There was a time in my life, a special time, when people would meet in our home to talk to one another (it was the 1980s; if you ask me, I will tell you what we talked about then). We talked with one another, read articles, listened to recorded lectures and discussed them.
We do not meet like that anymore. Now we meet differently. In a hurry, preoccupied, lost and somehow sad. As if we lacked the light, love and culture that flow from great minds, prayerfully contemplated wisdom and inner joy.
And we constantly hear—and even repeat ourselves—that there are no authorities today, that there is no one to trust or take as an example.
Such opinions are not worth listening to. They are not worth it, because time is precious. It is better to look around you. And in books.
By sharing what I have read, I will mention only two texts (let us not be misled by their titles; their content is also relevant for the post-holiday period). They are Stefan Kisielewski’s “Columns for Christmas” (Res Publica, 1987) and “Memoirs” by Fr. J. Bocheński (1994).
Leafing through “Kisiel,” I draw attention to the titles of his Christmas columns: “Gloomy Holidays – 1947; An Egocentric’s Christmas Eve – 1957; A Political Christmas Eve – 1958; A Tired Know-it-all’s Christmas Eve – 1961; Polish Christmas Eve, or Among Dear Friends – 1964.” I read the 1947 column attentively, then come across it in the Christmas edition of “Gazeta Wyborcza,” and what was it that caught not only my attention? “Gloomy Holidays” is a column that seems to have been written for us, living 48 years later. What does “Kisiel” write about? About pessimism, about humour, about so-called creative and conscious humour—not about the coarse guffaw with which ever more Poles are roaring. About how to be strong, and that humour is the only form of pathos available to a strong person, and that only humour can save our wounded society. Listen:
“Contrariness and pessimism (...) do not allow us to sink into the blissful slumber of illusory optimism (...) Not to sleep, but to move forward, to fight, and above all to understand and see—these are the lessons that can be drawn from the creative school of optimism, the only one that gives a person true resilience and—I will risk saying it—humour; humour, in turn, is an essential sign of inner strength, self-control and dignity.”
“Let us learn humour; humour is refreshing—enough of whining over the nation’s fate (...)”
But what kind of humour does Kisiel mean, since “he looks in amazement at others who live as if nothing had happened, who laugh?”
“... I was thinking of creative and conscious humour (...) humour that does not avert its eyes from the most terrible things, that can carry us safely through the abyss of humiliation and sacrifice and through the purgatory of self-criticism.”
This is the kind of humour—conscious, creative humour—that the famous columnist wishes for us.
To conclude, I will quote another author. Here is an event described by Fr. J. Bocheński (“Memoirs,” 1994):
“A shoemaker leaves the monastic cell of the seriously ill Fr. J. Woroniecki. ‘And what is the shoemaker doing here?’ asks the monk entering. Fr. J. Woroniecki: ‘Well, he is dressing my wounds...’ Monk: ‘A shoemaker?! I see that Father has not lost his sense of humour...’
Fr. J. Woroniecki: ‘One may lose everything, only not one’s sense of humour. One may even lose honour, but not humour!’
Monk: ‘What are you saying, Father?! Why?!’
Fr. J. Woroniecki: ‘Because, dear Father, honour is a virtue subordinate to the virtue of strength (...) whereas humour and joy are, according to St Paul, the fruit of love, a virtue incomparably higher.’