On Embodiment and Disconnection

It was around 2011 or 2012, somewhere in that era marking the cultural ubiquity of the iPhone and the rise of Instagram as the dominant, hip form of social media. My friends and I were in it: the OG transitioners from in-person communication to screen-based communication. I remember having reservations at the time; however, having access to every song I could think of in my pocket was too strong a lure to ignore. As a kid who used to sit by my Sony boombox and listen to Dertroit’s 89x with a trigger finger on the record button, waiting for Collective Soul or 311 to make its way in the rotation, an ever expanding music library was too strong a temptation.

…Back to my friends and I: we were mostly raised in evangelical Christian homes, most of us were musicians and artists, and most of the guys rode motorcycles. In that era, everyone started applying filters to images of their Eggs Benedict to become a fine art photographer. (Though, we did [and do] actually have some truly talented photographers in our midst.) I was (and am) undeniably blessed to have kept company of a flock of reluctant tech adopters who intensely valued having truly embodied relationships and experiences.

As for the rest of our generational companions, this era was the dawn of hipsterdom, characterized by a monotonous, urbane attitude that my millennial generation embraced. There, it was crucial to appear sophisticated, adopting a smug demeanor that my generation began to embody. Much of this stemmed from the Jon Stewart mode of political criticism, where everything was ironic, and nothing was sacred. I know plenty of people who still haven't moved beyond that mindset. I too occasionally find myself reverting to it as a safety mechanism, a crutch that hinders genuine human connection. But that's the backdrop: that's environment where we found ourselves, but not really who we were. Most of us were holdouts.

Without divulging too much incriminating information, I’ll say that we were risk-takers, trying to discern where the dragons lay in our worldview. Most of the guys rode motorcycles and imbibed. In some respects, I'm grateful for that exploration. Though, I must admit, at times the “devil-may-care” attitude is a prideful thorn in my side to this day.

Now, things are a little different. Looking at the screen-oriented world we helped usher in, everything feels boring and safe. We've reached a point where our world is filtered through screens, censored and curated. We see what algorithms want us to see, relate through phones, and interface via technology. With the exponential expansion of artificial intelligence, we're learning to recognize its telltale signs in what we watch and read, searching for originality and typos. Flaws and all, I find myself mourning the world we've lost. I miss gravel in my knees and getting lost.

Admittedly, nostalgia plays a role in this feeling, but it's evolved from a longing for the past to a profound uncertainty about what it means to be human, to be created in God's image, and to engage with this world. The more I contemplate it, the more I'm convinced that I need to abandon much (both technically and ideologically) of what defines modern humanity.

The last time I can clearly recall feeling fully embodied for an extended period of time was in 2008: spending a summer hiking around Europe with my wife and two friends. We tasted great food, drank good wine, walked everywhere, and took trains to meet people in Germany, Switzerland, France, and Italy. It's where we conceived our first child (which is by definition, a profoundly embodied experience). It was a sweet, sensuous time. Reflecting on it now, it feels so different from today's world, that it's like a death. Our current tech-infused existence feels lifeless. We've forgotten what we're missing. We've even forgotten what we've forgotten.

I’ll take you back again to the aforementioned era: among our group, my friend Zak stood out. He was early adopter in the world of conspiracies, which have since become mainstream topics. Zak would regularly discuss his distrust for three-letter agencies, MK-Ultra, chem-trails, and the existence of UFOs. This was before the dawn of Joe Rogan’s influence; he was genuinely engaged in fringe observations. He was also a troubled guy, often unsettled due to his semi-prophetic view of humanity and his unique upbringing. In many ways he seemed like an alien trying to understand others. He was a true outsider who found a home with others who felt the same way for different reasons and to lesser degrees.

Around that time, he procured his first iPhone. One night, as we sat around a fire in my backyard in Northwest Ohio's Great Black Swamp, overindulging and listening to music, Zak decided to throw his new iPhone into the bonfire inferno. In retrospect, it was an impulsive decision, as he likely had contractual obligations, and his wife helped pay for it. But in my bones, I knew it was good to destroy it. It was like casting the Ring of Power into the fire. I believe he had some blurry perception our cultural trajectory and wanted no part in that progression, or regression. He was already feeling the device’s hold on him. In some way, I think that decision sealed his fate. I won’t divulge too much more about my friend, but now he lives in Alaska, and as far as I can tell, is interfacing with reality in a manner most men lust for.

When I think about what I long for, I wish I had the bravery to join Zak in casting these tethered devices into the fire. I'm unsure how often I pick up my phone daily, but it's undoubtedly disappointing. There's a richness and joy we're missing. As I observe the younger generations, for whom this technology is ubiquitous, they don't seem particularly joyful. Their perceptions, especially regarding relationships, have been distorted by internet chat/dating and pornography. This performative content seems to leave them mournful and searching for something different. But, it’s not their fault. They’re eating from the table we set.

We know something is drastically wrong. We've replaced beauty, connectivity, relationships, and truth with convenience and commodification. Cell phones simplify coordination; AI streamlines tasks; social media facilitates quick interactions. Yet, this streamlining has confined us to a curated world. Beyond technology, we've insulated ourselves from discomfort. How much of our waking life is spent in walled-in, climate-controlled environments? What impact does this have on our physical and spiritual selves? (Here’s a poem I wrote on the topic.)

We are encapsulated in curated, comfortable, uneventful lives. It's one reason I value being a police officer: I get to encounter death, evil, and real people. It demands attention and engagement that few professions require to the same extent.

I think that the more inconsequential one's daily life is, the more detached one becomes from reality. For instance, someone writing marketing materials for an insurance company that covers medical liability is several steps removed from tangible consequences. Such detachment allows for the proliferation of abstract, often misguided ideas. In contrast, embodied work deals with objective truths: times, locations, actions, are all tactile and embodied. A farmer knows how the soil ought to feel when it needs irrigated. A woodworker knows that locust and pine require different treatment.

The information/managerial economy are in a reality of their own. Consider the seemingly random obsession with “cause du jour” issues. Where do they come from? Why do we care about one war and not another? Why are thousands of martyred Christians in Nigeria and DRC utterly unreported while thousands of Howard Zinnians feign outrage at a perpetual retaliation that has lasted millennia.

Truly, war is tragic, and evil is alive and well. But, online outrage and radicalization is a bad remedy for personal shortcomings.

Therefore, it's crucial to focus on problems we can identify and address in our immediate environment. Expecting individuals to empathize with distant tragedies is performative. We are not God. While we can pray for our hearts to align with God's, presuming emotional responses to distant issues is disingenuous. Instead, consider directing your empathy toward those around you. Empathy is a precious thing to waste. From what I’ve perceived, strong opinions on distant issues stem from a lack of authentic local connections.

If you actively engage with your community, you'll encounter sufficient tragedy and pain. We're hardwired for emotional investment in others' problems, but this becomes unhealthy when directed toward humans you’ll never see or know. Additionally, attention is lucrative. If you attend to tragedy, you’re making it just a bit more profitable. Give your love to your neighbor, not your screen.

So, what do we do? Do we become Luddites? Perhaps not entirely, but we should be conscious of our actions. Don't carry your phone everywhere. Designate a charging station at home and leave it there. I'm addicted to my phone, and I despise it. It diminishes my willpower, occupies my brain's reward centers, and creates a false sense of accomplishment. Engaging through the phone reduces mental energy and creativity. I’m a junkie.

We must be honest with ourselves. I've been revisiting Aldous Huxley's Brave New World, pondering who I want to be. Huxley wrote, "Technological progress has merely provided us with more efficient means for going backwards." Maybe I actually want to go backwards to the womb, like one of those people in the pods in The Matrix. If happiness can be manufactured through substances like Soma, AI lovers, or even air conditioning on a warm day, it's tempting. But I don't truly want comfort. I want God, poetry, real danger, freedom, goodness, heart-flutters, and a little panic

We’d be wise to ask ourselves: what are we willing to sacrifice to be human? To follow Christ, we must "die daily" and "take up our cross" (Luke 9:23). These are not digital acts. It's as if we must first kill our digital selves before the old man can even die.

I miss the way I engaged with the world as a child. It's not mere nostalgia; it's mourning.

In closing, I’d like to address the Church: stop being castrated and formless. Quit mirroring the bland culture around us. Stop putting everything on screens and focusing on marketing. The world is starving for authenticity. I am hungry for anything real.

Yet, God still shows up. Jesus is still preached, and lives are changed. As Paul wrote, "Some indeed preach Christ from envy and rivalry... What then? Only that in every way... Christ is proclaimed, and in that I rejoice" (Philippians 1:15-18).

However, the world is lifeless and dissatisfying. If the global elite desires us to be property-less consumers, immersed in the metaverse, the Church must stand in stark contrast. They want us to be consumers; we must be producers. The Church should be the world's creative powerhouse.

They promote eco-maniacal messages, suggesting humans are the problem. We must reject this. Make babies. Consider the heart of The Lord. God told Abraham, "I will make you exceedingly fruitful" (Genesis 17:6). "It is not good that the man should be alone" (Genesis 2:18). These are foundational truths.

They want fewer humans; let's give them more.

They want us in urban centers, reliant on public transit and digital worlds. Move to the country.

Give yourself space. Hunt deer.

Embrace the consequences of survival.

Make your own booze. Roll your own cigarettes. Understand the cost of your vices, and you'll reduce their influence.

They want the world to be your family. Reject that. Your family is your family. Repair and rejuvenate those relationships.

They want you to consume mass-produced food. Eat real food. They want you dependent on their medical system. Deny it.

To be Christian is to be countercultural.

We are in the business of redeeming creation, working for the Redeemer.

Love your neighbor. Engage with real people.

Go outside. Take a hike. Build something with your kids. Make love to your wife. Create.

Be so genuine that you don't fit in. Be someone worth imitating.

Chair, Vincent van Gogh, 1888.