We are now a second Sunday into Lent, a time by which great masses of faithful Catholic and other Christian observers should be seriously depressing the revenues of all the supermarkets and mall outlets, while the money they’ve saved piles up in the coffers of various charitable institutions.
This at least is the theory. In practice, I have never seen a statistical demonstration that Lent makes any difference at all.
Which is strange, because, according to statistics—and as a friend always reminds, “74.9 per cent of statistics are made up on the spot”—a very considerable proportion of the people identify themselves as Christians, not a few of them Catholic. That these figures mean little or nothing, I have long since observed. Verily, there are few statistics that can tell us anything that was not obvious to begin with, unless they tell us something that is a lie, or (in 12.7 per cent of cases), a damned lie.
Statistics for church attendance may mean something: for they are at least a measure of tangible, warm bodies.
Statistics on what people believe, including what they believe about themselves, are, to my sometimes errant mind, only good for laughs.
Sometimes, a deeper and more knowing belly laugh when you see which beliefs go together.
Not that I’m accusing anyone of hypocrisy. It is nearly pointless to do that, since the great majority of people (98.6 per cent) are hypocritical as a way of life. Take me, for example. There is a little muted alarm mounted just behind my right ear that blazes “Hypocrite! Hypocrite!” more than once a day—and to which I respond about as quickly as to fire drills. Out of self-preservative bluster, I imagine myself less hypocritical than the average, and console myself with the wonderful thought that “I am not a saint.” We will see how well this consolation holds up.
Rather, I am accusing people of a particularly raw and obnoxious form of hypocrisy, in which their behaviour is in open conflict with their own “ideals,” such as they are.
There are two ways of fixing this, that I can enumerate. One is by adjusting the behaviour, and the other is by adjusting the ideals. And in most cases (83.5 per cent) it would make more sense to remain a hypocrite than adjust the ideals.
Who wants to tell a pollster that his belief structure consists of living in as much squalid luxury as possible, so far as that is consistent with avoiding effort and pain?
And yet, that would seem to be the organizing, “utilitarian” principle that explains everything from the average honest résumé to voting patterns.
It is “the greatest happiness for the greatest number,” honed (because the ideal is meaningless as stated) by replacing “the greatest number” with “me.”
In lives devoted to making oneself happy, one would expect that happiness would frequently be achieved. It should in any event be claimed, as the human ego surely requires success in something.
Why are people so unhappy, then? And the answer is (according to numerous polls), they’re not. At least, not on their own terms, whatever those may be.
Further shocking results include (from a Google-based survey of international happiness polls) that people with more money are relatively happier than people with less; the jobbed are happier than the jobless; the well are happier than the sick; those who live in stable families are happier than those who don’t; and eating makes people happy.
So does religion, especially among the young, according to an AP/MTV poll from the year before last, among the few to test for such things. The stronger the religious belief, the happier the young person. But what can this mean?
I was struck by quotes from such as a 21-year-old ballet dancer in Chicago, who explained what made her happy. “Just going to church and everything. … It’s very calming, and everyone is nice.” I cannot read such statements without remembering Christ on the Cross.
Arguments do not make people happy, though I can find no statistical corroboration for this. I might even go so far as to aver that most people cannot hear an argument, but respond only to tone, the way dogs do, although of course with a human sophistication. To argue, especially with oneself, requires effort, even pain. It is a Lenten sort of activity; and beyond that, it is a real and present danger to one’s immediate contentment—to happiness in the sense of smug self-satisfaction.
Which leads, holus-bolus, to the question: Of what might a deeper happiness consist?
According to the best minds (unpolled), the deepest happiness “does not lie in having this or that, but in the discovery of the meaning of existence and in communion with the absolute. Sadness lies in disharmony.”
I have lifted this exemplary soundbite from Jean Daniélou (Scandaleuse Vérité, 1961), and from the course of his non-puritanical argument that real human happiness lies concealed in the union of duty with truth, and real pleasure in the fulfilment of duty. The shallowest happiness is thus a foretaste of the deepest.
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