In the Listening and the Speaking

It was a hospital story that dominated discussion this morning.  Sometimes it is a recent trip or political commentary; recently we delved into the varied nuances of deer hunting regulations at the county level.  Rarely, however, is there silence.  For the past 16 years -- or perhaps 17 or 18, I forget -- most of my Wednesday mornings have begun at 6:30 a.m. with a group of men who have little in common apart from that sausage biscuit, banana, the weekly conversation and our gender.  It isn't a religious group, nor is it therapy even though it was birthed by one of the staff at the Des Moines Pastoral Counseling Center who had a particular interest in men's issues. 

We read a book together from time to time -- about transitions, for example, or gender issues appropriately enough; we have read about soul work and parenting and currently happiness.  But the books and their topics have become less important over the years.  Indeed, a book may last us a year because weeks will go by with the upcoming chapter unacknowledged, sidelined by more important matters.  In the course of our meeting together we have shared the trauma of devastating diagnoses and the physical and emotional swings of subsequent treatments, even singing at the funeral of one of our "members."  We have patiently and presently listened until tears abated long enough to continue a telling about a marital separation or a breathtaking insight or a parental disappointment or a recent and still-stinging grief.  We have buried spouses, been part of foreign adoptions, nurtured the blossoms of budding romance and eventual marriage, counseled retirements and waved goodbye.

We have held each other in our keeping.  For some reason I have been reflecting on the miracle of this community.  In this Twittering Facebook world, there is certainly no absence of information.  We know all manner of detail about friends and family and virtual strangers alike.  We are made privy to political views, personal and sometimes questionable photographs, the details of new tattoos, shopping frustrations and the color of the baby's vomit.  But I'm not sure how much this tsunami of information creates real community.

Churches occasionally get it right, creating moments and spaces for sharing the substance of our joys and concerns.  But just as often congregations are better at advocating for community than they are at building it, worshiping side by side but too easily going our separate ways having shared little more than an attendance register and a common pew.

Genuine community requires a double-edged vulnerability:  we have to be willing to speak out loud about what we find in those nooks and crannies of our being moist enough for real life to germinate; and we have to be patient and available enough to listen as those around us are sharing it.  Of the former, we need be cognizant enough about ourselves to trust in the significance of small and often quiet inner voices.  Of the latter, we must keep in mind that "interesting" and "important" are not always the same.  Community requires a reverence for both the mouth and the ear. 

I'm grateful for this merry band of men who have long since been content to laugh together, cry together, mourn together, argue together, celebrate together, wait together and, above all -- or perhaps it is "through it all" -- to hold one another in our collective keeping.