I work in the college business, and as such, one of our buzzwords is “community” – and by buzzword I mean if you had a nickel for every time it was uttered in a faculty meeting or a classroom or a prospective student weekend, you would be a very rich person. The word is usually used adjacent to some superlatives about Res Life or Chapel or Student/Faculty ratio, with the subtext being, “Come to _____ University and community will just sort of happen to you and you won’t ever be lonely.”
But any amount of adult time on the planet will illustrate the fact that actual community – meaning friendship and meaningful connection and “being known” and all that – is a much trickier moving target.
Once a year I travel to a conference with the students on my journalism staff. This is usually a very pleasant and often even fun experience that I pre-emptively dread due to being middle-aged and uncool and set in my ways. It is never to anyplace actually cool, but it is made fun – and was especially fun this year – by the community we forge over dumb things. In fact, it is never the engineered Community Building Exercise that builds Actual Community.
Fade In on a Love’s Truck Stop somewhere in rural Alabama. My student Noel approaches a rack of super flamboyant canes and suggests that I purchase one with a gold lion’s head on it to use as an outfit accessory for the awards banquet we’re about to attend…which banquet (like all awards banquets) will be drab and forgettable and without-end. I of course purchase the cane…which then becomes a conversation-starter and a punchline and a shared Ridiculous Thing for the balance of the weekend.
Fade In on an awards banquet replete with ballroom chandeliers and rubber chicken and a keynote speaker. Another student, David, shares an affinity for the old Joe Camel cigarette ads and how there’s basically a Joe Camel ad (to all the child-readers of World – don’t smoke!) for every social context. The banquet becomes a comedy showcase as we all hit the group chat with situation-appropriate Joe Camel images and captions along the lines of:
(Joe Camel in a Jacuzzi)
“Kluck calling the keynote speaker later from the jacuzzi in his room.”
(Joe Camel flipping a coin)
“Keynote deciding whether or not to wing it during his speech – outcome obvious.”
(Joe Camel and Another Camel lounging in a convertible)
“How I think it would’ve felt to be in the backseat of Kluck and David’s car during the trip.”
None of this – in a vacuum – qualifies as Pulitzer-level writing. But in a very real way it caused Real Community by a.) allowing me to know my students better, b.) allowing them to know me better, and c.) allowing us to prove to each other that we can read and room and then be really funny together. Everyone’s shoulders were heaving due to laughter, and now if any of us sees a Joe Camel image in the next two decades we’ll think of our trip to Troy, Alabama and the ha-ha’s we enjoyed there.
It occurred to me that Real Community often involves a willingness to be the butt of the joke, as well as the willingness to try to be funny, which carries with it the risk of failure. But being spontaneously funny in this laser-specific stupid way, together, has always been my favorite way to build community. It’s the kind of community that brings together disparate parts – jocks, nerds, frat guys, music guys, etc. – and makes everybody feel comfortable. There is some magic in it.
The church – and the academy – could do with a little more of this energy. It’s the kind of energy that says, “We’re going to do our best, but at the same time acknowledge that this project…or winning this award…is not the most important thing in the world…and perhaps our closeness and our shared joy in one another and the Lord, is gradations more important.”
Awards are always forgotten. I couldn’t tell you who won the Heisman Trophy this year (and I care) or the Oscar for Best Actor (I ostensibly care about that, too). As someone who has won writing awards (and lost many more) I can tell you that they are forgotten pretty much immediately in that you can’t eat them or pay rent with them.
But this elusive brand of community – built around shared joy in one another – endures forever.