Tag: conviction

An Open Letter to Everyone Who Disagrees With Me

Dear everyone,

If you’re reading this letter, it’s because you disagree with me.1 And because I’m the kind of person I am, you probably disagree with me about something I feel very strongly about. That’s because I feel very strongly about everything. Faith and onions and leggings and children’s books—if I’m informed enough to have an opinion, you can bet it’ll be a terrifyingly passionate one.

Had there been a soapbox, I would have hopped right on up.
Had there been a soapbox, I would have hopped right on up.

Unfortunately, I hate conflict. Deeply, desperately hate it. It gives me stomachaches and makes me so miserable I can hardly think about anything else—even when it’s imaginary conflict with people I don’t even know. It is hard for me to be public about my controversial beliefs. But it would be impossible for me not to be. Standing on a soapbox was written into my soul. It’s who I am.

It’s not a comfortable place to be, but it’s often a productive one, this diplomatic-dogmatic balance I try to hold. I cling to what I know to be true and err on the side of love. And generally people see that and respond with respect.

But sometimes not. Sometimes people attack and accuse and willfully misunderstand. Sometimes the rules of logic and civility seem to be thrown out the window. Sometimes the sound of a Facebook notification makes me so anxious I’m afraid I’m going to give myself an ulcer.

So often it’s because we assume the worst about each other. We assume that all people who disagree with us are condemning us. We think they hate us and find us stupid. And we believe that their position is really the stupid one and if only we can beat our flawless argument into their worthless heads they’ll finally agree with us.

Pope Francis loves youI love you. I really do. And when I try to explain these things—chastity or faith or the Eucharist or helping the poor—it’s because I love you. It’s not because you’re wrong and bad and stupid. It’s because I honestly believe that you’ll be happier living in the truth. I’m sure you disagree. And that’s okay. Just please know that I’m trying to love you well through all this.

I kind of hate me. I know how I—and the Church—often come across: a cold-hearted shrew screaming “NO!” at everyone who’s trying to be happy. I hate that I can’t just “live and let live.” But so often “live and let live” is code for “live and let die.” How can I stand by and watch you break your own heart and not say anything? I hate that the love I speak sounds so much like “NO.” I wish we understood each other better so you could hear the “yes” I’m trying to say.

I get where you’re coming from. I think the most important thing in dialogue is honestly trying to understand why the other person takes a particular position. So on every issue, I’m always trying to figure out the kind, loving, genuine beliefs that could motivate my opposition—and then I ascribe them to every person I encounter. So when you’re trying to tell me that rape victims should abort their babies, I hear compassion and sensitivity and a weak understanding of embryology. I’d love to hear why you take this position–that’s why I’m talking to you–but know that I really am assuming the best about you. I’d appreciate the same.

Not to get ahead of ourselves or anything, but I can't WAIT to celebrate his feast day!
Not to get ahead of ourselves or anything, but I can’t WAIT to celebrate his feast day!

You’re probably not going to convince me. Just about everything I truly believe, I fought. And I fought hard. So if I believe it now, it’s because I’ve asked all these questions and found answers that satisfy me. The only worldview that makes any sense to me at all is the Catholic one. So I’ll listen, because I want to understand your position and appreciate its logic. And if you’re really convincing, I’ll probably think and pray about it for a few days. I may even do some more research.2 But if you’re opposing something the Church teaches infallibly, that’s as far as it’s going to go, God willing.3 Being open-minded, I think, doesn’t mean accepting anything you’re told even if it flies in the face of everything you hold dear; it means being willing to accept that another position is (at some level) kind and reasonable and to consider it fairly. That I’ll do.

I’m not always trying to convince you. Sometimes I know I’m not going to. Maybe you’re so young in your exploration of faith or you’re so rooted in the things of this world or you’ve convinced yourself so thoroughly of a certain matter that I’m pretty sure my input won’t make a difference. I won’t give up on you, but I don’t think it’s my job to convince you of my position. I do think it’s my job to show you that my position4 is reasonable and loving. When I ask you to be open-minded, it’s not because I want you to let go of your convictions; it’s because I want you to recognize that mine aren’t ludicrous or cruel. I promise to return the favor.

I’d love to answer any of your well-meant questions. People are sometimes afraid to ask questions—like they think I’ll be offended by their questions about celibacy or how strange it is to sit in a candle-lit room and talk to yourself. But if you’re asking honestly—either because you want to know or because you’re not sure I’ve asked that question of myself—I’m so happy to answer. I’m a Catholic because I really believe that it’s the truth. I really believe that the Church has all the answers. And if I can’t answer your question, that’s something I need to deal with.

That said, there are some questions that are just accusations. You know, “How can you oppose contraception when priests rape babies?” and “WTF is wrong with you?” and the like. Once we fall into ad hominem attacks and incessant harping on analogies, I’m out.

Seriously

I don’t think you’re stupid because you disagree with me. We live in a world where thinking someone is wrong is perceived as thinking that person is stupid or worthless or going to hell. I don’t think any of those things about anyone. I know wildly intelligent people who disagree with everything that I find essential. I know particularly unintelligent people who understand the faith far better than I ever will. I honestly think it’s been years since I judged a person as stupid or sinful or what-have-you because of his beliefs.

I do tend to think you’re stupid when you stop using reason and start freaking out. Maybe that’s my fault. Maybe it’s something I should work on. But when you ignore every point I make except one and then misinterpret that one? When I explain my position over and over and you continue to fight a straw man? When you act like you know all the things and you can’t even grasp my definition of the word the debate hinges on? That’s when I struggle. And that’s usually when I excuse myself from the conversation.

Even people who split infinitives.
Even people who split infinitives.

I’m happy to drop it. It’s the peacemaker in me—I don’t want to fight you. So if you’re done debating, I’ll call it quits. And I probably won’t bring it up again for years, if ever. It’s hard for me not to talk about Jesus, him being the center of my life and all, but it’s easy for me just to limit those comments.5 If you’re firm in your position, I’ll love you and visit you and like your Facebook pictures and never say another word about our disagreement. But I’m here when you’re ready to.

I’m doing the best I can. I was born with my foot in my mouth and it just gets worse when we start talking about something that really matters. When we’re talking, it’s likely that my brain will take over and my heart will run pathetically after, trying to pull the words back into my mouth. I may say something that sounds totally insensitive because we’re speaking different languages. I’m sorry. But please assume that I mean well. I really am trying.

 

This, I think, is what dialogue is all about: love and forgiveness and understanding. It’s not about winning or ripping someone’s worldview apart and leaving him crying amid the rubble. It’s not necessarily about changing anyone’s position but about helping her to nuance it, maybe, or even just to acknowledge yours as not the worst thing ever to happen.

And you know what, friends? I assume you’re on the same page. I assume your intelligence and your good intentions and your integrity. I try to read all of your remarks in the most charitable way possible. Maybe if we all did the same, we could start making some progress.

Yours in compassionate conviction (I hope),

Meg

  1. No, really. You do. About something, I’m sure. [↩]
  2. Really—a very convincing Mormon got me questioning, as did a Calvinist. I’m listening. [↩]
  3. Matters of prudential judgment and politics and opinion are entirely up for grabs, of course. Except Notre Dame football. Duh. [↩]
  4. And by extension, I hope, the Church’s. [↩]
  5. My little brother is an atheist. He also hates football, which makes him a heathen in more ways than one. I said something about football a few years back and he interrupted me: “Meg, you know I don’t like football.” I said, “Timmy, I have two topics. Football and Jesus. Pick one.” He picked football. [↩]

The Parable of the Parking Ticket

Tightwad GazetteI was raised cheap. I mean it–my mother had a subscription to The Tightwad Gazette, which sounds like a joke, but it was a real newsletter. Don’t worry, though; she got her subscription free. I was checking unit pricing before most kids even knew that different coins have different values. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m very grateful that I was taught to live frugally.1 When you’re a hobo, a taste for the finer things in life can really mess with your bottom line.

One problem with being such a natural cheapskate is that unforeseen expenses really shake me. Even if I have the money, having to shell out for something I wasn’t anticipating stresses me out more than anything.2 I get tense and anxious and feel almost guilty. It’s a little bit ridiculous.

So you can imagine what parking tickets do to me. Especially parking tickets a week after I had to get all new tires and rims.3

My new BFF Nicole came with me. I say she's my new BFF because I met her once and she decided to book me to speak at her church and at a youth conference and then she took me to the beach and helped me make signs and took me to In-n-Out and is basically awesome.
My new BFF Nicole came evangelizing with me. I say she’s my new BFF because I met her once and she decided to book me to speak at her church and at a youth conference and then she took me to the beach and helped me make signs and took me to In-n-Out and is basically awesome.

After a lovely afternoon evangelizing the Santa Monica Pier, I came back to the miserable sight of a slip of paper under my windshield wiper. And despite my disbelief, there was, in fact, a sign 10 feet behind my car that pointed out two different parking rules I was breaking. So I couldn’t even be outraged. Sigh.

I tried to be okay with it, despite the large price tag attached to my complete failure to check for restrictions. I tried to tell myself that it’s not that much money, that it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, that I should never let anything rob me of my joy, blah, blah, blah.

But what I really needed was prayer. Fortunately, I was headed (after sitting in traffic for an hour and a half) to see Jesus. And it’s a good thing, too, because he had quite a lot to say to me.

You know how I do that read-the-Bible-in-a-year thing? Are you doing it with me? Because here’s the first thing I read, sitting tense and frustrated in the Church courtyard:

“You also are now in anguish. But I will see you again and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take that joy from you.” (John 16:22)

Double sigh. Yeah, I get it. The stupid parking ticket doesn’t matter. What matters is Christ and rejoicing in him and getting to heaven one day and whatever.

Then I saw that I had drawn in an asterisk and written a note in the margin:

Easter joy

Can you read that? It says “Don’t let anything rob you of Easter joy.” Okay, fine. Got it. Still joyful even though I was a moron and got that stupid ticket.

But God, apparently, wasn’t okay with my pretense of peace. Reading to the end of the chapter, I saw this:

“In the world you will have trouble, but take courage: I have conquered the world.” (John 16:33)

I’d been sitting there worrying–unnecessarily because God and his people are so generous and even on a natural level I have nothing to worry about–about how I have to pay this ticket and I don’t have the money for it (which I do) and I’m not going to make any more money (which I will) and what am I going to do? Now, I know rationally that this ticket is not a huge deal, but I was feeling so anxious and I had to have something to feel anxious about, so apparently I decided on this. And God told me, very clearly, that he’s got this. That I might run into some financial issues but it’s never going to be a problem, just like it’s never been a problem in the past. Not a problem he can’t handle, anyway.

Okay, I thought, I get it. Really, this time. There’s no earthly reason for me to be so stressed about this and every heavenly reason for me not to be. Jesus, I trust in you. We’re good.

But God in his mercy (and maybe in his irony) wasn’t finished with me yet. Turn with me to the proverb on my schedule for today:

“It is the Lord’s blessing that brings wealth and no effort can substitute for it.” (Proverbs 10:22)

I put this neat filter on the picture so it would look as ominous as it did to me this afternoon. Clever, huh?
I put this neat filter on the picture so it would look as ominous as it did to me this afternoon. Clever, huh?

Friends, I can’t make these things up! I literally flipped to a passage that told me specifically that all the money I have comes from God and I have no business freaking out about it. Because being as cheap as I am isn’t about prudence, it’s about control. And, as in all things, I am not in control. Everything I have comes from the hand of the Lord. He’s always reminding me of this, although he’s usually a little subtler about it. But a hard head like mine doesn’t respond well to subtle. Give me a parking ticket, though, and I sit up and take notice.

So I guess my point is one I’ve made often before (and clearly ignored in my own life): trust God. Even when there’s money involved. Even when the mess you’re in is your own stupid fault. Even when it just seems like one thing after another after another. And especially when he smacks you upside the head with your Bible. Because today’s “catastrophe” won’t look like much in a few weeks. And today’s actual disaster won’t look like much from the other side of your judgment. But the love of God, his providence, his sacrifice for you? Nothing will take that joy from you. Take courage; he has conquered the world. And its parking tickets.

 

P.S. I haven’t forgotten about that divinity of Christ series. It’s just that things keep happening that I want to tell you guys about!

  1. Really. Thanks, Mama! [↩]
  2. Except running through the airport knowing I’m going to miss my flight. That is the worst! [↩]
  3. Speaking of which, anyone looking for a set of used Mazda3 rims? 3 in good condition. The other was the occasion of the aforementioned ridiculous expenditure…. [↩]