The Least Common Denominator

Imagine a stadium full of people.

What is necessary for 80,000 people to be gathered in one place? The answer is, "Any number of things," ranging from teams to talents to trucks and televisions. Let us further consider the unites this group of people together. Do they all share the same background? Certainly not. Do they share the same birthday? One would imagine not, although it would be quite the feat. Do they share the same interests? Perhaps, but maybe just the one that brought them to the stadium. Put simply, the larger the crowd, the smaller the least common denominator that unites them.

This thought experiment leads to an upside-down thesis. If you should wish to shrink your world, go to a stadium. If you wish to expand your world, talk to the person sitting next to you. We are tempted to think that big crowds and movements of millions are social mountains. That is simply not the case. To turn to your neighbor at a concert and ask an inviting question may expand your world more than the band's entire discography. A Christian theist would argue this is because your neighbor is made in the image of God. An eastern mystic might argue it is because your neighbor has a whole cosmos inside of them. I prefer the former, if for no other reason than experience showing that people are the opposite of the cosmos, for a cosmos is mostly vacuum with scattered matter, while a person matters much and is only slightly vacuous.

G.K. Chesterton once wrote of a man fleeing his home street,

"He goes to the fantastic borders of the earth. He pretends to shoot tigers. He almost rides on a camel. And in all this he is still essentially fleeing from the street in which he was born; and of this flight he is always ready with his own explanation. He says he is feeling from his street because it is dull; he is lying. He is really fleeing from his street because it is a great deal too exciting. It is exciting because it is exacting; it is exacting because it is alive."

- 'On Certain Modern Writers' -

Two observations from this hypothetical man are in order. First, the man may truly believe he is seeing a more expansive world. If this is the case, it is because he doesn't know himself. He seems to not know himself because he looks for abundance in the world to pour into himself. For if he did know himself, he would have an excess of life such that he could take interest in his neighbor. Second, spectacles are not sufficient for true life, substance, and romance. It seems to be the case that Chesterton saw in his hypothetical man the danger of the least common denominator: if we were this man, we would be trading the larger for the substantial.

It seems that in order to follow this logic, I must elaborate an unspoken middle premise. The numerous and the substantial are two different things. The numerous are the abstraction of the singular, and it is quite hard to find substance in an abstraction. I may find satisfaction participating in a crowd of 80,000 fans. But, I will find a mysterious substance in my neighbor's answer to the question, "What is your favorite smell?" In their answer, a whole world expands before my eyes, even I miss out on the 79,998 fans watching a goal being scored.

Now, you might at this point accuse me of comparing apples to oranges, the mathematical to the relational. Indeed, the least common denominator is a mathematical term, and not intended for community. I could not agree more! The problem is, "Why are we ever more inclined to seek the numerous over the substantial? Why do I feel the draw to participate in grand movements online and avoid eye contact with my neighbor?" It is not because we love the grand, but because we love the small. It is because we fear life just as much as we love it, for to love it well means to concede control. I can control what I tweet and what I eat, but I cannot control who moves in down the street.

We often seek the new because it is unknown. Yet, when I begin to know my new neighbor, I am confronted with the choice to reciprocate, to be known. To be known requires risk and trust, and it is there that the adventure truly begins. When Chesterton turned to the romance of life in the same essay, he observed, "The thing which keeps life romantic and full of fiery possibilities is the existence of these plain limitations which force all of us to meet the things we do not like or do not expect. It is vain for the supercilious moderns to talk of being in uncongenial surroundings. To be in a romance is to be in uncongenial surroundings. To be born into this earth is to be born into uncongenial surroundings, hence to be born into a romance." I can think of nothing more uncongenial and grand than to share in life with others, to risk knowing and being known by real people who can really see, affect, and challenge me in a way I cannot control.

Let us be clear: you have every reason to enjoy large groups, full stadiums, plenteous adventures, packed concerts and the like. But these experiences, however grand, are not life in its largest. If Chesterton is correct, then you will find substance in the neighbors in your household, on your street, or in your workplace. It is there that you will discover depth and density in life, and you will inevitably learn the hardest lesson of all: this task is impossible apart from grace.