The world belongs to those who show up.

In the midst of his long discussion on fertility and the role demographics play in our political and cultural evolution, Professor Regis Martin offers this tidbit about an Abbey in Utah. Invited to give a retreat to the monks, Martin was surprised to learn that the Abbey's spryest resident was a mere 70 years old. That is, within a generation, the Abbey and its way of life would be gone. This encounter with the "young" monk was the occasion for the following insight:

They all managed to pull through, of course, although I’ve since learned that the Abbey itself will not long survive, due to a lack of fresh blood with which to infuse an otherwise dying order.  And why is that?  Because, as I tried to say in the earlier piece on the looming demographic disaster that awaits us, the future belongs to the fertile.  It belongs to those who show up.  And whether it’s a monastery where no one seems willing to show up in order to risk everything for God, or a marriage bed whose mentality of not wanting life bespeaks the refusal to be generous, without at least some openness to life—the defining theme, no less, of love, of eros—there can only be death.  What else follows upon the extinction of love if not death?  A triumphant thantos is the fate that falls upon those who make no provision for the future.

Some say a demographic crisis is coming. That is, with so few young people and so many people living longer, society will no longer be able to sustain its way of life as it has known it. One underlying message of Martin’s observations is that this prediction, in fact, may not come true. There might be fewer people in the world, but we will still be producing and living in a way that keeps society going. Japan—despite its lost decade—still has managed to press on and thrive despite its population doom. Why is that?

Martin’s words are strangely comforting regardless of their particular context: It [the future] belongs to those who show up. The world largely lacks hope these days. The lack of hope manifests itself in apathy, but not necessarily as an indifference to condition of the world. The apathy comes largely in the form of resignation—perhaps even a fated determinism—that my life is the way it is and regardless of how I live it, the best I can do is cope well with it. Think the Gospel according to Joel Osteen.

That is not in any way showing up. When he says “show up,” my sense in Martin’s words is that he is saying more than, “Hey! I’m here!” It means being an active and determined participant. You hear it all the time in sports talk: You’ve got to decide to "show up" to the game if you want to win it. Make a choice to live life a certain way. In that sense to “show up” requires a great deal of discernment, that is, of thought about my life, my gifts and my place in society. I cannot simply wake up every morning and do what I always do, thinking, “Well that’s just how things are.” Indeed, we all have a choice—that is free will—that despite circumstances and seemingly predetermined paths, we can in fact choose something different.

The monastery is dying not because there is a decrease in the birthrate. It is dying because no one is showing up. That has little to do with the number of people in the world.

In the renewal of culture and politics, the conversation is often about politics and policies that will necessarily help families and institutions survive. For example, freedom is a condition for the free. However, that approach fails to grasp the deep existential question: Why would the free choose something better than that which they have already chosen for themselves? That is, rarely do our conversations about our political economy turn to questions of fundamental value, of comparing goods, and to inspiring others to pursue that which is right for them, given their place, talents, and abilities. Perhaps we don’t ask these questions because they are tough and personal; but when we don’t generate these conversations, we all tend to pursue the easiest path. In the first decade of this millennium, we saw a slew of bright minds enter investment bank, law and other lucrative professions; but the tendency to reflexively pursue more lucrative careers in turn puts off the starting of families. It results in undeveloped talents. It leads to monasteries (and other such institutions) dying.

We focus so much on material and personal development that we end up creating a vision that sees advancement as the grasping of opportunity.

The answer has to be the long vision. The answer has to be hope. Hope provides the imagination with the ideas and images of a life that can be lived better —or perhaps just differently, for starters—than it is now. With this hope comes a memory—yes, of the past or even of a future not yet lived. Neither is this memory simply nostalgia nor idealism, but the rumination of change-in-being that accords with our very lives.

Martin’s choice of the monastic example was key. Monks don’t become monks simply because “it is a better life”—they do it because they sense a calling. In a secular world, we might also call this destiny. Regardless of the word used, our culture has largely failed to impart to the young and the old alike a sense of personal purpose in our lives. We are called not to make marriages and friendships thrive in general, but to work to make our marriages and our friendships vibrant. The political and the cultural has to follow upon this reality, not vice-versa: We cannot sacrifice relational vibrancy to cultural-political notions.

It is our choice to “show up”—something that requires work. And, I think, a modicum of courage as well, because if we do not do that which is hard, then it might never be done. That certainly changes our conversation.

Mattias A. Caro is the Executive Editor of Ethika Politika.