Made for Infinitude
We are made for the infinitude of God, the beatific vision that awaits us...
Deep calleth on deep, at the noise of thy flood-gates. All thy heights and thy billows have passed over me.
- Psalm 41
My lenten fast from most media indulgence ended with a binge. I was working on my beloved’s requested ‘secret garden,’ which will eventually be enveloped by tall fences and creeping vines. Elements of the project included amassing the materials, digging seemingly innumerable post holes, concreting in the fence posts, assembling a new chicken shed and building a new gate for the chicken yard that will sit at the end of the garden. It was good, hard work, mostly spent under the benevolent April sun, as autumn makes its slow fade into winter. The surrounding hills and open fields around me were a treasure, no doubt, but I fell into an old habit of throwing in some headphones and catching up on podcasts that I’d avoided for some time now, with a policy of keeping as much silence as I can as I prepare for Easter.
The open air, the stillness and the solitude were set aside of course, as my I wallowed in the observation, commentary and critique of those I respected - but after a few days - I realised I had been short changing myself, again. There is a calamitous business that comes with staying abreast of current affairs, pandemic or no pandemic. There is a church in crisis, a culture that is crumbling and any number of issues to ponder, and opening up that channel, plugging in and letting it all wash over me was no doubt enthralling, but I hit a tipping point that I know well.
If I have to take my headphones off, repeatedly, to interact with my own kids as I’m toiling in the open air, I have a problem. There is an implicit sense of disruption and distraction, even if I’m not feeling it, when I have to draw away from something to banter, instruct or jest with my kids. Whenever I’m sealed away, unable to hear them approach, or call, or ask me a question, I’ve set aside a paternal presence that should instinctively close, responsive and available to them whenever they need it. That doesn’t mean that I don’t become engrossed in my work, or my writing or reading - but that it doesn’t become the default priority when I’m in the midst of my family.
It was for this very same reason, that some years ago, I ditched my smart phone and have stuck with a more old school option. I was never very good with the option of everything in the digital sphere at my immediate disposal. We are inclined, I believe, to ponder and pursue, but it should be an intellectual and spiritual inquiry that leads us back to truth, beauty and goodness. Most material on offer by the digital landscape is far from that, if not the antithesis of it. Quitting social media gave me some relief from the incessant, siren song of the glass screen, but there was still so much to ‘do,’ to seemingly ‘check,’ or accomplish, or tick off. There remained a gnawing, nagging pull to engage with the damn thing itself, even if the app of choice became irrelevant.
And no, I’m not dismissing all digital media, clearly. If I was, you wouldn’t be reading this right now. Some may have even come to this post through Twitter, as Wordpress has a lovely feature whereby one can automate the sharing of a blog post without even needing to set foot in the ecosystem itself (once your account is set up). I’ve done the same for Two Thieves on a Hill. There are Twitter accounts, handles and tweets, I just don’t do much else with them (probably to my detriment, of sorts, I suppose, from a readership perspective). At some point, I may set some time aside to more actively engage, but to be frank, I haven’t, because I don’t want to.
The nagging, clawing desire to check for notifications is gone. The nagging itch to think of my next clever, pithy, concise statement that says everything (and hence nothing) about me is dead and buried. I could do more to spread the word and get Wristwatches and Radios out there (Conscience: writing a little more often would be a start), but hopefully I can leave that to people better equipped than I am in to bring my next reader along (Cough, nudge, I mean you, dear reader - share this with someone you love). When I think of something clever and pithy, I write it down in my notebook to truly dwell on it, tease out its implications, read around it, and, God willing, write about it. Properly. Which is something that takes a damn lot longer than firing off a tweet.
It may be satisfying, I imagine, to get the notion out into the world with an immediacy and impact that encourages debate, discussion, dialogue. It may be. But if I remember correctly - it wouldn’t be. I’m committed enough to stripping my pocketed digital accoutrements back, to make the Nokia 800 Tough my phone of choice. I dabbled with cheaper, ‘burn’ phones for some time, before investing again in the simplicity of a device that fulfilled the functions well, without being outrageously onerous to use. I want to be able to reply to my wife’s text without bursting a blood vessel - not too much to ask. But I’ve happily traded the touch screen, the bells and whistles, and the slick prettiness, for a functional ease and durability that will serve me well in the years ahead. With eight kids in the house, I can assure you, the durability matters.
Furthermore, the damn thing is heavy. I can feel it on me, I can feel it missing, and I know it’s not going to be compromised being thrown into my bag, or the glove box of my car. When our phones need to be cradled, caressed and coddled more than our children do, we may have a problem. And no, I am no luddite. I do have an iPad which I use for reading the news, my favourite online content and such. I have though, abandoned reading on a Kindle, after one of my boys threw it into the bathtub. Returning to the paper and ink of old, I realised when I read that there was no pull to the novelty of something else. I could never fully settle into a book on the e-reader without that same, damn, gnawing, clutching desire to check what else was in my collection. ‘I do like this book, but maybe, just maybe, that other one was better.’ Raymond Carr documents this phenomenon brilliantly in The Shallows, detailing just how much cognitive burden is placed on the mind when we read online. There is a compromising assessment of every hyperlink on the page as we unconsciously assess and decide: do I click on it or not? When it comes to a paper book, that cognitive tax just doesn’t exist. The same can be said for an old school phone.
We are made for the infinitude of God, the beatific vision that awaits us, should we live lives of grace, in communion with His Son, our Lord and Saviour. More and more, the expansion of the light, colour and novelty of the online space parodies the expanse of an infinitude only found in faith, in prayer, in the delight of the sacramental realities we miss so much. The commentary, the criticism, the observation found in the podcasts, the blogs, the sites, the sounds, have their place in the human economy of ideas. I’ll even grant that they can enrich our faith, our intellect and our creativity. But there’s a time and a place to draw the line. To turn off and return to a stillness, silence and space that can’t be found in an app, or a show, or the next season of your favourite show.
Sink into that silence and listen for the Word. Run your finger along the printed ink of the page and commit to the page that follows.
By Gaetano Carcarello