From the Salmon

This is the third of three in a set of posts looking at characteristics of transformational conversations that point to reconciliation. The first post gave more context and looked at truthfulness, while the second post looked at openness. If you want even more context, check out two earlier posts exploring the pitfalls and possibilities of conversation in this interactive medium. And by all means, feel free to join in.

The first two characteristics we looked at, truthfulness and openness, are important if we are to pursue conversations that reconcile instead of divide. Yet neither is sufficient on its own. Truth can be as much a weapon as it can be a destination, and openness can easily become smothering. That’s why this final characteristic is so vital to ensuring that our otherwise well-intentioned interactions don’t completely miss the mark.

Humility

Earlier, I said that I thought we could turn discussions or even debates into journeys towards truth. In order for that to be possible, we first need to admit that we seek truth, we do not hold truth. Not completely, anyhow. Not even close. At best, we ”know in part” or ”see through a glass, darkly.”

Most importantly, as truth seekers we have to admit the possibility that we may be wrong. And in this medium, that can be harder than it looks.

Kristen wrote a post months ago that has stuck with me. I’m going to quote a whole bunch of it, because she states the point I’d like to make so beautifully. Kristen starts by talking about a conversation with a friend:

But at one point, one of the friends made the comment, “Of course I think I’m right. I believe what I believe because I think it’s correct. Everyone thinks their own opinion is right, or they would not believe it.”

Well, that’s certainly true up to a point. But much can be said for the way you hold those “right” beliefs. Much can be learned from the way we talk about and act on our beliefs.

I hold many of my beliefs loosely. I used to be so steadfast and certain about what I believed. Now, when I think back on the arrogant way I assumed I had it all figured out, it makes me blush. I guess that makes me a little more humble lately. Most of the time, it makes me want to listen to people really carefully, listen more than I talk, and ask more questions than I make dogmatic assertions.

Even as I hold my opinions that I believe are “right”, I still know that I have so much to learn. I hold my opinions lightly, knowing that I may change my mind a few years down the road.

I think it’s more important to treat people with love than it is to hold the right answers. I do know that I will always try to fall on the side of mercy and grace rather than judgment. I hope God will too, for my own sake at the very least.

Holding our beliefs loosely encourages us to listen, to love, and to look for opportunities to learn. Holding our beliefs loosely allows us to meet each other on a journey, rather than me imposing the journey on you as I stand rigidly on what I think is truth.

This last point is critical to the very idea that conversation can be redemptive. I opened this discussion with N.T. Wright’s declaration that believing in the resurrection means that “we’ve got a job to do.” As inspirational as I find those words to be, I think we need to be very careful with this. In our conversations, I think that Christians need to guard against the idea that we have what others need. Not that the life, death and ideas of that crucified peasant don’t have the power to transform lives. I have every hope that they do. But, to put it bluntly, I’m afraid that many Christians don’t realize just how arrogant that attitude can be.

If we are to seek transformative conversation, then it can’t come from this place of arrogance. As Heidi said in a recent ripple, it begins “in our own hearts when we’re willing to be vulnerable and open and admit we don’t know everything.” If we are to make a place in our own identity for others, it must come from a place of brokenness. It requires that we pray Mother Teresa’s prayer: “May God break my heart so completely that the whole world falls in.” And as David James Duncan points out, that might mean making room for zealots. And Samaritans. And even (gasp!) people who espouse Intelligent Design.

One last thing. I don’t think this means that we cannot write passionately or boldly. I don’t think this means that when we are challenged, we cannot defend our ideas. I think that humility allows for us to challenge each other. But it has a lot to say about how we do so. There’s a difference between being passionate and being dogmatic. There’s a difference between being bold and being blindly arrogant. And there’s a difference between defending and being defensive.

And now...

Well, now it’s your turn. Those of you who have been waiting to weigh in until I finished the series, feel free to speak up.

In an early ripple, Brandon asked a few questions that might be a good place to start:

What does renewal look like? Does it mean communication that is persuasive? That is, is transformational communication right because it gets people to agree? I suspect your answer to that will be no. But, then, what does it mean to “bridge the gap"�

What say you?

I’ve been pretty focused this week on my posts about conversation and reconciliation. And so I haven’t really taken the time to process everything that has happened in the aftermath of this week’s disaster. I’m still a little shellshocked by it all. It’s hard to wrap my brain around the fact that this is happening in the United States. I’ve been close to tears most of the day.

Even if I don’t have much to offer, others do. I’d like to point you to a few posts that I have found particularly thought-provoking or moving recently.

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Rick at A New Life Emerging is about where I’m at:

So I sent my check, now what?

Do I go back to bitching about traffic here in the Bay Area?

As I sit and watch I feel powerless and helpless to help the helpless and powerless. I pray.

Something seems wrong, really wrong. I feel angry.

Imagine what it is like to be there.

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Zossima at Forgetting Ourselves points us in the right direction:

My request of all of us is several-fold: First, grieve. True compassion is rooted in understanding. It arises from stepping into another’s shoes. And the truly compassionate rise above finger-pointing and the temptation to exploit victims for politcal gain. Second, help the people who are suffering right now. Third, seek the truth, not evidence to bolster your chosen beliefs. Why did the levee break? Why aren’t there massive airlifts of Evian trucks into the heart of New Orleans, Biloxi, and Mobile? Seek the truth regardless of how it affects your political party of choice. Fourth, be willing to ask the tough questions, including, “Why are all those people down there black"� What role have we had in creating conditions in our wealthy country where certain races and classes of people are more at risk from a natural disaster than others?

Where you live should not decide
Whether you live or whether you die
—Bono, “Crumbs from Your Table”

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Publius at Legal Fiction watches the heart-breaking video footage:

Katrina has also, for the moment anyway, pried open our eyes — Clockwork Orange-style — and forced us to gaze upon the human face of poverty. The invisible statistics have materialized into visible breathing people wasting away at the New Orleans Convention Center. On this issue of poverty, Brown said something that I found very revealing on Nightline. He said that part of the problem was that FEMA was not expecting so many people to have remained in the city. After the hurricane passed, thousands suddenly appeared out of the woodwork so to speak and no one knew they were there. But these people have always been there — they were just invisible to most of us (myself included). But when you do see (when you are forced to see) the scale and magnitude of the poverty in New Orleans, it makes you wonder why the richest nation in the history of the planet Earth would allow so many to live in such squalid conditions. And you wonder what exactly that says about our values.

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Caleb at Mode for Caleb looks at technological progress and our ideas of what we “ought” to do and what we “can” do and states that all of us who can, ought to give:

But the basic premise--that our sense about what we are capable of affects our sense about what we are culpable for, and vice versa--is difficult to dispute. And undoubtedly, we can do more today to help distant, suffering strangers, without even getting up from our chairs or opening a new browser window, than previous generations could. So we ought to do at least some of what we can. Sure, you can point out that your dollars might not go directly to the person you just saw on CNN, that waste or greed or ineptitude might waylay your alms. But are we really prepared to argue that this absolves us of giving, considering how little twenty dollars costs us compared to how much it could do? (If you are prepared to argue that, read this and get back to me.)

The weight of these arguments all bear heavily on my mind and heart. But there’s another side of Haskell’s argument about the ability of technology to change our “moral universe.” The fact is that the same technology that shrinks that moral universe, and makes it possible for us to do more, literally at the click of a button, also makes us more aware of all the suffering strangers there are to help. So much suffering in so many places at the same time. So much suffering. So much suffering. So much suffering. The technology that makes it possible for us to care for more distant strangers does not necessarily leave us feeling empowered; it can, at the same time, make us feel more powerless.

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Catholic Girl at Bad Catholic points out that we need to let other countries help us in our time of need:

When this story came across today, I almost wanted to cry. El Salvador, Honduras and the Dominican Republic want to send help. They want to do what they can, even though you might think they’ve got enough problems of their own and would leave us to fend for ourselves. They want to give what they have. Amazing. Canada, Germany, France, Russia—all nations that have taken a lot of derision in recent years from half of the U.S. because they didn’t like our war. They want to help. Jamaica. Japan. China. Belgium. Venezuela!

Yeah, there’s often political posturing involved in offers of aid. No doubt there’s some here too, at least in some quarters. But there’s also political posturing involved in its refusal—and of course Bush said we didn’t need their help because goddammit, we’re Americans and we bleed red, white and blue and we don’t need foreigners meddling in our disasters. The State Department quashed that attitude pretty quickly, it sounds like. Good.

Because you know what? Even if we don’t technically need the help, we need to let people help us. We need to lean on those who want to hold us up. It is touching that they care. And people do, even if governments don’t. They love their neighbors. That’s how love changes the world. That’s what Jesus would do. I really believe that.

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Tim at Anabaptist Monk says that these are our people:

Why do we romantize the poor when Jesus speaks of them? Do we picture them as these humble, unassuming victims of the system who after receiving some compassion and human touch from us would be able to pull themselves up and live productive, contributive lives? For any who make an attempt at connecting with poor people in America, you know that it can often be a frustrating endeavor. Rewarding, but often frustrating.

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These are our poor. It’s harder to romanticize them. They are poor for a variety of reasons that we cannot begin to solve right now. But we need to help them because they are human and so are we. And if that isn’t enough of a reason, then we need to do it because Jesus said they are more highly valued than we are. Strange as it may seem, this is the upside down logic of the Kingdom of God. If we are God’s people, then these are our people. We need to go get them.