In praise of the "squishy stuff"
Just go with me here
“For the whole law is fulfilled in one word: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ But if you bite and devour one another, watch out that you are not consumed by one another.”
—Galatians 5:14-15 ESV—
Last fall, I had the opportunity to hear Philip Yancey speak at an event in Nashville hosted by
. Although he was a last minute addition to the panel of speakers, Yancey was a gem to listen to. His crown of fluffy white hair bobbed fervently as he shared a few candid gems from his newest book, “Undone: A Modern Rendition of John Donne’s Devotions”. He reminded the audience that in Donne’s day, the early 1600s, the Black Plague was ravaging Europe. When looking at the medical practices of that era through the lens of modernity, they seem archaic at best, superstitious at worst. “Look how far we’ve come,” we can easily boast, presuming the science in our day is a real arrival, that our discoveries will be memorialized in stone. But in reality, best practice in every field is always evolving. In another four hundred years, many cutting-edge discoveries of today will be elementary, maybe even forgotten altogether.As Yancey poked holes in our modern devotion to the “hard stuff” of life— science, medicine, politics, cultural ideologies, progress, etc.— he reminded us that in spite of the outdated medical practices, Donne’s poetry remains relevant centuries later. Yancey claimed it is because these masterpieces deal with the “squishy stuff” of life: the universal experiences of love and longing, death and despair, grief and hope and joy. Such a full-bodied persistence in holding the “hard stuff” lightly and the “squishy stuff” with nuanced gravity makes both John Donne and Philip Yancey the kind of imperfect people I want to glean wisdom from for a lifetime.
By and large, modernity is preoccupied with the “hard stuff.” I’ve known this obsession myself, working to theologize all manner of things into clear cut boxes, climbing the ladder in a prestigious medical institution, starving the aches I deemed inessential in pursuit of the obligatory values the culture (or the church) recognized as good. Not all of these things were 100% negative, but in hindsight they seem incomplete, and the person I was then seems stunted to me now. Modern culture tends to undervalue what lasts in pursuit of immediacy and results. The physical, cultural, and the moral goods that accumulate slowly into an inheritance really worth having just aren’t at the top of the mind. Cultivating land, curating skills to pass on, and developing character all take too much time. These disciplines demand patience and diligence, and they can seem boring next to flashy quick-fixes.
Although “vulnerability” is having a moment in the spotlight, it seems performative, boosting the cultural preoccupation with the “hard stuff” of valuing platform over person (honestly, not everything needs to be shared). Celebrities are celebrated for being “real,” but canceled when they don’t live up to fickle demands of the public.1 What is really trickling down to impressionable young people who are watching and participating in all of this? When life is imbalanced towards the “hard stuff,” we cut ourselves off from the ability to change. Do we really want to communicate that maturing is as easy as discovering a persona, rather than a lifelong journey of fits and starts and failures?
In the introduction to his compilation of poetry called “Joy,” Christian Wiman, lists three modern responses he encountered in his journey to better understand the word, joy.
“There is the backslapping bonhomie of the evangelically joyful…. There is academic detachment: Is joy merely an intensification of happiness or an altogether other order of experience?… There is affront: ruined migrants spilling over borders, rabid politicians frothing for power, terrorists detonating their own insides like terrible literal metaphors for an entire time gone wrong— ‘How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,’ as Shakespeare, staring down his own age’s accelerating grimace, wondered.”
Do any of these responses that Wiman met really get at the heart of the messy, lived experience of joy, or do they seek to wall it in— or out— a bit too neatly? Do any of them actually capture the real thing? To Wiman, each response fell flat, skirting the issue in one direction or another (hence the reason this is his starting point for the book).2
Writing from the year 2017, Wiman’s descriptions of migrants, politicians, and terrorists feel a little too familiar. These days in the United States, there are biting partisan undertones (overtones?) to which every stray opinion or ill-placed word seems magnetically attached. The popular move is to demonize anyone who does not agree with you outright.3 Somehow it is ok (even encouraged?) to verbally (or physically) assault people who do not hold they same positions or values.4 Polite disagreement is a thing of the past, vitriol is cool, joy is irrelevant: we’ve got bigger fish (and “harder stuff”) to fry now.
The emotional release of belonging to a group that backs you at all costs, that validates your anger and making you feel part of something larger than yourself is not just attractive, but addictive— that’s the pull of tribalism. Yet as rage-filled momentum accelerates, the fear of backlash for voicing even a single question also grows. I can’t help but wonder: is everyone really on board with their tribe, or are the skeptics just afraid to make a peep because they know it will cost them? The social pressure to conform is enough to shut many into silence. When the dominant narrative screams answers, accusations, and certainty, there’s an implied (or outright) rejection of anything that remotely resembles something grey. The “squishy stuff” of doubt, curiosity, and repentance stay huddled in the dark. The powerful narratives that prior generations birthed and we upheld begin to take on a life of their own.
Sabbath Poems, XII (2005) by Wendell Berry If we have become a people incapable of thought, then the brute-thought of mere power and mere greed will think for us. If we have become incapable of denying ourselves anything, then all that we have will be taken from us. If we have no compassion, we will suffer alone, we will suffer alone the destruction of ourselves. These are merely the laws of this world as known to Shakespeare, as known to Milton: When we cease from human thought, a low and effective cunning stirs in the most inhuman minds.
Increasingly, I find myself disgusted by the pressure to conform to the communion of the brute-thought, yearning to deepen my ability to discern the subtle tonalities of wisdom. I long to be more vibrant, more courageous, more honest, more fully human. While I’m no expert in speaking up, I am leaning in. Honesty is refreshing, virtue is surprising, and pinching either off for the sake of avoiding conflict sounds terrible. Each of us live our lives in narrative form, and the stories we tell ourselves and others define us, whether we recognize it or not. The “hard stuff” shifts from century to century, but the “squishy stuff” of humanity seeps down in different combinations of the same flavors that have been on rotation since the dawn of creation. The “squishy stuff” is just that— squishy. It oozes through our categoric boundaries, bleeding into spaces we weren’t prepared to touch, making space for something… real.
“The fact is that gossip, rumors, mythmaking, and news stories are not appropriate vehicles for the communication of nuances of truth, those subtle tonalities that are often the truly crucial elements in a causal chain.”
This quote from the first page of Chaim Potok’s classic, “My Name is Asher Lev,” grabbed my attention with its timeless relevance when I first read it. Chaim is right. Subtle tonalities require a deep dive. He demonstrates his point by taking the next 200+ pages to lean in, weaving together a painful and stunning narrative that proves how flat the gossips, rumors, and news stories really are. Much like life, it is the “squishy stuff” that makes Asher Lev dynamic.
Truth is not flat— neither are people. Wisdom is not found in labels or partisanship, but something far more simple (and complex). Both truth and wisdom are embodied in the person of Christ, and from that anchor point everything that follows is less about the what of our opinions and beliefs, and more about how we hold them in our hands (insert something about love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, gentleness, faithfulness, and self-control). Are we using our convictions to bludgeon or to stabilize? To wound or to heal?
I worry that we are becoming a culture incapable of thought, incapable of seeing ourselves in the stories and experiences of others, obsessed with certain ends and justifying all manner of means to get us there. I worry that the brute-thoughts are thinking for us, that we have handed ourselves over unquestioningly to faith in the ever evolving “hard stuff” of life. Such undiscriminating discipleship of ourselves and our peers is one of many moral failings “for which future generations will surely hold us accountable.”5
Moving forward, friends, let us question the brute-thoughts (maybe even out-loud).6 Let us ask questions and be curious; lament and long for justice. Let us read novels, and look for the subtle tonalities that a tweet or a headline simply cannot encompass. Let us practice self-denial, be joyful, and cultivate the “squishy stuff” within and around us. Let us learn to have conversations that don’t seek to convince, but aim to simply understand. Let us forgive. And let us hold a healthy suspicion for the “hard stuff,” especially when it is presented as absolute. Maybe it’s true; maybe it’s not. Will it last? As with John Donne’s poetry, only time will tell.
Consider this interview with Shia LaBeouf
Honestly, go read the introduction— it is worth the price of admission, and the poetry is just a bonus.
This article by David Brooks in the New York Times is especially helpful
This documentary in The Free Press is another enlightening one
Quote from “Scripture, Culture, and Agriculture,” by Ellen Davis
Writing to myself here
Sometimes I feel like *I* am also huddled in the dark with the rest of the squishy stuff, reading novels and writing letters and cultivating flowers, just waiting until it seems a bit safer to emerge.
Thank you for this great piece!