The Dialogue Venture

Posts Tagged ‘dialogue’

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.

How do we know when our language needs a makeover?

One great thing about writing for the web is that it starts conversations with extraordinary people. Two months ago, Kathleen Turcic commented on an article I wrote for Huffpost Religion, and from there we had a most pleasant and stimulating email exchange.  In the process, she introduced me to her own venture, QuintessentialYou Design.

In a nutshell, Kathleen helps people live out their essential selves into their external circumstances, thus creating a life full of energy, passion, and purpose. While touring through her website, I was struck by how essentially spiritual and postmodern her language is. It’s not exactly light reading, but if you hang in there, I think you’ll find it expresses essential truths in words we’re all familiar with.

That got me thinking about the language of faith in general. How do we know when to keep using the time-honored words and phrases of millennia past, and when to update our language?

For instance: You may have noticed that I rarely use the word religion. Quite simply, it carries negative connotations for so many people that it can, I think, detract from my ability to connect with them. (The hordes of people who identify as “spiritual but not religious” serve as evidence to this point.) So I talk about faith, faith traditions, and spirituality, but I try to avoid the “R-word.”

Here’s why this matters. Most faith traditions have “good news” that cries out to be shared in, I would submit, respectful dialogue. Christianity, in particular, urges its followers to share the good news of Jesus. Yet these faith traditions, and their language, are at least two millennia old. Are we authentically sharing the good news in our postmodern world if postmodern people can’t understand our ancient language?

Wickedly controversial case in point: “God sent Jesus, his only Son, to die as a sacrifice for our sins.” To the ancient Jews, with their system of temple sacrifices and offerings, this faith statement probably made some sense; they at least had a point of reference from which to grapple with it. We postmoderns have no such point of reference. That’s why, to many people who are not Christians (and some who are), the statement makes God sound barbaric. What kind of God needs a sacrifice, let alone the sacrifice of his own offspring, to appease his anger?

Now, whether you take this statement literally or metaphorically, it does speak to the wild extravagance of God’s all-consuming love for humanity. But many people in our age can’t get past the seeming cruelty of the act itself. Do we need entirely new language, or perhaps a tweak of the old language, to make the same point? Can we change the language without changing the message?

I don’t know the answer, but I think this deserves discussion—not just on the “died for our sins” point, but on many others in many faith traditions. What do you think?

Here’s why the spirit of dialogue is essential.

I awoke this past Monday to the news that Osama bin Laden was dead.  My initial reaction was complex: sadness because, in the great words of my faith tradition, God “desires not the death of a sinner”; concern that a critical mass of people would misinterpret this as a final victory over terrorism; a sense of the necessary tragedy of violence as a last resort, and my dismay that it is necessary at all.

At the same time, I experienced a profound disconnect with the jubilant crowds near the White House and Ground Zero. The chants of “USA” utterly mystified me. And I was afraid that I would be ostracized for not feeling the same way.

As the week wore on, I read and heard and reflected a great deal. A surprising number of voices expressed my feelings, and I no longer felt so alone. The president spoke of justice, and—while I listened in on discussions of due process and trial by jury and guilty until proven innocent—I came to see his point. The proclamations of victory quickly died down, to be replaced by conversations about next steps to thwart terrorism. Even now we are learning more about the extent of bin Laden’s involvement in terrorism worldwide. We’ve barely begun to discuss whether bin Laden, in a sect that honors martyrs, might be more powerful in death than in life. But I’m sure we will discuss it.

Here’s what I see in all this: Something happened in the world. We—the global we—filled the airwaves and the blogosphere with talk about it. Sentiments and opinions shifted. Some reactions subsided; others gained strength. New evidence came to light. It is almost as if we spent the week collectively figuring out what to think.

I’m not usually a big fan of the media’s constant opinion making. Every now and then, though, I think we get it right. This was one of those times.

What if we didn’t take the time to talk and listen and reflect: in other words, to engage the event in the spirit of dialogue? What if we just hunkered down with our thoughts and those who agreed with them? For one thing, we’d all be stuck in our own limited perspectives—much as we are on healthcare reform and deficit reduction and abortion. There would be no opportunity for our thinking to evolve, and it would become ossified, hardened against the “opposition.”

We’ve seen where that can lead in terms of policy: gridlock, culture wars, the rise of uncompromising positions, and, in the end, no progress on the issue at hand.

This week wasn’t like that. Perhaps the lesson here is to start listening and reflecting early—right from the start, actually—not allowing time for one’s position to harden. Perhaps the lesson is to treat different viewpoints not as threats or sins but as opportunities for curiosity. Maybe we learn that our first question in the face of disagreement should be not “How the hell can you think that?” but “Is there something in your opinion, however objectionable, that can teach me something?”

What if we did this on a collective level? How much better might our policy decisions be?

What do you think?

Dialogue, especially on social and political issues, benefits greatly from a clear (and agreed-upon) grasp of the facts. But ferreting out honest-to-goodness facts can be wickedly tricky. Allow me, in the spirit of making a point, to look at what may be an absurd example.

Our subject is an innocent-looking sentence in “School aid reductions won’t harm students,” a recent op-ed from New York’s lieutenant governor, Robert Duffy. Discussing a state school system that he calls “large, expensive and underperforming,” Duffy writes:

It is the most expensive system in the country and the 34^th in the percentage of adults with high school diplomas, according to the Census Bureau.

Usually I read sentences like that without blinking an eye. Why did this one set my truth antennae to tingling?

Let’s unpack the sentence a bit. A strict reading doesn’t make sense, if you think about it. No school system contains adults with high school diplomas—not as students, anyway. Students in high schools are teenagers, generally, and they don’t have high school diplomas because they’re there to earn high school diplomas.

Now that’s clearly not what Duffy means. But what exactly does he mean? Perhaps he’s referring to graduation or dropout rates, in which case his statement makes sense as legitimate evidence. But maybe he meant that New York State itself—not the school system—ranks 34^th in the percentage of adults with high school diplomas. Now we’re on shaky ground, because all kinds of factors might influence that statistic. Does New York’s large population of immigrants skew the ranking? Do the data count immigrants’ diplomas, if earned in another country, as “high school diplomas”?  The answers to these questions might help us understand whether the “34” statistic really proves Duffy’s point.

OK, maybe I’m tilting at windmills here. But the point stands. People who debate an issue (as in op-ed pieces) naturally use statistics to bolster their case. There’s nothing wrong with that when it’s done in good faith, as Duffy (I believe) is doing here. Dialogue, however, is not debate. The spirit of dialogue, with its commitment to ferreting out the truth above making a case, demands that we weigh such statistics carefully, consider who is using them, and evaluate their relevance to the issue at hand.

This is extraordinarily hard work in today’s world, with reams of information cascading toward us every minute.  Our 24/7 information cycle requires us to have finely tuned truth antennae, so we can pick out strange fact usage quickly. Try this exercise: Next time you read an article, watch a video, or scan a blog, and you run across something cited as fact, take five seconds to weigh it. Does it make sense? Is it self-evident? Or is something just a little bit off—something that sets off your truth antennae?

Have you already run across things that fit into that “something off” category? Feel free to share them here.

We Americans are having a national dialogue of sorts about the federal debt. Our elected officials and pundits are leading it. It might even go well this time.

Stop chortling out there.

My hope for serious dialogue began to stir in December, with the release of a report from the National Commission on Fiscal Responsibility and Reform. Often associated with its co-chairs—former Republican senator Alan Simpson and former Clinton White House chief of staff Erskine Bowles—the commission seems to have approached its work with both seriousness and bipartisanship. You’ve got to love a report that includes this:

We spent the past eight months studying the same cold, hard facts. Together, we have reached these unavoidable conclusions: The problem is real. The solution will be painful. There is no easy way out. Everything must be on the table. And Washington must lead.

Read that first sentence again. I would submit that the experience of coming together, with all our differences, to study “the same cold, hard facts” is extremely rare these days—let alone for eight months at a time.

Now look at the result. The recommendations in the final report could not possibly have come from one partisan group or another. They include substantial reform of Social Security and reductions in defense spending. They include commitments to protect the disadvantaged and to “cut spending we cannot afford—no exceptions.” They devote a lot of time to the programs that contribute the most to the debt.

This is what dialogue can do—dialogue that sets aside preconceptions (however temporarily), looks at the “cold, hard facts” when they are available, and shares ideas across divides. Why is it that such clear thinking and dialogue in Washington happen only in rare shining moments? What would happen if it took place more consistently?

Maybe we won’t have to wait too long to find out. The “roadmap” from Rep. Paul Ryan (R-Wisconsin) is certainly a bold attempt at a serious proposal (though I find it draconian). The president’s 2012 budget proposal takes on some recommendations from the Simpson-Bowles commission (though not nearly enough of them, in my view, and the cuts to key programs for the poor are still too deep). Then there’s the so-called Gang of Six: a half-dozen senators, three Democrat and three Republican, who are crafting a counterproposal of their own.

So the president has paid attention to the dialogue from the Simpson-Bowles commission, if only in part. Others are dialoguing with their “adversaries” on a proposal that offers more cold, hard truth about a cold, hard situation. Perhaps the result will be legislation that actually addresses the debt crisis.

Wouldn’t that be a refreshing change? And if dialogue truly can contribute to big solutions, shouldn’t we be demanding more of it from our elected officials?

A while back, an old friend upbraided me for imagining a dialogue on immigration. As she saw it, I was ruminating on an issue for which, in her words, I “had no dog in this hunt.”

At the time, I thought she made a good point, but now I’m not so sure. Do we need a personal stake in an issue to reflect on it openly? How much of a stake do we need?

First, to state the obvious: Those who have an intensely personal stake in an issue deserve a privileged place at the dialogue table. They live the issue, after all. The rest of us are under obligation to listen, and listen intently, to their stories. Sorting through Arizona’s immigration law without Arizonans at the table, for example, would be as arrogant as it is ridiculous.

But if we take that as the whole truth—“all those with no dog in this hunt, stay out”—we run into problems. Here’s an example: My daughter is an adult. I have no direct connection with the local school system anymore. Does that mean I should stay away from Board of Education budget meetings? What if my personal stake lies in the importance of educational excellence for the future of our (pick one: town/ nation/planet)? Is that really a personal stake?

Matters of war and peace are even stickier. The U.S. government pays little, if any, attention to the voices of those who would be combatants—let alone their families—when deciding whether to go to war. That is a travesty, and peace advocates rightly raise the issue in times of conflict. But what about the foreign policy expert, with no loved one eligible for combat, who can articulate the (possibly legitimate) geopolitical reasons for a particular war? OK, perhaps that’s self-evident. But what about the ordinary Joe whose religion proscribes the use of force in any situation? Should anyone care what he or his religion thinks?

Yes, I think they should. Wisdom can come from anywhere. We don’t know who carries the wisdom that a dialogue needs until we have that dialogue. If we apply “no dog in this hunt” rigidly—excluding those without a stake, or even including them but treating their views lightly—we risk missing the perspective that could make all the difference.

Logistically, of course, we can’t include everyone in every dialogue. And circumstances will define the number of people we can or should include in every situation. When the Public Conversations Project convened a long-running dialogue on abortion, it was important to keep the group small and the proceedings quiet; that provided a safe space for people to build trust and sort through the immensely complex passions around this topic.

For me, the lessons here are twofold. First, it is essential to honor those with a personal stake in an issue—and listen to them very, very carefully—while also inviting as many people as makes sense to the table. Second, it is valuable to reflect on the catchphrases we throw around every day: to evaluate their truth for this situation, in this context. By doing so, we force ourselves to think about the issue at hand more clearly. In thinking with clarity, we communicate that way too—and thus enhance our chances of connecting effectively in dialogue.

Does this make sense to you? Have you heard catchphrases that don’t quite stand up to scrutiny? Feel free to raise them here.

Once upon a time, I belonged to a growing house church that spent years talking about its growth—and what to do about it.  Should we divide into several churches to maintain the intimacy that was our hallmark? Should we retain our current form and become a larger body, preserving the bonds of affection that had grown up among so many members? Could the two be combined in some way?

Because close relationships were involved, emotions ran high, and meetings became contentious.  At one point, we turned to euphemisms—divide, bud, grow—to soften the discussion. That was just too much for one of our most passionate and funniest members, so in the middle of one meeting he started in on a rant. He had had it with the euphemisms and the pleasantries and the dancing around the issue, he said, “and all because we’re afraid to utter that one four-letter word—split!”

The entire room dissolved into laughter. You could feel everyone breathe a little deeper. For a while, at least, the tension was gone, and we could talk with one another again.

Dialogues can get very serious and very intense. They involve sustained concentration, reflection, and listening, all of which require considerable work. Occasionally, therefore, we need a reminder that (in nearly all cases) the fate of the world does not depend on our getting this dialogue, in this place, at this time, absolutely correct. On these occasions, humor is nothing less than a gift from the Divine.

As I wrote in a poem many years ago, “Our work is serious; don’t take it seriously.” If we can hold that paradox in mind when pursuing our dialogue—and laugh a little along the way—we can be freer to make mistakes, stumble over words, explore trains of thought that go nowhere. Ironically, that freedom may help the dialogue flow more freely.

It also reminds us of something fundamental. By lightening up, we give ourselves permission to be who we are: human. And our common humanity may bind us together more than anything we can say.

What’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard in an otherwise serious conversation? Let us in on the joke. Hey, it’s Friday; we could all use a good laugh!