Technology offers us almost endless opportunities to reach people in need of encouragement and support. We have more access than ever before, but I face two main dilemmas.
First, I’m terrible at technology. Partly from a mental block and partly (I’m convinced) from a secret brain surgery carried out on me in as a child – a techobotomy so effective that I can’t look at a new phone without getting tired and achy. If I could slap an antenna on my car roof and use a 24lb., 1992 Russian phone, I would.
Reluctantly, after many years with the same phone, I caved and got a new one. It had a screen so big that I needed a tailor to let out all of my pockets. Days later, I still couldn’t receive email or make phone calls. Other than that, it was fine.
Here’s my second problem. While transferring old files over to my new obelisk, I reviewed videos I’d taken over the years. There were beautiful clips of our children playing and digging gardens and chasing the puppy and building snow people. So priceless. All wonderful except for the idiot behind the phone.
What I noticed was that a small part of me was looking for flaws and accidents. At times I was sarcastic and cold. I wasn’t thinking of my kids or even the family and friends who might see these videos. I was occasionally thinking, “How funny was that fall?” or even “I bet people will love that.”
When I wasn’t in the moment with the people I love most, I was distracted by the idea of views and likes. Strangers and numbers. The file transfer shone the camera right back on me and I hated what it revealed. I can be selfish enough to barter real feelings for fleeting affirmation.
Many researchers, including Sherry Turkle who wrote a game-changing book called Alone Together, have noticed some dangerous trends in how technology and social media are changing our relationships. Turkle observes that “we expect more from technology and less from each other.” Technology promises us we will never be alone, yet her research suggests we actually feel worse about ourselves and are more lonely than ever. How is that possible?
Have you ever seen a young woman post a picture of herself online? Within minutes, 80 of her closest friends will post a flurry of comments:
Friend 1: “Totally gorgeous.”
Person posting: “Thanks. You’re gorgeous too.”
Friend 2: “Oh my. So sexy.”
Person posting: “Thanks but you’re sexier.”
Rinse and repeat 78 times.
But that’s good right? Young people need to know they’re beautiful, don’t they? Not so fast, my sexy friends. It turns out social media, with its thousands of relationships, isn’t nearly enough for the simple needs of our hearts.
Researchers are starting to more deeply understand the idea of a “perfected self.” Think about the times when you post a picture of yourself. A small percentage of people will post any picture, any time, without any reservation. But most of us go through a rapid but loaded neural process of selecting photos that make us look good, especially in those areas where we’re most insecure. If you don’t like your thighs, a picture above the waist is more likely to run the cerebral gauntlet and make it to the post.
This process is powerful and is leading many, especially the young, to dismiss at a deep level the surface affirmation they are receiving on-line. “If my friends are saying my perfected self is gorgeous, what would they say if they saw the real me?”
Is the solution to post our ugliest and worst pictures? Perhaps, but until we’re ready to face the world with our true selves front and centre, we should at least stop and take a deep breath. We need to welcome truth, beauty, and goodness back into these moments. We have a loving God who accepts us and our flaws to the point of dying for them.
Many of the key people in our lives are reachable online, but we need to connect with them much more offline. Face-to-face (for now at 6 feet apart) without phones and distractions. Without being recorded and shared and without needing to be sexy. Just to know someone at a deep level and to be known just as deeply. That is the definition of intimacy.
We need to see facial expressions and read body language. To remember real experiences and to laugh out loud (which ironically hardly ever happens when we type “lol”). I’m hoping that stories of redemption still have a place in our world because I decided to start trying to live one out by using technology for what it is meant for. I made a number of pledges:
- To do less recording of memories and more creating of them;
- To teach my kids that social media offers incredible opportunities to help people if we commit to focusing on the real people;
- To be trustworthy with falls and pains, in good times and in bad;
- To talk about challenges like habitual body monitoring, loneliness, and objectification;
- To make sure my wife and children know they are more important than all the gadgets in the world combined, and to apologize for the times when I have forgotten that.
In the weeks following my promises, I forgot them often enough to realize how real my dependence had become. At times I was Bilbo, panicking through empty pockets to find “my precious.”
But when I kept my promises, strange and beautiful things happened. More hugs, more talks, more board games. I was in the house the same amount of time, but my kids knew I was “home” more than ever. I noticed things that I had been missing too often. How did I miss my wife getting more amazing? When did my sons grow so tall? Did you know the sun sets every day?
Sherry Turkle says, “Technology proposes itself as the architect of our intimacies,” and I join with her in clicking dislike on that notion. Our intimacies need friends and family and lovers, not robots, screens and emojis. The pandemic is not the only thing keeping us apart.
I’m thankful for my techno-idiocy. It has reminded me to reconnect with the things … no, delete that … the people who matter most.
James Borkowski is the Archbishop’s Delegate for Operations. He and his wife have seven children.