For the last year or two, the following passage from Wendell Berry's "Sex, Economy, Freedom, and Community" has been an lens through which I've come to perceive everything from my family to my colleagues to writing centers to the local church.
But a community makes itself up in more intimate circumstances than a public. And the health of the community depends absolutely on trust. A community knows itself and knows its place in a way that is impossible for a public (a nation, say, or a state). A community does not come together by a covenant, by a conscientious granting of trust. It exists by proximity, by neighborhood; it knows face-to-face, and it trusts as it knows. It learns, in the course of time and experience, what and who can be trusted. It knows that some of its members are untrustworthy, and it can be tolerant, because to know in this matter is to be safe. A community member can be trusted to be untrustworthy and so can be included. (A community can trust its liars to be liars, for example, and so enjoy them.) But if a community withholds trust, it withholds membership. If it cannot trust, it cannot exist. ("Sex, Economy, Freedom, and Community")
I like Berry's distinction between a public and a community, between a social covenant and a communal tapestry of experience and knowledge. And, I particularly like the notion that the presence of community allows folks to be tolerant of--and even find pleasure in--those it might typically shun, such as Berry's untrustworthy and liars. This notion has
reframed the way I think about the diverse range of personalities and perspectives accumulated in the communities of which I am a part.
But, this week it suddenly dawned on me that in at least one of my communities, I am the one being tolerated. In much the same way that Berry's hypothetical community would enjoy its liars, my community smiles, perhaps rolls its collective eyes, and extends a lot of grace to one whose ways of thinking almost never seem to align with the dominant perspective.
When positioned as a member of the majority, I find Berry's thoughts enable a tolerance for and an appreciation of the folks who are Other-than-me. But, when positioned as the Other, I find Berry's passage bittersweet, for even the good fortune of being tolerated, included, and enjoyed can eventually become tiresome. It can even feel a bit condescending. I suspect there are important distinctions to be made between the natures of tolerance, inclusion, and membership. When inclusion feels less like membership and more like tolerance, one simply wants to withdraw and invest his efforts elsewhere.
This, I think, is why Berry's emphasis on a local, largely geographically bound community is so important. When communities are plentiful and one can easily move from one to another, or when communities are virtual and possess little obligation for continued interaction, it is so easy to stick out a thumb and move on down the road. In a culture that celebrates--perhaps even worships--both literal and metaphorical mobility, it's so easy give up on the community of proximity and neighborhood and end up with merely a public. But, I'll admit that there are some seasons when a mere public seems fairly attractive.
