The Dialogue Venture

Archive for the ‘Dialogue and Language’ Category

We’ve talked a lot about the need for precise language, in dialogue and out. Our dialogues could be so much more productive if we avoided sidetracking them with inflammatory or inaccurate words. Conversely, precise language gives us the best chance of conveying our ideas more clearly to people who might not share or be familiar with them. It is in the spirit of precision that I now wish you:

Happy Holidays.

Every year around this time, there’s a certain level of fuss about that phrase. “It’s the Christmas season, dammit!” goes the line of thought. “Jesus is the reason for the season! Why can’t we just say Merry Christmas?” Happy Holidays, to people who argue this way, is too vapid, too “politically correct,” to describe what December is really about.

I’ll admit that Happy Holidays is kind of vapid. Because of my faith tradition, Christmas is a treasured holy day for me. At church on Christmas Eve, I will be delighted to wish my fellow parishioners Merry Christmas.

Outside of church, though, it’s a different story. The U.S., where I live, is not predominantly Christian as it once was—not by a long shot. Millions of people here are Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, followers of no faith tradition, you name it. And often (as with Hanukkah) their holidays and festivals take place in December as well.

So when I encounter people at the store, or on the street, and I don’t know their faith orientation, Happy Holidays seems the best way to greet them with good cheer while respecting their beliefs about life. If I’m addressing a group—either physically present or virtually, as on Facebook—it’s usually a safe bet that someone in the group doesn’t celebrate Christmas. Happy Holidays is a way of showing respect to those people too.

This is a basic principle for dialogue. Without a perception of respect from their dialogue partner, few people would willingly share their convictions in dialogue. That showing of respect creates a welcoming place in which people feel free to express themselves without fear of recrimination.

So…to my Jewish friends, Happy Hanukkah. To my Christian friends, Merry Christmas. To all my friends, Happy Holidays.

If you scanned the headline quickly, you may have misread it. This is not about taboos in dialogue, like shouting epithets or characterizing anyone left-of-center as a socialist. No, this is about the game Taboo® from Hasbro—and a flight of fancy on a rainy Friday.

In case you’re unfamiliar with Taboo, it’s a party game for four or more players. The game comes with more than 1,000 cards; each card lists a main word and five related words. One player draws a card and, in a short time, tries to get the others to guess the main word. In doing so, however, the card holder cannot use any of the words on the card.

So imagine drawing the card for house and discovering that you can’t say house, home, mortgage, door, window, or family. Or any phrases with those words in them. If you’re a lover of words, it’s a great game.

What if we ran dialogues this way?

Let’s say the dialogue is about the economy. Republicans would articulate their beliefs in detail, but they can’t say socialism, big government, tax and spend, small business, or Obamacare. Democrats would do the same, but they can’t say party of no, middle class, top 1%, fat cat, or wingnut.

Hey, this could be fun.

More to the point, this little exercise might get us away from the loaded words and simplistic catchphrases that our elected officials typically toss at one another. More often than not, these words and phrases mischaracterize the issue, the other side, or both. Even worse, they lead us into thinking that the issues are simpler than they are.

In the game, the inability to use certain words forces the card holder to dig deeper, find new words, explain in more detail. A good deal of fumbling goes on, but every now and then you hear something ingenious—a way of looking at a word you’ve never noticed before.

I wonder whether that could happen in dialogue Taboo. Perhaps, in our search for new words and explanations, we might come across nuances in the issue that we hadn’t seen before. Maybe we would become more open to a range of possible solutions that couldn’t penetrate the sound bites.

Anyone game?

Last weekend I helped run a rabbit and cavy show. Though rabbits and cavies don’t speak my language per se, I did learn something about communication (and, by extension, dialogue) from the experience.

Over the past few years, the show’s organizers have done an outstanding job in making the show bigger, better, and friendlier to exhibitors. I have been continually impressed with their energy and good cheer. They needed all of it and more for this year’s show—because the usual location was smack in the middle of flood-ravaged upstate New York.

Not to be deterred, the organizers found an alternate location: same town, but now a hotel high on a hill. Still, there were many questions in the air, and on Facebook things were getting testy. Some exhibitors started to question the wisdom of moving forward with the show. (I was worried about it myself.) Others jumped in to disparage the questioning—and the questioners. Virtual voices were raised. People ascribed ulterior motives to those on the “other side” of the debate. I’m sure some relationships were damaged in the result.

I think that conversation could have gone differently. I wish I had acted differently.

For one thing, I wish the organizers had communicated specific answers to our questions. I believe that in many cases, people act from reasonable motives and assessments, so when I hear their reasons I can often go along with their decision. Even if I disagree with it, I at least understand and appreciate their logic. So perhaps more specifics from the organizers could have defused the Facebook kerfuffle and got us all pulling in the same direction.

But, of course, the organizers are not mind readers. They can’t anticipate every concern. So my part in the general conversation (the part I wish I had played differently, and the part any exhibitor could have played) was to ask the questions. Not inflammatory questions like “How can you possibly have the gall to hold a show when people are suffering?” or “Why are you putting our animals at risk?” but specific questions like “What do you know about conditions that we don’t know? Where can I get information about the roads? How wet is the hill where the outside portion of show is taking place? What can the hotel people tell us? What does the federal disaster area declaration mean for us?”

In a nutshell, here’s what I’ve learned: If you have information, share it. If you should have information (as an event planner, a leader, etc.), go get it and then share it. If you’re not privy to information, ask good questions. Whoever you are, assume good intent on the part of others until proven otherwise.

I think this goes for dialogue in general. Do you really know what the “other side” thinks about the issue at hand? If not, what questions can you ask that will help you understand their thinking? What can you share about your perspective that will help them understand you? Is someone in the dialogue missing key information or access to a respected source that could clear up misunderstanding?

Question for the day: Have you ever been in a dispute where one missing piece of information resolved the whole thing—or at least made it easier to understand where everyone was coming from? Please share your story here.

How do you engage in dialogue when your tongue is “set on fire by hell”?

The biblical letter of James says quite a bit about the power of speech, none of it good. With the tongue we bless and curse. In our speech is “a world of iniquity.” The tongue is “a restless evil, full of deadly poison.” Worst of all, according to the passage, no one can tame it.

Hyperbole? To an extent—though anyone who has suffered from the destructive power of gossip, slander, or insult can attest to the truth of these words. The question is, once we know how destructive our speech can be, what do we do about it?

After 35 years of studying the Bible, I thought I had the answer nailed. Our job as people of faith was to vet our speech carefully, think before we speak, remain silent when in doubt. It’s hard to argue with that advice: we do want to be precise in our language, so that we communicate our insights clearly and accurately and discuss sensitive issues with care.

But this solution, if it is the only solution, has serious flaws. Most notably, it is too easy to slide from careful speech to an attitude of fear. Aware of the issues our speech can raise, we begin to fear that we can’t get our words right, or that people will misinterpret them, or that they will inflame sensitivities on certain issues. As we distrust our tongue, we distrust ourselves. We might choose to hide ourselves within the bounds of “nice speech,” the kind that doesn’t bring up “politics and religion.”

That may get us through difficult situations without taking flak. But it prevents us from sharing our uniqueness—that one-of-a-kind perspective that just might change someone’s mind or shed new light on a problem.

I think the author of James had something else in mind. Early in the passage, he or she asserts that “anyone who makes no mistakes in speaking is perfect” while freely admitting that “all of us make many mistakes.” In other words, it would be lovely if we could conquer our tongues—but it ain’t going to happen.

So what will work? The author waits till the end to offer this hint: “Can a fig tree…yield olives, or a grapevine figs?” Translated: “out of the mouth the heart speaks.”  We can only say what we are.

The challenge, then, is to change who we are.

This is why I believe our preparation for dialogue must start long before we get to the dialogue table. We need time to change from the inside out: to reorient our heart to openness and compassion, our mindsets toward curiosity, our awareness to the fact that we don’t have all the answers. If we do that, we can approach others with an orientation toward dialogue—with a clear mind and an open heart.

Best of all, we don’t have to keep such a close watch on our speech. When we speak from a good heart, good words tend to come out.

Changing from the inside out is a long process, of course, and taking care with our language is a virtue. But inner transformation can liberate us to share freely, speak boldly, and listen intensely—to participate fully in dialogue and the potential it can bring our world. A powerful message from an ancient sage.

If you’ve read this blog for any length of time, you know how fanatical I am about precision in language. Our dialogues could be so much more productive—and efficient—if we avoided sidetracking them with inflammatory or inaccurate words. Conversely, precise language gives us the best chance of conveying our ideas more clearly to people who might not share or be familiar with them.

Sometimes, though, inflammatory and imprecise is the way to go—if we tell our dialogue partner what we’re doing.

Take conversations around loaded issues. Early in our marriage, like many newlyweds, my wife and I had a wealth of issues to talk through, from division of household chores to the future course of our life together. Some of these issues carried serious emotional weight, and it was nearly impossible to broach them without sparks flying. Ever try to parse your words with precision when the top of your head is about to blow off?

Before we could make any progress in the conversation, then, we had to relieve some of that emotional pressure. But we didn’t want to do it in a way that would hurt the other person.

So we learned to bracket our conversations with verbal cues. When one of us said, “OK, I’m going to vent,” the other knew that what followed would be emotional, possibly painful, and probably imprecise. It could well exaggerate or misrepresent the reality of the situation. But because the “venter” gave this advance notice, the “ventee” could hear the words that followed in the proper context—the context the venter specified—and thus not react emotionally. Often, the vent would calm us down, and we could focus on our language enough to work through the intricacies of the issue.

We also do this bracketing when precise language escapes us. As she describes the details of a real-life situation—especially if they involve numbers—my wife will say, “I’m making these details up.” Again, that verbal cue enables me to hear what she says next in the context she’s established, so I get her essential meaning. If precise details become important, we can fill them in later.

Why does this matter? Why not parse out our language no matter what? Perhaps that would work if we were just word automatons. But, being human, we’re far messier than that. The passion we feel on certain issues is inherent to who we are: the issues probably wouldn’t be issues if we weren’t passionate about them! Giving voice to these emotions not only calms us but also conveys the depth of our convictions. And when we’re honestly groping for specific words—something that happens with greater frequency as we get older—why let it disrupt an otherwise fruitful dialogue?

The key, again, is to tell our dialogue partners what we’re doing. These verbal cues enable us to telegraph how we’re communicating in any specific stage of the dialogue. They help our partners better understand our meaning. Therefore, they contribute to a richer, more productive dialogue.

This morning, to prepare for the upcoming annual convention of our Episcopal Diocese, I am pondering two resolutions on which we will vote. Because I have to suffer through this, so do you. (N.B.: There’s an important point at the end, and it goes way beyond The Episcopal Church. Still, if you’re short on time, skip to the boldface paragraph below.)

The two resolutions deal with the church’s trial courts, which come into play whenever a complaint is lodged against a priest or bishop. Our national convention has instituted a new structure for the court process; some people think it runs against the Church’s constitution. So, I’ve been doing some research to figure out what’s happening here.

Stop me if the following sounds oddly familiar.

One key issue is whether the power to make this change resides with the national authorities or the local authorities. Much has been written to interpret the (possibly) relevant clauses of the Church’s constitution. Look through the constitution itself, however, and the language is not only vague, but written in a specific time and place. It (perhaps deliberately) left the task of interpretation to later generations when they faced issues not covered by the language therein.

Sound familiar yet? If not, here’s a clue: Think U.S. Constitution. And the Bible.

U.S. Constitution first. One key issue is whether the power to make changes resides with the national authorities or the local authorities (i.e., the states). It is perhaps the fundamental difference between Democrat and Republican. Much has been written to interpret the (possibly) relevant clauses of the U.S. Constitution. Look through the Constitution itself, however, and the language is not only vague, but written in a specific time and place. It (perhaps deliberately) left the task of interpretation to later generations when they faced issues not covered by the language therein.

That’s why we have these fierce debates over the separation of church and state, say, or the right to privacy. You won’t find these words in the Constitution itself. Instead, the Constitution left the interpretation up to us.

The Bible, I would submit, is the same way. We have a text that, mediated by the Spirit of God, guides us in the way we live our lives, individually and collectively. It too was written in specific times and places. The authors could not have foreseen, for instance, the scientific findings of the past half millennium, which provide new data to inform the debate over when life begins or whether being GLBT is genetic.

In a nutshell, then: In critical parts of our common life, we have a guiding text before us. It does not answer everything, so our charge is to interpret the text—as well as the interpretations that have come before us—to arrive as close to the truth as we can.

If we can at least agree on this, it could be huge. Why?

Because this perspective cuts us loose from certainty: in particular, the certainty that drives us to point to one clause and divisively proclaim that “the Constitution clearly says.” Our resulting lack of certainty—as well as its corollary, the fact that we need one another to sort out the truth in light of the text—drives us to work together, to listen to one another, in the humility that no one has a corner on The Truth. Out of such collaboration come better dialogue, better ideas, better decisions, and greater unity.

If this is true, my earnest hope is that we can adopt this perspective more fully: in our diocese, in the United States, and in our faith traditions.

I know very little about war. I have never served in the armed forces, have never been shot at, and know few combat veterans. I occasionally read some military history.

Here is one of the few things I know: War must be horrific beyond imagining.

I pick that up from what experiences I do have with those who have served: through friends of friends, through literature, through stories picked up along the way. The overwhelming impression I get is of young men and women who return from combat and remain, resolutely, silent. From what I hear, they often carry their experiences unspoken to the grave.

From this silence I draw conclusions. Is that a legitimate thing to do?

It can certainly be tricky. Since words are our basic currency of communication, we are not practiced in interpreting silence. It is easy to filter silence through our own perspectives and biases. The results can be profoundly misleading.

And yet silence does communicate. We know this intuitively. It’s built into our language: “Her silence spoke volumes.” “The silence was deafening.”

How do we know what we’re hearing when we listen to silence?

It helps when more verbal forms of communication back up the message we think we hear. We know about the horror of war from people who have spoken up. Many Holocaust survivors have told their stories. Civil War soldiers, among others, wrote home from the front with sometimes graphic descriptions of battle. Combine such verbal evidence with our aforementioned silent veterans, and the silence speaks more clearly.

Reading nonverbal cues—especially actions—can draw the message from the silence as well. This, too, we know intuitively: hence we say that “actions speak louder than words.” So the incidence of post-traumatic stress disorder and suicide among veterans adds clarity to their silence.

We could, I suppose, insist on words from everyone to get more clarity in dialogue. But people cannot always speak their mind. Veterans have no words for the stark realities of war. Citizens of dictatorships dare not speak out for fear of their lives. The same is true of those who have suffered domestic violence.

Listening to silence demands care, full attention, a curious mind, and an open heart. But it is part of dialogue. Without it, we would miss the powerful witness of those who cannot speak.

I spend a lot of time reading what you might call “virtual dialogue.” That includes comments to a blog post, discussion threads in an online forum, letters to the editor, and similar material. Lately, I’ve run into a lot of statements like this:

“You are absolutely entitled to your belief.”

“Everyone is free to believe what they want.”

“You’ve got your opinion, I’ve got mine.”

My first thought: of course. Why would anyone—at least in liberal Western democracies—think differently? But if it’s so obvious, why are so many people saying it so often?

I’m wondering if, in part, it’s a defense mechanism: a subtle way of cutting off an emerging dialogue or debate before it gets too uncomfortable. “I can’t see how you believe that, but you know what? This is a free country. You’re entitled to your opinion, and I’m entitled to mine.”

That example—essentially, “agreeing to disagree”—worries me. It always sounds so good: by agreeing to disagree, we pledge to respect each other’s opinions and move on. We restore harmony and concord. But all too often, “agreeing to disagree” turns into a tacit agreement never to speak of the issue again. That cuts us off, not only from dialogue that might help us better engage the issue (and the “other side”), but also from a part of the other person. It prevents us from growing in our perspectives.

Certainly there are times when cutting off discussion is the best move: to calm uncontrolled tempers, for instance, or to gather more information, or to take a break from sensory overload. But I think we tend to cut off way too soon. We avoid getting hurt, but we cheat ourselves out of growth too.

What would happen if we hung in there? We might discover entirely new ways to think about an issue. We might see that our perspective is one among many—no more, no less—and that continued dialogue might help us uncover more of the whole picture. We might connect with people we never thought we’d connect with. We might build our relationships, broaden our worldview, even increase our curiosity and thirst for wisdom.

Yes, we might also get hurt. People sometimes play rough out there. So all these benefits come with a cost. Can we afford it?

I think it’s easier to afford if we draw our essential strength from somewhere else. That’s why I believe spirituality holds so much potential for dialogue: as we proceed from a core of strength at the essence of our souls, our sacred cows—or, more specifically, our defense of them—becomes less important. That empowers us to be flexible, to give and take, to listen to the other with attention and vulnerability. We dialogue out of strength, so the hurt—painful though it might be—holds less power to destroy us.

So maybe we seek out that strength. Maybe we push ourselves one more click before resorting to “you’re entitled to your own opinion.” Maybe we get to taste more of the power of dialogue to enrich our lives.