In his masterful novel, East of Eden, John Steinbeck raises a dead-serious philosophical question about picnics: “Nobody knows why you go to a picnic to be uncomfortable when it is so easy and pleasant to eat at home.” I believe he’s right to get philosophical about picnics. In fact, I’ve asked myself this question, perhaps subconsciously, every time my family attempts to picnic.
Everything about a picnic is hard for us. For one, we’re trying to feed ten people. To pack that much food in a reasonable number of coolers and plates is a feat. To remember silverware is icing on the cake. I also have to fill and pack all the water bottles. When I was growing up, we didn’t drink water. Water was only good for making Kool Aid. It was that tertiary ingredient that came after the heaping cup of sugar and the magical flavor packet. Water matters more these days. To ensure consumption everyone has over-sized, over-engineered metallic water bottles that can bludgeon attackers if things get rough at the park. We drive to a nearby park and unload all the food it took an hour to load, sit at a broken-down table covered with daddy long legs, and put food on plates for the flies and yellowjackets. The kids complain about cookies, get distracted, and run away. I sit there, stunned, silent, and dismayed, staring at my wife and she at me. Eventually, our two-year-old runs to us with her crooked stride, one-arm-swinging and golden curls bouncing in the yellow-orange sunlight. She stammers something about a bird on the slide. Hearing the wonder in her voice makes it all worth it, and she scampers away.
After about a thousand attempts to coax the kids to “just eat something…anything” and a kid’s bloodied knee, I throw in the towel. Soggy plates in the garbage can. Leftovers loaded. Water bottles refilled. After thirty minutes of corralling kids, we go home and eat.
Nobody knows why we do this uncomfortable thing when it would have been so easy to eat at home, Steinbeck observes. Still, we do it. And, you know what? I’m glad we do. It makes me feel my humanity. It helps me to appreciate our common humanity.
I was thinking about all of this after the Stella Maris Family Picnic. (A very typical parish picnic.) That picnic is important. Sure, it’s a lot of work. A lot of people have to do a lot of work to make that encounter-between-people happen. Really, everyone’s invited to pitch in and bring a side or a dessert. (We had far too many desserts, so something went wrong there.) It’s also important because of all the friendly and awkward encounters you have. Meeting new people is often awkward, because most all of us are awkward in our own way and nothing brings that out like meeting new people. And all of this is important because it’s part of being human, becoming aware of ourselves, and others.
I’m convinced Pope Leo thinks it’s important too and he must have had picnics in mind when he wrote these lines in his recent encyclical:
In the era of artificial intelligence, when human dignity is threatened by new forms of dehumanization, ours is the pressing duty to remain profoundly human. We must lovingly safeguard the grandeur of humanity bestowed upon us and revealed in its fullness in Christ, the splendor of which no machine can ever replace. (Magnifica Humanitas, §15)
AI doesn’t do picnics because — despite numerous capabilities and advantages — AI doesn’t appreciate anything. AI can’t appreciate because it can’t recognize. Only humans, made in God’s image and likeness, can recognize (that is, re-think what God has already thought) and appreciate. Only humans can cook up such a ridiculous idea as picnics and fall for it over and over again — because the ascetical practice of picnicking breaks through the monotony of life and helps us recognize and appreciate. Picnics help us recognize and appreciate each other, food, the world that brought it forth, and God who ultimately gave it. In the weirdest way, they safeguard the grandeur of our humanity by helping us feel our limitations and dependence. Said another way, they safeguard our humanity by humbling us.
So often today our experiences are buffered, numbed, or distracted by technology. They are dehumanized and underappreciated. We forget what it means to be human and the grandeur of the other who isn’t merely an image on a screen but the image and likeness of God. The lowliness of picnics help us remember and awaken our appreciation for the heights to which we are called.
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