Hard Lines in the Home

Oversimplification of the moral life is a possible cause of the apostasy of young people

Having shared my thoughts about medieval and modern seclusion with a few friends, I found myself—as one does with friends—digging deeper.  Granting that seclusion can be healthy or unhealthy, what causes the unhealthy tight-knittedness associated with some Christians eventually leaving the fold?  (I am thinking, of course, of Joshua Harris, but also of Melinda Selmys, in whose past writing I have found much to agree with, but whose recent work shifts away from Church teaching.)  What makes rigidity attractive in the first place?

Harris and Selmys have rejected parts of their faith and cultural formation that most faithful Catholics would find problematic; they have also rejected parts of Christianity that we consider essential.  But the same phenomenon occurs in spheres besides religion, and in other circles than those deemed “right wing.” A child of fervent climate change believers is “at risk” for denying that it is caused by human beings; the child of militant vegetarians may embrace hunting; atheists’ children become Catholic, Eastern Orthodox, or Evangelical; a young person raised in secular Great Britain may abandon Westernized life for Shariah … Nor is this “rebellion” always ideological: sometimes it takes forms of which anyone would approve. The child of alcoholics may resolve never to drink; the child of divorced parents may resolve never to divorce.

The bottom line is that anyone raised in an extreme atmosphere is liable to swing in the other direction at some point. This fact of life is so well known that we have a term for it, based on the age when it most commonly occurs: teenage rebellion.

But if the phenomenon is so widely known, why tempt fate? How do parents find themselves involved in groups that their children later describe as “cults”? Why do people attach themselves to clans that turn out to be so problematic?

As far as I can see, it comes down to two things: laziness, and the human hunger for connection.

The hunger for connection is an obvious draw. It is always a delight to discover someone sympatico, puka—collectively: your people, your tribe. A tribe is a good thing. Associating chiefly with those who share your values (“the Benedict option”?) enables you to avoid temptation from the slew of problems in society at large (adultery, drugs, too much TV, immodest dress, ugly music, lying, dishonesty at work, what have you). If you surround yourself with people who share your view about these things—and most people, whether they realize it or not, do—you are more likely to have your own views reinforced; and the task of bringing up your children according to your views becomes easier.

But raising your children becomes dramatically easier—and this is where laziness enters the picture—when you can draw very bright lines, both in terms of what things are permitted, and in terms of what people are admitted. It’s much easier to defend “no divorce and remarriage” if you don’t let your family associate with divorced-and-remarried people; it’s much easier to avoid immodest dress if you rule out all but sacks.

Explaining to your 13-year-old why you’re okay with a sleeveless top for the grocery store but not for church is hard; sacks are easy.  Explaining to your 10-year-old that Uncle Joe is a good man, but has made some mistakes, and we need to love him and be polite to him and not ask awkward questions, but also not take him as an example in everything, only in some things, is complicated; not seeing Uncle Joe is simple. And perhaps the epitome of the easy, simple thing is to join a very close-knit, very strict group, and shun outsiders altogether. Not only do you avoid hard explanations, but you are surrounded by people who are doing the same. You don’t need to make judgment calls, because everything is perfect—at least, everything is inside the hard, fat, straight, bright-red line.

But there are problems with this approach. In the first place, the line tends very quickly to become unjust. Maybe Uncle Joe has a long relationship with the kids, and is a very kind man, and in many ways a good example. Cutting him off entirely so that “the kids don’t get the wrong idea” is quite possibly an offense against charity—towards him and the children. As for those sack-dresses—well, anything looks good on a 2-year-old hunk of chub, but it isn’t actually kind, or necessary, to insist that your 18-year-old dress as if she or he lacks a figure.

In the second place, the hard, fat, straight, bright-red line cannot, by its very nature, separate human beings into sheep and goats, the good and the bad.  Inside the line is actually imperfect, because it is human; outside the line is, for the same reason, full of potential good (tailored dresses! Uncle Joe!).  As a result, children brought up inside eventually grow suspicious of the line. They rediscover Uncle Joe—and his sexual mores; they rediscover tailoring—in the form of skank. And because their parents never modeled discernment, but contented themselves with the hard, fat, straight, bright-red line, their departed children end up like the Victorian lady without her corset: charming figure, no abdominal muscle, very little backbone, and a newly discovered tendency to let herself go.

In offering this diagnosis I do not mean to excoriate the Benedict option, or “the religious right,” much less faithful Catholics or homeschoolers (I was one, and married one, and expect my children will be). Indeed, my parents trod the thin, crooked, grey line rather well; I hope I do as fine a job as they did. I am writing largely to myself, and to members of my generation—whether their upbringing was similarly nuanced, or frustratingly black-and-white. I am offering a sort of memorandum.

Raising a family is hard; oversimplification can be devasting. In the words of J.R.R. Tolkien, “Short cuts make long delays”; and you still must face Black Riders in the end.