Now Remember: Before You Can Serve Others, You Have To Turn Off Your Cell Phone

(this title comes from a quote from a homily; in context, it made very little sense, and out of context, even less. however, I decided to run with it anyway)

In a way, our society is constructed around the idea that people will tell you exactly what you need to know, in a direct and clear way, at the exact moment (or close enough) that they learn it themselves. Or anyway, they’ll tell you what they think you need to know. Or ought to know. Or what they really just want to tell you.

Hence the cell phone metaphor. Each of us is expected to be ‘plugged in’ at all times, ready to answer that call in the middle of a homily from our friend (or whoever) telling us about their remarkable discovery of a new flavor of pie. Or even the call from our friend telling us that their beloved pet rabbit has died, or that the radiator exploded and your apartment has burned down. One might be tempted to use this as a model for service: always ready to listen to and help another, with a minimal surcharge for text-messages from the United States.

But is that really true? I think maybe the point about turning off the cell phone is a good one. How can you attend to what you’re doing if you’re interrupted? What if you were having dinner with a friend, or praying, or reading an inspiring blogpost? What does it mean to be broken away, even momentarily, from what you were doing? How does it make your friend feel, or affect your relationship with God, or your own personal growth? There’s something to be said for service being focused on the moment rather than on the possible.

While it’s true that you might have wanted to know right away that your apartment has been reduced to ashes, there’s something to be said for the idea that in order to serve anyone properly – perhaps most especially yourself – you need to make sure you’re not always ‘on,’ not always ‘plugged in;’ that you don’t try to be everything to everyone, and end up being much less than you could have been. Maybe you shouldn’t have to make excuses for using your cell phone as a portable answering machine instead of picking up your calls.

Obviously, as someone whose cell phone is almost never turned on, I’m not exactly unbiased here.

Sometimes I think that maybe our culture of instant messaging about anything and everything has created unrealistic expectations about human communication. Do we expect people to tell us everything, to tell us directly and immediately, to put everything in words? Would we be upset if our friend’s rabbit died and it took her a month to say anything to us; would we be upset because we know she could have said something right away, but instead decided not to dial our number? Does it mean she doesn’t trust us, or care about us, or believe that we could help?

I have to admit, I would probably be pretty upset. Because I have this idea in my head that because she can tell me right away, she will, and she should. But it’s a bit unfair, isn’t it? So much of deep communication is done without words, so much is said by silence…why shouldn’t I hunt down my friend when she’s unplugged and find out what’s going on? Why shouldn’t I make plans with her and sit and watch her, try and find out why she hasn’t been phoning, if there’s even a reason? Why shouldn't I keep calling and leaving messages, though not maniacally?: when she's ready to stop wanting space, she'll not have forgotten about them. So I know that even though I’d be a bit miffed that she didn’t tell me (especially if I’ve found out later), I hope I'd also understand that there are things people need time to say, or need to say without saying.

In this vein, if I’ve turned off my cell phone, I should answer my messages and call back; if someone doesn’t return my calls, I should try contacting them another way, and possibly give them some space; if I’ve been dodging their calls in order not to tell them something, I should probably meet them for lunch and see what comes out. I should absolutely give them a reason for why I’ve smashed my cell phone into little pieces with a sledgehammer so that no one can ever call me again. All of that is what service is: it is turning off your cell phone, but not ignoring your messages; it is fulfilling your responsibilities, not putting them off or hiding from them; it is the receptivity to others’ needs, both what they need you to give them and what they need to give you, and not smashing up any possibility of their reaching out to you.

This concept of service leads up to many things I think I should say. I haven’t exactly kept up with posting meaningful or relevant blogposts recently: sorry about that. I haven’t exactly been answering people’s e-mails asking how I am or what’s up in general: sorry about that. I haven’t exactly been going to daily prayer and weekly Masses: sorry about that. It has been pointed out to me that not explaining my behavior, behavior which amounts to avoiding practically all meaningful social interaction, is not “the Christian thing to do:” sorry about that.


Oh wait, sorry, I have to go: my cell phone is buzzing. I must’ve forgot to turn the damn thing off.