So I’m a young adult, not quite thirty. A proud member of the generation that recalls with fondness slap bracelets, New Kids on the Block, and mismatched neon socks (please tell me the socks weren’t just me…). Though my family acquired our first computer somewhat later than most other families I knew, I began my love-hate relationship with technology at the age of eight. My second grade education initiated me into the joys of the floppy disk, which I used primarily for completing Accelerated Reader tests and playing Oregon Trail. You might think that as a music lover, a professional student and an avid pleasure reader that I would be well-equipped with all the latest technology for the ears and eyes: Kindle/Nook, an iPod less than five years old, iPad loaded with apps customized for people just like me, etc. But I’m not. Not even close. My television screen is only slightly larger than my laptop. I don't subscribe to cable. I don’t even subscribe to a data plan for my phone (which means that my phone is not even “smart” enough to require a data plan). In short, I’m a veritable Luddite for the modern era. And as such, the demise of the paper book causes me much fear and trembling.
I’m well aware of the benefits (I hesitate to say “advantages”) of the e-book: instant access, readability across platforms, ability to highlight, earth-friendliness and whatnot. But for me, reading is not simply about absorbing ideas – it’s a multi-sensory experience. The physicality of the book matters. Is the print set deep into the page? Is the paper smooth and glossy, or thin and brittle? What color is the exterior? Does the book lay flat with little persuasion, or does it stubbornly insist on closing itself? Does it smell new and inky, or ancient and moldy? (No laughter, please… the best-smelling book I ever read was a new copy of Thomas Merton’s Thoughts in Solitude.) As much as I deplore the evils of excessive materialism in present-day American culture, I require something tangible to complement invisible ideas. And I require the same from my religion.
In its quest to categorically distance itself from Roman Catholicism, Protestantism has generally steered clear of pungent smells, vivid images, and gestures of any kind. But how can one understand the mysteries of death and rebirth without being washed in water? How better to understand the pain of self-sacrifice than witnessing the loaf of bread being torn asunder? How can one feel a part of a body/community without physically reaching out? How can one express one's deepest joy and pain without making a sound? I’m not content to simply know or believe (not that either knowledge or belief is necessarily simple). I have to feel it in my bones. I can’t just think transformative thoughts – I need to experience transformation in full, from head to toe. I resist cerebral, virtual relationships, preferring instead to exchange a glance, to feel the brush of the hand, to hear a breath and a heartbeat. Authentic encounter grows out of these singular moments, moments that do not sync across platforms. Moments that cannot be replicated. I’m not saying that I fully embody these lofty aims. Rather, I place my hope in the possibility that the best things are worth my full mental, spiritual, emotional and physical engagement.
