Not-Friends & Heroic Helplessness

an essay

Photo by Adarsh Kummur on Unsplash

“If you could see humanity spread out in time, as God sees it, it would not look like a lot of separate things dotted about. It would look like one single growing thing—rather like a very complicated tree. Every individual would appear connected with every other. And not only that. Individuals are not really separate from God any more than from one another.”

C.S. Lewis

Enemy. What a strange word.

Growing up, I would hear the word enemy and think, “That’s a pretty harsh word. I don’t have any enemies.” But of course, I was raised in the Christian church, which tends to change the flavor of certain terms. I was thinking of David pursued by Saul, the Israelites taken into slavery, and even the apostles arrested and martyred for preaching the gospel. I was thinking of war, violence, and persecution. “That’s not happening to me,” I thought. “I don’t have any enemies.”

But I’m a words person. I like to define our terms, so let’s dig a bit deeper.

The word enemy comes from the Latin inimicus. And while it passed down through history gathering more strident definitions like a runaway snowball, the original word inimicus literally translates to “not a friend”. Which widens the field considerably, don’t you think?

Most of us don’t have actual enemies wishing us bodily harm (thank goodness). But we do have former friends we fall out with, family members we would rather not see, toxic bosses or coworkers, the Internet commenter you can’t help arguing with, or even just acquaintances we avoid when we see them in the grocery store or on the street. We can find ourselves betrayed, offended, annoyed, or abused in all kinds of ways by these various relationships. These are not-friends. Enemies.

In some sense, there’s an arms-length nobility in the idea of loving your enemies when they are just an abstract concept. But humbling yourself before your toxic boss? Or that Internet commenter? Or that family member you can’t stand?

Who among us does not bristle at the thought?

And yet…

Much has been said—also written, sung—about the interconnectedness between living things. It’s a popular topic in New Age thought. We are one, you might hear. Often, it’s a nice idea to ponder. But it’s actually very difficult to experience practically. There is a fearful responsibility in being connected to those in not only your family, but also your neighborhood, your workplace, your nation, the world. And—yes—to your enemies. Your not-friends. Even to them.

We started this week with a cup of tea, served with humility—and without poison—to our enemies. But the only way we can do that is to look them in the eye and see ourselves reflected back. To see that we are all very helpless indeed.

C.S. Lewis is considered to have had a very Celtic Christian viewpoint, but it was not without deep theological underpinnings. And when he saw humanity, he saw it as a great sprawling tree, stretching across history, impossible for us to fathom. We are less like separate stars in the firmament than like branches, leaves. All connected to one another. All getting our life-growth—our viriditas, as Hildegard of Bingen would have put it—from a source beyond ourselves.

This goes for you, me, and every person you’ve ever argued with on Twitter. That’s a dizzying thought, isn’t it?

The point of understanding our interconnectedness is finding perspective. We are small. When we argue, or feel betrayed or embittered, we have a tendency to inflate ourselves. How dare they do that to me! we think. Do they know who I am? Even if we don’t think those exact thoughts, we behave that way. It is deeply human to dislike being wrong. It is deeply human to want to pass judgment, to give people what we think they need, to withhold love until certain conditions are met. Deep down, we like to be the hero of the story, the one wronged. The one who deserves to be apologized to.

But let me tell you a secret about heroes: real heroes recognize their own smallness, their own helplessness in the vast scheme of life. You can’t serve without understanding what need feels like. You can’t truly love without first experiencing loneliness. The best healers have experienced true pain, and lived to tell the tale.

When you come face to face with a not-friend, you come face to face with your own helplessness. The question is: will you flinch? Or will you hand them that teacup, without poison, without pretense?

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