Tuesdays With Morrie

Last year I taught a high school English course.  As much as possible, I try to familiarize myself with all the books that are part of a school’s curriculum.  One of them was Tuesdays With Morrie by journalist Mitch Albom.  First published in 1997, this NY Times bestseller enjoyed something of a resurgence with the release of a 25th anniversary edition that was accompanied by television interviews with the author.  A work of nonfiction, Tuesdays centers around the close relationship between the author and Morris Schwartz, one of his professors at Brandeis University in Massachusetts.  (I recently learned that there was even a film version starring the late Jack Lemmon.)  Though it wasn’t a book assigned to my class, I took the time to read it and offer some thoughts.

Young Albom initially finds his diminutive, elderly teacher rather quirky, but the two quickly form a bond that extends beyond the classroom.  They begin meeting for lunch, typically on Tuesdays, and engage in all manner of discussion about life and the future.  Schwartz, affectionately addressed by Albom as “Coach,” tries to impress upon his young charge that the pursuit of material things should not be the primary driving force in life.  This brought to mind the recent graduation commencement speech by Harrison Butker, in which he advised young Catholics to base their geographics not so much on where lucrative jobs are to be found, but rather on where Catholic communities are solid.

Albom admits that the seeds his mentor tried to sow did not take root.  Shortly after college graduation, young Mitch would find himself in hot pursuit of the American dream of money, fame and success, unencumbered by the inconveniences of family and children.  As the years go by, Albom becomes too immersed in his life of achievement and acquisition to make time for things like getting in touch with his beloved former professor.

Skip ahead sixteen years.  Albom is watching television and happens to catch a Nightline interview with a man who is dying of ALS (Lou Gehrig’s Disease).  The frail old man on the screen is none other than Morris Schwartz.  Overcome with emotion and a degree of guilt, Albom decides to make the trip from his home in Detroit to Massachusetts.  What follows is a series of visits and conversations, once again taking place on Tuesdays, between a dying old man and a younger man who is questioning life’s ultimate meaning.

The Briefcase

Early in the book, Albom recalls the time he had given Professor Schwartz the gift of a briefcase on graduation day.  Some years ago, I had a good friend and colleague who had once taught history at a public high school.  When his students learned that he attended the traditional Latin Mass, they were curious.  Knowing that discussion of religion in the classroom could be potentially problematic, he struck a deal with the students.  Though he would not “preach,” he would answer any specific questions they might have.  (The reality, of course, is that no serious study of Western civilization can be made without a fundamental understanding of religion in general, and Catholicism in particular.)  To the chagrin of several administrators and parents, some of the students in that class ended up becoming converts to the Faith.  One of them even became a nun.  The girl's mother, who was initially very upset by her daughter's decision, would eventually herself become a convert.  The students of that class at the end of the year presented my friend with a new briefcase to replace the well worn one he'd been toting around campus.

One of the endearing qualities of Tuesdays is its highlighting of the impact certain teachers can have in our young and formative years.  In high school, I was identified as a student who was "gifted but unmotivated."  (I concur that at least the latter was true.)  A small group of us were placed in a class called “Advanced Studies,” the purpose of which was to challenge and direct us toward better applying our talents.  The teacher, who was also my German teacher, became a real advocate, friend, and mentor to us all.  Some thirty years later, members of the class paid this gentleman a visit at his home on the Jersey shore.  Though I was unable to attend, I did send Mr. T. a six-page handwritten letter in which I expressed my gratitude for all he had done for us.

As an educator for over twenty years, I know that the teaching profession can often be a seemingly thankless one.  It is, however, incredibly touching when students, years after graduation, will reach out to tell me that something from one of my courses had an impact on their lives.  One student, after taking my Japanese class, was inspired to land a job in Japan.  He called me recently to tell me he'd proposed to his girlfriend at the top of Mt. Fuji.  Another student wrote to me that reading C.S. Lewis’s The Screwtape Letters in my Theology class led her to return to regular reception of the sacraments.  Things like that help to restore my hope of one day seeing the Beatific Vision.

For you visited me when I was sick.

Tuesdays is a story of someone who visits a dying man.  This got me thinking about Our Lord's command to visit those who are sick.  It may be safe to say that most of us would take the time to visit close friends or relatives who might find themselves in the hospital for whatever reason.  Maybe we'd even be so kind as to check in on an ill neighbor.  (I'm not even sure how often that sort of thing happens anymore.)  But what about visitation beyond the realm of exceptional circumstances?  Owing to our fallen nature, we are all, in varying ways and degrees, sick.  Strictly speaking, any time we pay someone a visit, we have the occasion to fulfill a divine mandate.

I have many childhood memories of visits to the homes of relatives, neighbors, and family friends, and just as many memories of those people visiting our home.  In my younger days, I found a certain joy in visiting and being instrumental in the formation of communal gatherings.  But as the years passed, I found myself becoming more withdrawn and reclusive.  Though I've often chalked this up to a generally introverted personality (and perhaps becoming jaded with time), I do sometimes wonder whether this failure to form and nurture bonds with my fellow human beings is perhaps an example of the parable of buried talents.  Tuesdays helped to at least partly reawaken my understanding of the importance of making the effort to be in the presence of those who need us (and those whom we need). 

Making Amends

Morrie, at one point, shares his thoughts on the subject of reconciliation.  He tells Mitch about a time when his wife had to undergo serious surgery.  One of Morrie’s closest friends, a fellow named Norman, never called to wish her well before the operation, or afterwards to see how things had gone.  Years later, when Norman reached out to apologize and make amends, Morrie refused to reconcile their friendship.  He would come to deeply regret his own hard-heartedness after learning that Norman had later died of cancer.  Mitch takes Morrie’s tale to heart, and rekindles his efforts to reconcile with his younger brother who has been living overseas and battling pancreatic cancer.

In my own life, I can say that few of my friendships have ended with explosive animosity or bitterness over some particular event.  If anything, more of my relationships have faded into obscurity on account of my failures to communicate or be physically present.  (I’m not entirely certain that the latter scenario is really any better than the former.)  There is one particular family member with whom I’ve had no contact for over six years, something that has been the source of much pain and sorrow.  Attempts at contact have been fruitless, and I often fear that I may never again see or hear from this person whom I love dearly.  I’ve had ample time to contemplate the mistakes of the past, and the realization that relationships don’t simply bear fruit by some automatic process.  Like a plant, they require much nurturing, all the more so when conditions are less than optimal.  Our Blessed Lord had a good deal to say on that subject, among other places in his many parables.

Where the teacher falls short

On the whole, the book’s title character is a likable one.  There is something about his willingness to candidly share his worldly experiences, as well as lingering deeper questions about life’s ultimate meaning, that seems to tap into a universal childlike quality.  But for all his years and ponderings, Morrie has got some very fundamental things wrong.  And, as is so often the case for so many, it has everything to do with his rejection of the one true faith.

Although raised in a Jewish family, Morrie admits to becoming an agnostic in his adulthood.  At the same time, he does take an interest in various world religions, including Buddhism.  At one point, he even refers to himself jokingly as a “Bu-Jew” (or something to that effect).  My Japanese grandmother was Buddist, which rather made sense given her background and upbringing.  In my own experience, Westerners who gravitate to Buddhism often  do so because it doesn’t demand very much.  (Or at least it is generally perceived that way.)  There is a certain ethereal vagueness that allows proclaimed practitioners to interpret things to their own liking.  (Sadly, the same could also be said today of far too many Catholics.) 

For many, the appropriation of eastern religion or philosophy may simply be something that is perceived as edgy or hip.  Some years ago, I had a student in Theology class who told me that he had abandoned Catholicism in favor of  Buddhism.  Genuinely curious, I asked him what prompted such a decision.  He told me that he had been drawn to the contemplative nature of the religion.  More specifically, he added that he enjoyed the practice of burning incense while chanting memorized prayers.  I had to restrain myself from laughing aloud at the irony.

Throughout Tuesdays, Morrie seeks to impart wisdom and life lessons to his former student.  Some of these lessons are good ones.  For example, Morrie emphasizes the importance of rejecting much of what the popular culture promotes.  That’s sound advice.  To be authentically Catholic has historically meant rejecting much of what the popular culture embraces, and embracing much of what it rejects.  This is certainly just as true today as it ever was.  Maybe truer.

However, Morrie, who denies the necessity of institutional religion, claims that a man must create his own “individualistic culture” based on things like “love, acceptance, and human goodness.”  The irony here is that Morrie fails to see that “individualism” is precisely what the popular culture claims to embrace.  Furthermore, the problem with the individualistic approach is that it begs the question, “How can we have a universal understanding of things like love, acceptance, and human goodness, when everyone is free to decide for himself what these things mean to him?”

The Hereafter

As Morrie’s illness progresses, the inevitability of his death becomes an impending reality.  He tells Mitch on more than one occasion that he does not fear dying because it is merely a natural part of life.  As an extended lesson, Morrie tries to convince Mitch that we need to detach ourselves from the negative things in life – anxiety, pain, regret, resentment, even fear of death.  There is some truth to this, insofar as we cannot allow ourselves to be consumed or overwhelmed by these aforementioned things.  There is, however, an important distinction between patiently bearing the crosses of this life, as opposed to detachment from them. 

We cannot judge the hearts of others, and I certainly can’t claim to read the mind of Morrie. However, with his every denial of fearing death, I got the sense that he was actually petrified.  This would stand to  reason considering he didn’t seem to have any belief in the afterlife that one might regard as tangible.  I have a dear atheist friend who, whenever someone complains about the ails of aging, loves to say, “Well, it’s better than the alternative!”  If we believe that oblivion is all that awaits us on the other side, then that statement would generally be true.

I recall recently seeing an interview with singer/songwriter Billy Joel.  He was talking about one of his songs, Lullabye, which he had written for his then very young daughter.  As Joel tells it, she had asked him what happens to us after we die.  As one who once identified himself as an “atheist Jew,” Joel responded  that we merely go on to live in the hearts and memories of those whose lives we had touched. This is a view similar to the one Morrie shares with Mitch – a view proposing that we “live on” through the love we create in this life.  It may sound nice in a Hallmark card sort of way, but what a very thin and insubstantial understanding when compared to what we know about the final things, the immortality of the soul, and the resurrection of the body.  As Catholics, we should fear death only insofar as it may visit us while we’re in a state of mortal sin.  (Advent is approaching. Get thee to the confessional.) 

On the whole

Tuesdays With Morrie is a well-written book.  It was an easy and enjoyable read.  But it’s also a very humanistic work, with little to offer in terms of profound insights or revelations.  If I were to use this book in a Catholic classroom, it could perhaps be a useful exercise in examining secular beliefs through a Catholic lens.  In reality, “a Catholic lens” might be better described as the removal of impediments from the eyes of the mind, allowing us to see things for what they actually are.  Sadly, Morris Schwartz did not enjoy such clarity.