THE UNEXPECTED CONVERSATION happened near the end of church coffee hour. As I headed toward the kitchen to drop off my cup and a small plate dotted with crumbs of coffee cake, I found myself in a brief exchange with some fellow parishioners. Perhaps something in the sermon that Sunday prompted it; I don’t recall. I do remember the clear revelation that this conversation somehow had to continue, because for the first time I was talking about a dicey political situation with fellow parishioners far more conservative than me.
Fed up with avoiding these conversations, I suggested: “We need to continue this.”
They agreed.
As in many rural areas in the U.S., we find ourselves deeply divided politically. Our president continues to promise to save America from what he deems wrong, which, he assures us, is most everything, especially from the last eight years. He keeps us busy chasing the rabbits he releases from his tweets, running all over the place. Some, opposing his views, march, write myriad letters to our representatives, sign petitions, and flood our newspapers with commentary. Others who support the president write letters to the editor praising his leadership and thanking him for following through with his promises, even when thwarted by the courts or an uncooperative Congress.
At times the divide is breathtaking.
Although we live in a small town, we tend to remain isolated from some of our neighbors as we move in different social circles, attend different events. For those who do politics, loyalty to different parties is strong.
But to our credit, and thanks to a great deal of grace, our small Episcopal church houses a broad spectrum of opinion.
Usually, hot topics are not broached. We recognize the polarization, and nobody likes it. But we are also neighbors who care for and about each other. We want to try to love through the gaps, to move beyond the subtle demonization of each other’s views. So as an experiment, working together with others outside of our church, we decide to start a series of conversations we call “Different Voices,” inviting other townspeople to join us.
Entering uncharted territory
We meet on a Sunday afternoon at our little town library—neutral territory—seated in a circle of folding chairs between the stacks. Refreshments for later are on a big table pushed to one side. Twenty-one of us attend this trial meeting, a mix of differing views. I am delighted at the turnout, but anxious. In this experiment in neighborly love, we step into uncharted territory.
Our statement of purpose emphasizes that we will not seek to change each other’s minds or to find solutions to problems, but to understand each other, to find a path for communication through turbulent waters.
We agree to rules of engagement: Listen actively; try to understand and respect viewpoints other than one’s own; seek common concerns and values; steer away from trying to “educate” on the issue; everyone should have a chance to talk; stay on the subject for the day. No partisan politics.
I and a more-conservative neighbor and friend lightly facilitate the group discussion. We start by working around the circle, each voicing our fears and feelings about the topic at hand.
First up: immigration. Although vivid in the national spotlight, this topic is removed for most of us in rural northern New York. Those who show up for the discussion are white, well-off, educated, mostly middle-aged, Christian or nonaligned. We are unlikely to witness deportations, and we live far from urban areas where terrorism is more likely to strike. Our fears are detached, in no way immediate, but nonetheless very heartfelt and real.
One woman fears sharia law could spread across the country. Another, that terrorists will slip in over the border from Canada (just 56 miles to our north) with immigrants and harm us. Others fear the net that Immigration and Customs Enforcement has thrown out will catch innocent people, tear families apart, and trample on constitutional rights. Someone is anxious about the economic consequences if there is no one to pick apples in our local orchards each year. Another worries that immigrants take jobs away from Americans and drive wages down. Someone wonders how much of our tax money underwrites services for immigrants.
I am pleased that people feel free to express themselves, but astonished at the breadth of the fears expressed. Some, from my perspective, are unfounded or unlikely to unfurl into reality. But we carefully avoid getting into a discussion of facts, alternative facts, and fake news, because that will simply take us to the bottom of the swamp, where we will not see each other.
Instead, we find ourselves moving into a conversation about what it is to be an American, what is most sacred to us. The Constitution is frequently mentioned. Some say the Pledge of Allegiance should be required of all. Also, learning English. We talk about immigrant assimilation and diversity. Can we have both? Perhaps we are not a melting pot of homogeneity but rather a tapestry of different strands, held together within a beautiful, affirming border. Can we all live with that image?
The conversation remains civil, respectfully searching to understand each other. We do not attempt to resolve the issue. We have simply walked down a path together.
People leave very satisfied with the shared experience, deciding to discuss climate change at the next meeting.
Hearing the range of fears
Two weeks later, a few new people who heard about the success of the opening session join us; a few from the first group are unable to come.
Although nobody seems to doubt the reality of climate change, there is still a range of opinion: “I fear for the future of the planet and most especially for the poor, who are experiencing the killing effects of climate change right now.” “I am just here to listen. I don’t know enough about the topic.” “Climate change is simply too all-encompassing. Just not the first thing on my agenda each day.” “I fear not only for humans, but for all the other species that are being killed.” “People really don’t want to change their habits. They don’t want certain comforts of living taken away.”
I know a lot about climate change, having worked in and about the environmental field for more than 40 years. Some others around the circle are as well-informed. We bite our tongues over misconceptions because our rule is to “not educate” during these discussions. The lack of knowledge on climate change among some surprises me, but I am encouraged by their desire to know more. The meeting makes clear to all the urgent need, in another setting, for more information about the causes of climate change and the effects, present and future, on our immediate environment. For now, we have heard the range of each other’s fears.
We decide our third meeting will be on the media. A consensus is reached almost immediately on several issues: a critical attitude toward social media (except by the one 20-something in our midst); the efficacy of the internet to spread fake news; and the importance of a discerning public, no matter what newspaper or newsfeed you read or program you watch.
During our fourth meeting, we have some fun: Working together, we answer the 100 questions about our government that people applying for citizenship must be prepared to answer. We are pleased that, collectively, it was easier than we expected to answer most of the questions.
Predictably, a subsequent discussion, on federalism, reveals some disagreement on what issues should remain with the states versus the federal government. But there is broad agreement that the responsibilities should be shared. Some self–deprecating amusement bubbles up about how views on federalism quickly shift according to who holds political power at the federal level. With the help of the historian in our midst, we all find a new appreciation for the complexity facing the framers of the Constitution and for their wisdom.
Neighbors help neighbors
This kind of discussion might seem hopelessly passive, naïve, and a waste of time, given the severity of the threat on social justice felt by some these days. But the polarization did not start with the election of President Trump. Both conservatives and progressives know what it feels like to experience alienation and frustration at the state of the country. Talking exclusively with those with whom we agree simply hardens our positions and makes us angrier.
We desperately need civic dialogue, following the biblical admonition to love all neighbors, including those who disagree with us. After all, neighbors help neighbors, regardless of their fears or political leanings. If neighbors experience a fire, a flood, a job loss, or the death of a loved one, no one asks how they feel about immigration, climate change, or even abortion. And no one asks them how they voted in the last election. We simply help.
The fundamental challenge facing people of faith—conservative and progressive alike—is to not sit on our high horse of moral righteousness and dismiss the other as uninformed or simply wrong.
As recent books (Hillbilly Elegy, Strangers in Their Own Land) have shown, deep fears concerning personal identity persist in our times, as in other times in our history. When your family and your community have been defined for generations by the work that you and your neighbors do—coal mining, manufacturing, farming, oil and gas refining—pressures from outside present a threat. Fears for your future hit you in the gut. And anyone who tells you they will defend you from changes looks like a savior.
In my community, the identity politics of the Right are not quite as visceral, often relating more to bedrock loyalty to the Republican Party and to a conservative agenda they feel was sidelined for eight years. Last Nov. 8, many of them weighed the disgust they felt at the candidate’s actions and messaging against the hope that he could bring the country back to another era.
At the core, our fears are not all that different. “My country is changing so much that I no longer feel a part of it.” One person fears sharia law will take over, another fears fascism will. One fears that her grandchildren will not experience “home” in the same way due to climate changes, another fears “home” has already changed due to the exit of mining or industry from the community. Everyone fears “fake news” will destroy the credibility of our constitutionally protected media, but each has a different opinion about which sources “fake” it.
I wonder: Maybe all these fears are irrational, given the deeper goodness and integrity we share in the American spirit. Those people who gathered for these discussions in our little town library leave with two valuable experiences: 1) at least some recognition of nuances on the issue being discussed, and 2) a new feeling of empathy and understanding for those we thought to be on the other “side.”
Because people gather as communities of faith for reasons that transcend (at least ideally) the politics of the day, our places of worship can offer opportunities to start new conversations, seeking to love each other through our fears of opposing political positions. Knowing that God accompanies us all—no matter what the path—can mitigate these fears. The important invitation is to ask neighbors to walk alongside.
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