My Quest for an Anchor - Part 2
- Jeffrey Hausman
- Sep 5
- 5 min read
Updated: Sep 23
In my last post to CrossCurrents, I began the task of unpacking a way of considering big life issues by seeking truth in the small encounters and recesses of our daily lives. I started this thread as a response to the complex issues AI presents to the field of education and, more importantly, the process of learning and being. It was one of the more difficult posts to write, and least satisfying to return to. Though I knew early on that I would be tying multiple posts together, I just couldn’t find an ideal offramp to let the thread rest while I collected my thoughts for the next segment of discourse.
My lack of a quality close became abundantly clear a few days after the article was published. My wife and I had dinner with our friends “Joe” and “Angela” and they brought up the topic of the post. I have previously written about this couple and a profound personal experience they had had and Angela asked me if I thought that experience represented truth. I gave her what in all likelihood was a pretty unsatisfying answer, “Maybe.” I then stated that it is evident that the experience holds sway over her in a very meaningful way, and as such, there is a good chance that a “big” truth resides somewhere within. The key is to be able to reflect on the experience in a manner that would allow her to cut through the totality of the experience in order to discover its essence. Can she put a name to what made the experience something she still cherishes so much?
She then asked me to name one of my truth moments, and I responded with one of my own pivotal moments. After saying our goodbyes, I began to regret my response. While all of us are graced with a handful of such events throughout our lifetimes, life would be pretty awful if we are waiting around for big moments like these to better understand our purpose. The whole point of this series of articles is about finding truth in our daily walks through life. Why didn’t I respond with something like seeing a breathtaking sunset, or holding a baby, or perhaps even experiencing the discomfort of encountering a homeless person?
This brings me to the point I was attempting to make at the end of the last post. Most of us - including many of those with a reliable discernment practice - don’t have/employ a suitable vocabulary to help us fully appreciate the small affirmations of truth present in our daily lives. Instead, when we take the time to think back on our day, we recognize those “sunset” and “homelessness” moments and we momentarily extend our thinking to consider the ways they may have influenced our psychic orientation. This often then leads to personal resolutions such as “I need to be more grateful for the small things in life” or “I need to be more compassionate toward others.”
What I just described is obviously good and it connects us to our personal humanness. Where I feel it is lacking is in deepening our understanding of our collective humanity which, in turn, provides us glimpses of truth. This is where I believe attaching discernment practice to something external is valuable. A good option might be The Ten Commandments. This approach roots us in age-old religious and ethical directives which widely underpin societal expectations. The issue I have with this approach is that The Commandments can be somewhat obligatory and reductionist. Taken to the extreme, because the model doesn’t really challenge a person to look beyond their actions, a malevolent, bigoted, or vindictive person could discern that they are upstanding simply based on the fact that they haven’t lied, cheated, stolen, or killed. There is no mention of love in The Ten Commandments.
The resource I have landed on is the seven themes of Catholic Social Teaching (CST) which compels us to consider our actions and experiences in relation to our everchanging world. The themes are Life and Dignity of the Human Person, a Call to Family, Community, and Participation, Rights and Responsibilities, a preferential Option for the Poor and Vulnerable, The Dignity of Work and the Rights of Workers, Solidarity, and Care for God's Creation. By employing these themes and vocabulary in our discernment, we are confronted with questions like:
What does dignity look like?
Do I allow myself to be vulnerable, recognizing my need to be in family and community? How do I respond to the outcast?
What rights are most important to me as a component of my flourishing? Are these rights in conflict with the perceived rights of others? How do I reconcile this?
When do my responsibilities exceed those of others due to my privilege and/or abilities?
Where are the boundaries of a properly ordered workplace? How do I contribute to that?
What does solidarity look like in a society that is both polarized and pluralistic?
What small role do I play in caring for all of creation?
While regular reflective practice allows us to see and process our experiences from “above”, having questions related to CST back of mind draws us deeper into the experiences at the same time. It also provides us a mechanism for practicing a greatly underutilized Ignatian principle, the presupposition of goodwill which calls us to assume others are operating with good intentions.
To illustrate this, let’s talk about babies. I love holding them and could do so all day. However, others I know would simply prefer not to. Previously when using general reflective practice, I might review my day and simply connect gratitude for the opportunity I was given to hold a baby because it “made my day.” Then I might reflect a bit more, wondering why it is that my friend seems averse to it, particularly since we are both fathers who have obviously held babies before. However, employing the lens of CST to the same reflective practice might lead me to recognize that the source of my desire to hold babies stems from truths relating to preciousness (Dignity of Life) and vulnerability (Option for the Poor and Vulnerable). Additionally, using the presupposition of goodwill, I might also come to consider that my friend experiences babies’ preciousness and vulnerability with overwhelming awe and reverence. He and I are experiencing the same truth, but responding differently.
Even better, once I come to this understanding, I may find that my actions and preferences change over time. At some point, I might not want to hold babies anymore. It’s not that I’m witnessing different truths, I may simply decide at some point that the best place for a precious, vulnerable baby to be is in the arms of someone else or laying in a crib. That’s the beauty of Catholic Social Teaching; it’s portable, moving with you across time and circumstances.
Previously, I thought of my faith like the roots of a tree - something that ran deep and provided permanence; a touchpoint I could return to whenever I felt the need. Recently, however, recognizing life’s uncertainty and the accelerating pace of change, this approach has seemed slightly askew. I now see my faith as analogous to an anchor. An anchor you carry with you and drop when needed. Its weight can be burdensome, but it ensures deliberateness. It serves as resistance when we go too fast, and it provides stability in stormy weather.
My anchor is fashioned from Catholic Social Teaching. I’ve come to recognize, though, that CST can be a bummer. Its approach to freedom is largely through sacrifice and constraint. It also challenges me to consider some things in ways I’d rather not. Additionally, it’s not prescriptive; it doesn’t provide me with answers to anything. Rather, it makes me work. What it does provide me, however, is a means to feeling more connected and alive every day which is exactly what I need in a world dominated by algorithms and automation.
In Part 3, I will attempt to relate this to formal learning.
CONTRIBUTOR: Jeff Hausman, AVLI President
vol 7 issue 6
