The Social Waypoint
I recently invited a friend to a dinner party. The gathering did not depend on this friend showing up, but I was looking forward to seeing him and I had reconfirmed plans with him one day in advance. On the day of the gathering, one hour in, I noticed that he had not yet shown up. “No matter,” I thought. “He is probably just running late.” Shortly thereafter, I received a message from my friend, who bashfully informed me that he had “double booked” his evening and he was at another event, intending to spend the rest of the evening there.
During the month of Ramadan, my wife held an iftar in our apartment for ladies. She invited a handful of friends and, as is her habit, put a considerable amount of time into preparing for the event, cooking a nice meal, and thoughtfully seeking to invite a combination of friends with whom she wanted to reconnect and also pull into community. On the day of the gathering, all of the guests broke their fast and subsequently prayed maghrib. After the prayer was completed, and before dinner was served, one of her guests approached my wife and said, “I actually have to get going to another invitation now. You will have to excuse me.”
Entering the Marketplace
A common pain point in our contemporary American social milieu is that people are abjectly lonely. We are more theoretically connected by way of social media in its myriad forms, but in another sense, we are all more disconnected than we were even as recently as five to ten years ago. Many people bemoan the fact that they don’t have a “village” accessible to them. Community leaders and mentors have begun to counsel more and more that in order to have a village, you need to be a villager. Said another way, in order for you to have a community, you must participate in the community.
A number of very powerful currents, however, are sweeping us adrift. As suhba (fellowship or companionship) becomes an increasingly popular vehicle for meaningfully shaping the Muslim community, it is critical that we identify the possibility of the commodification of the sacred bonds that we share with one another. In a society that is designed to monetize anything—including the loneliness it previously sold to you—we must be vigilant to identify plastic substitutes for living, breathing, nourishing community. The endgame of this is that the “village” itself is just a conveyance for material exchange, and “village-building” just becomes a commercial enterprise.
There seems to be a collective consumer culture that beleaguers our efforts to cultivate sustainable, meaningful communities. A number of usual suspects abound. One is the persistent “window shopper.” You invite a person to a function or gathering or simply to hang out at a specific time and place. A bizarre, elaborate phenomenon ensues, sometimes out in the open. People do this thing that I call “entering the marketplace of community.” Immediately, the invitee begins to appraise the cumulative value of that thing. The follow-up questions range from somewhat normal to downright rude: “Who else is coming?” “How late can I show up?” “Will there be nasheeds?” “Is someone giving a talk?” “Where are you getting food from?” Aside from this initial appraisal, though, another thing happens: They compare your invitation with another value proposition that also exists for them that night. They tell you, “Oh, I actually have something else that night, but let’s see.”
Let’s see? An uncharitable interpretation of this is, “Let me think about whether I want to flake on that commitment or decide that it will be more enjoyable than what you have offered.” Or, as they decide they’ve gotten maximum utility out of their first event, they will also text you from that event, asking, “What’s the scene over there right now? Is it still worth coming?” as they look to maximize their yield for the night.
Another archetype I have been meeting more and more is the “fence-sitter.” This is a person we ensure to include and invite—and, importantly, does not actually have any alternative commitments at all—but will give an answer along the lines of, “Let me see how I am feeling on that day.” In the marketplace of community, this often amounts to “I am not ready to make a purchase right now, so let me see if something better comes on the market before your event.” Alternatively, the invitee may be considering whether they would prefer the convenience of staying home and bedrotting or doomscrolling in lieu of expending time and energy on other people. Regardless, this noncommittal attitude is quite hurtful to a host or a friend who is opening the door of friendship to you. In my experience, it is far more polite and less hurtful to simply be an adult and have the ability to say, “No, I am not able to make it to the event, but thank you for the invitation.”
Of course, we are not entitled to anyone else’s free time, and my contention is not about committing to every invitation regardless of availability. People have difficulties and priorities—including caring for children and elders—unbeknownst to us. But a person should also have the courtesy and the decency to commit to an answer, and to follow through. Otherwise, the invitee may communicate disinterest or ingratitude, potentially withering away a potential bond with a person who generously extended a hand of friendship.
In the case of follow-through, another curious character is the “event critic.” One friend recently described to me the new phenomenon of getting Google review-style feedback after the fact from guests, including on what activities were included, who was invited, and on the coffee and food that the host served. In my view, this crosses the line from sincere counsel to rude, unsolicited criticism.
Market Dynamics: From People to Commodities
The paradox of the marketplace of community is, of course, that community is not built on a scaffold of transactional interactions and relationships. People who operate this way reject the opportunity to cultivate enduring, meaningful relationships with others in favor of the quickest, most convenient value proposition in the moment, relegating themselves to scurrying alone from one cheap carnival ride with the shortest line to another in perpetuity, failing to ever enjoy the sunset atop a Ferris wheel seated next to someone they love.
Over time, the quick dopamine hits fade, and the pattern further entrenches people in their loneliness and has deleterious effects on both individuals and families. In a healthy community, people are getting what they need from more than just spouses or their parents; their needs are also taken care of by an ecosystem of spiritual mentors, neighbors, trusted friends, and even well-intentioned strangers, all of whom have a variety of gifts and needs. As this ecosystem is eroded by atomization of relationships, all of these needs and functions may be externalized onto the relationship between husband and wife, which can easily become strained. The negative externalities of this then spill over onto children, parents, and friends.
On an individual level, a person approaches their community as a marketplace necessarily privileges people they perceive to have “talent” or “value” over people with needs, or even people with good character. They begin to see their interactions with other people as useful only if they can get something out of the other person. When it is adopted by a broader group, the community then begins to function like a marketplace as well, privileging the haves over the have-nots, instead of being the means by which people take care of one another and engage in the process of self-rectification and transformation.
This consumer approach is also what leads to “event hopping” and often remaining uncommitted to some level of longitudinal dedication to a program of spiritual benefit. An excellent example of this is the person who spends all of Ramadan masjid-hopping and event-hunting, failing to ever connect with a true friend or teacher, only to find that he feels worn down, unfulfilled, and lonely. It works in the other direction, as well. Community organizers, leaders, and speakers may be less likely to put their feet in the ground and build in one place, instead engaging in a never-ending series of boom-or-bust projects and one-off events. The result is a community where everyone—from top to bottom—is unmoored from the anchor of collective purpose, and as a result, is unable to function collaboratively and longitudinally.
This systemic unmooring has a profoundly damaging effect on people, churning an inward sludge of anxiety and insecurity in those who are simply trying to find a place of belonging amongst others. A bleak outcome of this is that people, in their need for a salve to their loneliness, are compelled to signal to others that they have something to offer them in order to get a seat at the community table. In time, community just becomes an elaborate commercial performance of value-signaling and value-exchange. I will never forget a conversation I had with a wonderful brother who began attending our community gatherings in Philadelphia. He eventually pulled me aside and asked, sheepishly: “I really spiritually benefit from coming to these gatherings. But I don’t bring anything, and I’m not able to host something like this in my apartment. Is it still okay that I come?” I was terribly embarrassed that he even had to ask. Consider the next step: In another instance, a friend came to a series of gatherings, seemingly had a delightful time, and then abruptly disappeared for some time. When I called him and asked him why he stopped coming, he said, “I just feel like I don’t deserve to be there.” Where the first brother needlessly asked for permission, the second simply exiled himself altogether.
In our communities, chock full of broken and down-trodden people, this internal bookkeeping becomes a vicious cycle. People often lament their lack of a village when they are faced with difficulty. While this may be an issue of lack of community support, it is this transactional mindset that also ultimately poisons our ability to seek help during times of hardship, although there are people who would be thrilled to lend a hand. Even when we recognize a need for support, we often hesitate to ask, fearing the accrual of a “debt of favors” we will be unable to pay back. Having been conditioned to believe that goodness is only extended to those who can reciprocate, we suffer in silence rather than communicate our needs. This is a communal tragedy; it not only deprives us of the help we need but also deprives others of the opportunity to do something good. It is the breakdown of the community ecosystem.
Beyond the Point of Sale: Reclaiming the Village
The need of the hour is for people to exit the marketplace altogether and to see the world beyond its material context. God has created us amongst others in community, and the Prophet ﷺ has shown us the best example of how to deal with one another. We should not see other people as opportunities for us to extract value or labor. Fulfilling and nourishing relationships require love, service, and forgiveness, all of which demand that we learn to endure the full range of the human experience including friction, boredom, hurt feelings, and sacrifice.
The cultivation of healthy relationships and community demands that we spend from ourselves, and not necessarily from our wealth. It entails checking in on others and visiting them when they are sick. It entails that we forgo something enjoyable so that we can fulfill the need of someone in difficulty, and likewise that we have the humility to ask for help when we need it. It entails that we speak up when we’ve been hurt, and that others can do the same with us. And then, it means that we forgive one another.
I have seen at times that people describe inconvenience as the price we pay for partaking in community. I disagree, as this returns to the language of transacting. Transacting is what leads us to reduce our interactions with others to their mechanistic components. We settle for a phone call when we could visit a sick friend, or pay for a guest’s rideshare when we were free to pick them up from the airport. After all, the job got done, right?
A consumer’s perspective begins and ends at the point of sale. A villager, by contrast, endures the natural rhythms of communal life: the inevitable vicissitudes of relationships, the expansions and contractions of provision, and the coexistence of new joys with old frustrations. Instead of reducing human connection to a commercial transaction, we must pour ourselves into our relationships wisely over time and context—and without internal bookkeeping—to build the foundation upon which an abiding, enriching community stands.
Viewing our interpersonal interactions in community as a series of material exchanges not only limits the box of what we are capable of achieving, but it is a gross distortion of our reality. The one who devotes two hours of his time to cook food and deliver it to a person in need has not simply exchanged two hours of labor for the anticipated material goodwill of the recipient. In fact, his free time was a provision from God, his food and ability to cook were a provision from God, his ability to reach his destination was a provision from God, and the opportunity to serve another person itself was a provision from God. In truth, he owns nothing, and is transacting with nothing of his own. There is no box to limit at all.
As villagers in the dominion of God, we thus see everything as being owned and governed by Him. We seek to uphold each other’s rights and treat each other with beautiful conduct, such that we become the means by which God dispenses His boundless blessing on this earth. Whether we see the fruits of this labor in this life, or whether we receive in return everything we give out, is irrelevant. We may see some good of it here. We hope to see a far greater measure of it in the next life from the One Most Worthy of Giving.
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