to plot out the best routes for our journey. Once we reached the first busy intersection, however, the assuredness of our plan had washed away like the marker line on our soggy bus map. We were lost, and we needed help. But before asking for help, we paused. We didn’t feel safe because we had imagined that this wasn’t our neighborhood. Anacostia was the type of place where we had been taught to serve, not to be served.
When Jesus became flesh and moved into the neighborhood (John 1:13), He didn’t just pick the neighborhoods with good schools and green lawns. Jesus dwells in all neighborhoods, meaning that we are free to be lost, ask questions, and find answers in Anacostia and in Falls Church. We shouldn’t be surprised when we get good directions in a new neighborhood. Instead, we should give thanks because Jesus is who He says He is, and His Gospel continues to be bigger than we imagine.
A Reflection on the Virtue of Indebtedness
I recently awoke from a long slumber of disillusionment; the sort of disenchantment with ones own nation, history and traditions that often accompanies the college years. In the grand Renaissance style corridor of the Jefferson building, my love of country was reborn. I had been advised that the Library of Congress was the single most beautiful interior space in all of the nation’s capital. Having visited a number of structural masterpieces in Europe, I wasn’t expecting to be so utterly speechless upon entering the Library’s Great Hall. As our tour guide expounded on the significance of the architectural and ornamental details, my awe deepened. An attempt on my part to give a summary of what I heard would not do justice to the guide’s thorough knowledge of the space and its history. I will however, humbly share a few significant insights about the Jefferson Building. If you have visited the Great Hall and gazed upward toward the magnificent stained glass ceiling, you may have noticed that a place of prominence is dedicated to the thinkers and writers of old. Among those honored are Dante, Homer, Milton, Shakespeare, Moliere and Moses. This theme of commemoration runs throughout the building. The reticence is even more striking due to the juxtaposition of the Great Hall and the East Mosaic Corridor through which you pass to enter the great Reading Room. Stepping into the corridor, you leave behind the resplendent natural light of the Great Hall and the space around you diminishes in both brilliance and scale. This serves to underscore the humility of the names of the early Americans, distinguished in various fields of Arts and Science, which can be found on the low ceilings of this darkened corridor. They are almost literally in the shadow of those who have gone before. The reading room, equally ornate and spectacular a space as the Great Hall, pays homage to great men and great civilizations of yore. Plato, Beethoven, Michelangelo, Heredotus, Columbus, St. Paul, Homer and Shakespeare, among others, watch over the Library’s patrons, guiding them from up above, as they delve into the depths of knowledge accumulated over the centuries.
Meic Pearse and Wendell Berry both address the theme of ancestry in Why the Rest Hates the West and “It Wasn’t Me,” among other stories in Berry’s collection That Distant Land. Pearse identifies the peculiar property of the West, namely the United States, to “reject an obligation to reproduce the ways of their ancestors, or to be faithful to the memory of their forefathers.”[1] He argues that it was this very principle of rebellion upon which the United States was founded.[2] Certainly there was a breaking with the past that greatly shaped the American story. Nevertheless, the Library of Congress, built just shy of a century after the Revolutionary War, is a testament to some recognition of our indebtedness to the past. It is also evidence of the constructed American ideal of progress. The progress which is elevated in the Jefferson building is a progress that does not reject its ancestors, but rather stands on their shoulders, aware and grateful.
It Wasn’t Me captures in story the right relationship of indebtedness which the Great Hall and the East Corridor illustrate in structure. Through the character of Wheeler Catlett, the upright lawyer, Berry extols the virtues of gratitude and obligation. Wheeler sympathizes with Elton Penn’s desire for independence, but he understands that true independence is in fact a fiction. Wheeler explains to Elton Penn, “you’re a man indebted to a dead man. So am I. So was he. That’s the story of it. Back of you is Jack Beechum. Back of him was Ben Feltner. Back of him was, I think, his own daddy. And back of him somebody else, and on back that way, who knows how far? And I’m back of you because Jack Beechum is, and because he’s back of me, along with some others.”[3] Berry is tapping into some part of our collective memory as a nation; a memory of a time when we were thankful to those who had gone before us. We yearned for their wisdom instead of scoffing at it.
In Why the Rest Hates the West Pearse exposes a culture that has forgotten to thank its ancestors. And in It Wasn’t Me, Berry causes us to remember a time when saying thank you was the right thing to do. These men are prophetically calling us to assess our collective forgetfulness and the damage is has caused. We may have to lay our postmodern paradigm at the door, but it would behoove the storytellers, thinkers, lawmakers and homemakers of this nation to enter the Great Hall and allow its lessons to reshape and redirect us. It would also serve us well as readers to enter into Wendell Berry’s distant land and marinate in the lessons of Port William, Kentucky.
[1]Pearse 38-39.
[2] Pearse 96; Ch. Killing the Past
[3] Berry 284.
Meic Pearse and Wendell Berry both address the theme of ancestry in Why the Rest Hates the West and “It Wasn’t Me,” among other stories in Berry’s collection That Distant Land. Pearse identifies the peculiar property of the West, namely the United States, to “reject an obligation to reproduce the ways of their ancestors, or to be faithful to the memory of their forefathers.”[1] He argues that it was this very principle of rebellion upon which the United States was founded.[2] Certainly there was a breaking with the past that greatly shaped the American story. Nevertheless, the Library of Congress, built just shy of a century after the Revolutionary War, is a testament to some recognition of our indebtedness to the past. It is also evidence of the constructed American ideal of progress. The progress which is elevated in the Jefferson building is a progress that does not reject its ancestors, but rather stands on their shoulders, aware and grateful.
It Wasn’t Me captures in story the right relationship of indebtedness which the Great Hall and the East Corridor illustrate in structure. Through the character of Wheeler Catlett, the upright lawyer, Berry extols the virtues of gratitude and obligation. Wheeler sympathizes with Elton Penn’s desire for independence, but he understands that true independence is in fact a fiction. Wheeler explains to Elton Penn, “you’re a man indebted to a dead man. So am I. So was he. That’s the story of it. Back of you is Jack Beechum. Back of him was Ben Feltner. Back of him was, I think, his own daddy. And back of him somebody else, and on back that way, who knows how far? And I’m back of you because Jack Beechum is, and because he’s back of me, along with some others.”[3] Berry is tapping into some part of our collective memory as a nation; a memory of a time when we were thankful to those who had gone before us. We yearned for their wisdom instead of scoffing at it.
In Why the Rest Hates the West Pearse exposes a culture that has forgotten to thank its ancestors. And in It Wasn’t Me, Berry causes us to remember a time when saying thank you was the right thing to do. These men are prophetically calling us to assess our collective forgetfulness and the damage is has caused. We may have to lay our postmodern paradigm at the door, but it would behoove the storytellers, thinkers, lawmakers and homemakers of this nation to enter the Great Hall and allow its lessons to reshape and redirect us. It would also serve us well as readers to enter into Wendell Berry’s distant land and marinate in the lessons of Port William, Kentucky.
[1]Pearse 38-39.
[2] Pearse 96; Ch. Killing the Past
[3] Berry 284.
Longing to be Covenantal: A Journal Entry from Katherine
Parallel Messages from Wendell Berry & Meic Pearse
Longing to be Covenantal
I am a very different person than Wheeler Catlett. Well, I will begin with the obvious. I am not a man; I am not a lawyer; I do not live in a small, farming community; I am not bound by my locale nor have I ever experienced an authentic connection to my land. My world is quite a contrast from the Port William community that Wheeler considers home. I am a 21st century young adult with all the promise that a quality education and privileged upbringing seems to provide, and the horizon is seemingly filled with endless possibilities of fruitful life, labor, and love—yet, the allure and subtle resonation of a fictional community called Port William.
We live in an opportunistic culture of consumerism and individualism—a culture where wealth, appearance, and influence are highly prized and praised. We are granted opportunity and comfort. Many of us are given all that we need to succeed and more. There is a deep tide of invincibility that seems to exist—a tide that has led to what Meic Pearse calls cultural imperialism. In a Western culture complete with all that we need to survive and thrive, the actual reality of a messy, broken world can be ignored or suppressed all too easily. The blessings and progress of modernity have come with consequences, and in his book, Why the Rest Hates the West, Meic Pearse gives a powerful account of the formation of a cultural, barbaric “juggernaut” that lacks the ability to truly relate to much of the surrounding world. Pearse’s description of the Western world’s current, cultural climate juxtaposed with the endearing simplicity of Wendell Berry’s Port William community seems to offer a powerful picture of truth when read in relationship to each other.
Berry’s characters have an authentic tie to their land. They understand the power of place and the sense of belongingness, community, and obligation born by this connection to place. They have a deep understanding of their past, their ancestors, and their relationship to others. They seem to know what it means to love their neighbor. In the story “It wasn’t Me,” Wheeler Catlett beautifully sums up the values of such a community:
Everything about a place that’s different from its price is a gift. Everything about a man or a woman that’s different from their price is a gift. The life of a neighborhood is a gift. I know that if you bought a calf from Nathan Coulter you’d pay him for it, and that’s right. But aside from that, you’re friends and neighbors, you work together, and so there’s lots of giving and taking without a price—some that you don’t remember, some that you never knew about. You don’t send a bill. You don’t, if you can help it, keep an account…(288).
Giving without receiving or without remembering—this is a foreign concept to the society in which we now live. Wheeler’s determination in this story to secure the farm for Elton and his wife shows his commitment to not only the living but also the dead. He was willing to risk his own reputation and willing to risk failure in order to fulfill a commitment he made to a dear friend who had died. This is merely one instance where Wheeler exemplifies an understanding of the significance to place and relationships.
The ideas of obligation, duty, and neighborly living are natural, seemingly inherent in the way in which Wendell Berry’s characters live (example from another story…). It is exactly the loss of such values that Meic Pearse articulates to be one main reason in which we cannot relate to other cultures in our world today. Most cultures are still intricately infused with religious morality, ties to people, family, and land. They are committed to a network or community in a way that we, in the West, no longer are. They accept, appreciate, and value the concepts of obligation, duty, and respect. Pearse asserts that in order to begin relating to other countries and cultures again, “we will need to be reconverted to the truths about morality, family, and social relations that we have lately come to reject as oppressive. We will, therefore, need to become much less quick to reject each and every claim of duty as being somehow an infringement of our rights” (168). This, he says, will allow us to “rejoin the human race.”
Together Meic Pearse and Wendell Berry’s accounts are a poignant pair. We read a more directive description from Pearse in which he explicitly explains why we are not successful in our relations with much of the world. Pearse gives a direct call of to Westerners. He gives a call to be thoughtful. He gives a call to understand. Berry attempts to teach us through his stories appealing to our imaginations and the past. He gives us a sense of what we are missing. He gives us a sense of loss. Maybe this is why I can relate to an unlikely character like Wheeler Catlett as Berry strikes a chord of truth by indirectly giving us a picture of authentic community and belongingness.
As members of the Body of Christ, we ought to be dutiful, accepting responsibility and obligation as vehicles to give. We ought to seek genuine community and become increasingly more familiar with what it looks like to love our neighbors. We ought to seek cultural reconciliation and learn to love those who are different than us. We ought to serve and love those who did come before us—those from whence we came. Both Berry and Pearse remind us of virtues that are easily lost in the cultural waves we have experienced since the advent of modernity. All these “oughts” point to truth. I am not so different than the simple, small town lawyer character, Wheeler Catlett. I long to be covenantal.
We live in an opportunistic culture of consumerism and individualism—a culture where wealth, appearance, and influence are highly prized and praised. We are granted opportunity and comfort. Many of us are given all that we need to succeed and more. There is a deep tide of invincibility that seems to exist—a tide that has led to what Meic Pearse calls cultural imperialism. In a Western culture complete with all that we need to survive and thrive, the actual reality of a messy, broken world can be ignored or suppressed all too easily. The blessings and progress of modernity have come with consequences, and in his book, Why the Rest Hates the West, Meic Pearse gives a powerful account of the formation of a cultural, barbaric “juggernaut” that lacks the ability to truly relate to much of the surrounding world. Pearse’s description of the Western world’s current, cultural climate juxtaposed with the endearing simplicity of Wendell Berry’s Port William community seems to offer a powerful picture of truth when read in relationship to each other.
Berry’s characters have an authentic tie to their land. They understand the power of place and the sense of belongingness, community, and obligation born by this connection to place. They have a deep understanding of their past, their ancestors, and their relationship to others. They seem to know what it means to love their neighbor. In the story “It wasn’t Me,” Wheeler Catlett beautifully sums up the values of such a community:
Everything about a place that’s different from its price is a gift. Everything about a man or a woman that’s different from their price is a gift. The life of a neighborhood is a gift. I know that if you bought a calf from Nathan Coulter you’d pay him for it, and that’s right. But aside from that, you’re friends and neighbors, you work together, and so there’s lots of giving and taking without a price—some that you don’t remember, some that you never knew about. You don’t send a bill. You don’t, if you can help it, keep an account…(288).
Giving without receiving or without remembering—this is a foreign concept to the society in which we now live. Wheeler’s determination in this story to secure the farm for Elton and his wife shows his commitment to not only the living but also the dead. He was willing to risk his own reputation and willing to risk failure in order to fulfill a commitment he made to a dear friend who had died. This is merely one instance where Wheeler exemplifies an understanding of the significance to place and relationships.
The ideas of obligation, duty, and neighborly living are natural, seemingly inherent in the way in which Wendell Berry’s characters live (example from another story…). It is exactly the loss of such values that Meic Pearse articulates to be one main reason in which we cannot relate to other cultures in our world today. Most cultures are still intricately infused with religious morality, ties to people, family, and land. They are committed to a network or community in a way that we, in the West, no longer are. They accept, appreciate, and value the concepts of obligation, duty, and respect. Pearse asserts that in order to begin relating to other countries and cultures again, “we will need to be reconverted to the truths about morality, family, and social relations that we have lately come to reject as oppressive. We will, therefore, need to become much less quick to reject each and every claim of duty as being somehow an infringement of our rights” (168). This, he says, will allow us to “rejoin the human race.”
Together Meic Pearse and Wendell Berry’s accounts are a poignant pair. We read a more directive description from Pearse in which he explicitly explains why we are not successful in our relations with much of the world. Pearse gives a direct call of to Westerners. He gives a call to be thoughtful. He gives a call to understand. Berry attempts to teach us through his stories appealing to our imaginations and the past. He gives us a sense of what we are missing. He gives us a sense of loss. Maybe this is why I can relate to an unlikely character like Wheeler Catlett as Berry strikes a chord of truth by indirectly giving us a picture of authentic community and belongingness.
As members of the Body of Christ, we ought to be dutiful, accepting responsibility and obligation as vehicles to give. We ought to seek genuine community and become increasingly more familiar with what it looks like to love our neighbors. We ought to seek cultural reconciliation and learn to love those who are different than us. We ought to serve and love those who did come before us—those from whence we came. Both Berry and Pearse remind us of virtues that are easily lost in the cultural waves we have experienced since the advent of modernity. All these “oughts” point to truth. I am not so different than the simple, small town lawyer character, Wheeler Catlett. I long to be covenantal.
I am inspired to recapture these truths.
See Wendell Berry's That Distant Land and Meic Pearse's Why the Rest Hates the West
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