New Voices: By and about young adults

My favorite memory came on the second day, when I saw a friendly pub sign: “Muddy boots welcome.” It also welcomed pets (no cows, sheep or pigs), but I was particularly pleased with its welcome for my sweaty self and my muddy boots. I had chosen to walk across England for my holiday in 2007, at one of its narrower west-east stretches of 200 miles. Among other reasons, I hoped this walk would give me opportunities to ponder important matters of life and viewed the journey as a spiritual pilgrimage, listening for and seeking God along the way.

However, I discovered that instead of mind-blowing considerations of God and the universe, I was predominantly concerned about jumping over the waterfalls, not slipping on the descent, surviving the ascent, whether I would have tinned beans for dinner, how I was going to pitch my tent in pouring rain or whether I would ever be dry again. I was concerned about my bruising and blistering feet, my aching legs and back, and what the next day’s terrain would entail. My focus turned to my physical needs—water, food and shelter. I became aware of my humanity while I walked. I was awakened not only to my physical needs but also my physical mortality (perhaps it was exaggerated in the moment, but I was aware of my mortality when I encountered high winds, a storm assault, an apparently insurmountable gorge, becoming lost in the middle of nowhere, getting stuck in a bog). I also awoke to the interconnected nature of the world and to my dependency on God for my inner strength.

That’s as deep as my discoveries went—that I was human. And yet, I wonder, what more is there to know? It’s easy to forget we’re human. For example, take our approach to accepting new technology. Some people may like to call me a Luddite and thus disregard my ideas in this area. But I suggest I’m merely a hesitant technology consumer. Similar to some Amish communities, I want to see more of our communities gather together and discern the level of appropriateness for the newest technology. It has become too easy to blur the lines between necessity and convenience; we forget that convenience is not necessity.

If we take time to consider whether or not the newest technology is essential to our daily use, we possess a greater chance of remaining human—retaining our power to be active participants in life rather than passive recipients of what society tells us we need. For example, I have determined that it is not necessary to own a car in Harrisonburg, Va., where I live. Having a car is a great convenience, but in truth it is not necessary.

Harrisonburg (a city of 45,000 people nestled in the rural Shenandoah Valley) is a car-friendly city and generally unfavorable to alternative modes of transport. But with careful planning and a willingness from friends to share resources when necessary, living without a car becomes remarkably doable. I have felt more human by transporting myself on my two feet and on my dependable bicycle. Rather than rushing from one enclosed space to another, I am appreciating nature and greeting my fellow humans along the way.

When I was walking in England, I stopped in at an art gallery in Richmond (North Yorkshire) that was showcasing Mackenzie Thorpe’s sculptures. One that particularly struck me was entitled “My Crucifixion” (see photo). The sculpture is a tall block tower whose top appears hinged and leans at an angle to the tower. A small man is trying to carry the weight of the top block as it bears down on him. It is a dramatic scene. To the observer it appears the small man is seconds away from being crushed. His hands are outstretched in a way recollecting Jesus on the cross.

The sculpture spoke to me about the crushing power of our nonhuman industries. These will be our crucifixion if we don’t take the opportunities before us to reclaim our humanity. I encourage you to join me in finding the places that welcome muddy boots as we strive to be fully human, as Jesus was fully human.

Sharon Kniss attends Early Church, a Menno­nite congregation in Harrisonburg, Va.