On the weekend I began reading Dorothee Soelle's memoir, Against the Wind. Soelle is one of my favourite theologians but I've never really read about her life.

Something that jumped out in the early parts of the book was her talking about a teacher she had, saying, "her thinking takes sides."

She goes on to note that a good teacher needs more than knowledge, they must stand for something. Interestingly, Kingsnorth had similar things to say around the value of having a stance if we wish to be able to resist the Machine.

I think this is really important and something that is missing for a lot of people, having something to stand for. So much of who we are tends to be defined by what we're not or what we're against, but not enough of us are doing the hard work of asking ourselves, but what are we for?

“The point, I think, is to be found beneath the surface layer of politics, and beneath the lower layers of nationhood, ethnicity, and culture too. The point, as ever, is spiritual. If our nations seem hollowed-out, if our countries seem to be prey for the Machine, surely it is because they have no soul. If people, place, prayer, and the past are the group upon which real culture is built, many of us today would have to look at our own countries and conclude that they have no real connection to any of these. Blame the immigrants if you like—it’s always the easiest option—but they didn’t strip the soul out of the West. We did. Do you think you can build your country around nothing but money and then complain when people want to come in and earn some of it themselves?” (Kingsnorth, Against the Machine)

I got thinking today about garbage trucks. More specifically, I got thinking about the workers on those garbage trucks. Even more specifically, I got thinking about how it seems there are less workers on garbage trucks these days than there used to be.

For most of my life, a garbage truck had two workers on it. Someone who drove and someone who would jump off and empty the bins into the truck. My town, like many others, has adopted the trucks with the big mechanical claw on the side of it that lifts the garbage can from the curb and dumps its contents into the truck. It now only takes one worker to both drive and operate the claw.

It reminds me of grocery stores. When I was a kid, every cash register had two workers: a cashier and someone to bag the groceries. I remember when they got rid of the bagger job, all of a sudden you were expected to bag your own (or the cashier might do it for you). Today, in many grocery stores, a single worker can oversee a dozen different self-checkouts.

My grandfather worked his whole life in a GM plant. The threat of automation to jobs is nothing new. I think what is important to keep in mind is that it's not often an abrupt replacement. It's usually many small, different changes—often presented as opportunity for efficiency or skill learning—each one making human work slightly more redundant. Death by a thousand paper cuts.

In 1958, Hannah Arendt pondered what happens to a society of labourers that becomes "liberated" from the bonds of labour when labour is all this society knows. Of that, she wrote, "surely nothing could be worse."

“As you get older, you realize both why home matters and how fragile and elusive it is. Then you find you are living in a world whose forces have set out to destroy your sense of home wherever it can be found.” (Kingsnorth, Against the Machine)

I can still smell my grandmother's house. She's been gone now for going on ten years but the memory of her cooking is still there. It's a more visceral memory than almost anything I have from any of the houses I grew up in. It taps into something deeper, a tradition of cooking that was brought with her out of Poland and re-rooted itself in her home in Oshawa. Some of her kids have carried it on in small ways, but I think a lot of it has been forgotten.

Our disconnect from a sense of rootedness, or home, is hard to notice. It's not one thing, nor is it immediate. It happens slowly, subtly over time and through many different things. It's the loss of the traditional way of doing things in exchange for faster and easier. It's the unfamiliarity many of us feel towards the natural world, even that which is directly around us. It's the forgetting of stories, of songs, of cultural artifacts that hold deep significance to where we came from. It's the creeping dominance of a digital world and culture that is swallowing everything else.

The last few Christmas Eve's I have attempted to make a Polish dish for my family meal. It's a small nod to that sense of home I feel when I think of my grandmother's house. This year we attempted a Sernik, a Polish cheesecake. All four of us were involved in this tricky process of making something we'd never made before. It was fun—and delicious.

"But a value system which glorifies wealth and accumulation, which builds itself on a platform of want, which inflames and creates more of it daily through a marketing machine that colonizes the human mind—this is what every spiritual tradition in history has warned against, and with good reason." (Kingsnorth, Against the Machine)

Just tagging off yesterday's post here with a followup quote from the book that I think hits what I was getting at a bit better. The point here isn't to say that a religious society is better or more just—far from it. Nor should we equate modern religious identity with its pre-modern versions. Capitalism has consumed religion just as much as anything else. But, there is wisdom to be found in these traditions if we are willing to listen.