Notable Quotes (I): “[R]estoring sustainable freedom means starting with ourselves”

C.S. Lewis once said that the writings of George MacDonald, which he encountered years before his conversion to Christianity, “baptized” his imagination. This description has long stuck with me, captivating me with its provocative imagery. It helps me describe my own experience, albeit of a different sort.

When I think of the writings of sociologist Os Guinness, a similar phrase comes to mind. I recall myself sitting enraptured on my couch at Yokota Air Base, Japan, late into the night, as I read the closing pages of Guinness’s book A Free People’s Suicide: Sustainable Freedom and the American Future. If MacDonald’s writing, in particular his book Phantastes, baptized Lewis’s imagination, then this book by Guinness baptized “my civic consciousness.” I saw for the first time both the wonder and the fragility of liberty. This indeed seemed like something worth “fighting” for.

Guinness has written prolifically in recent years on topics related to civic health. Recently, I discovered the following passage in his 2008 book The Case for Civility: And Why Our Future Depends on It. It’s a long passage but important enough to quote in its entirety. It comes as the second of five steps Guinness outlines for promoting civility in our world. Hereafter, all words are Guinness’s.

“[R]estoring sustainable freedom means starting with ourselves.

“This is no moment to wait for others and above all to wait for some great leader. All who live in this country, along with the citizens of all the world’s democracies, are the beneficiaries of this great heritage of ordered freedom, or ‘federal liberty.’ We are each the living links between our parents and our children, and it is our task to keep the precious flame alive. We each have the freedom to speak and act in our open society. We are each citizens who are primary stakeholders in our worlds. We each have spheres of influence in which our voices can be heard and in which our authority counts. We are each the ones whose power to choose determines the quality of our community and public life in a thousand small but vital ways.

“It is therefore up to each of us to think long and hard about the present state of things, to consider the outcome of current attitudes, to challenge the grip of dominant ways of thinking, to model the civility and persuasion we should like to see in public life, to switch off programs or unsubscribe to magazines that further the problem, to stop voting for leaders or donating to political parties and organizations whose short-term tactics undermine the long-term good, to demand a leadership worthy of America and its world responsibility at this hour, and to determine that destructive incivility may flourish, ‘but not through me.’

“The fact is that culture warring will not preserve American freedom any more than lies will foster truth and litigiousness will guarantee rights. But if we would like a society of truth, freedom, justice, and decency, we must be people of truth, freedom, justice, and decency. If we would like our views and our deeply held faiths to be understood and respected by those who differ from [us], we must understand and show respect to them and theirs. If we would like to be treated decently and fairly, we must be decent and fair to others. If we would engage with rational and fair arguments from others, we must argue rationally and fairly ourselves. If we would like others not to be taken in by lies and falsehoods spread about us, we must not fall for lies and falsehoods spread about others.

“Most especially, if we are either liberal or conservative, we must be vigilant to see that we ourselves are liberal in our free and generous attitudes toward conservatives, or conservative in maintaining the great traditions of past civility in our attitudes toward liberals. If we wish civility to be a robust and freely chosen virtue, we ourselves must be dedicated to it as a covenant rather than a contract, as a matter of justice as much as power, and as a life-giving habit of the heart rather than a dead and deadening letter of any law.

“Above all, we must not only decry the darkness but spread the light. We must not only protest the letter of the First Amendment but live the spirit of its principles–people of conscience in our faiths, who respect the right of freedom of conscience for others; people of truth in our speech, who recognize the right of others to speak freely, too; and people of love in our communities, who recogniz[e] the right of freedom of assembly for all, including those whose same freedom of conscience leads them to speak and assemble in order to disagree with us.

“In sum, the responsibility for restoring a civil and cosmopolitan public square does not rest solely with the White House, Capitol Hill, the television network president, the newspaper owner, the company boss, the school principle, or the grassroots activist leader. It begins and ends with us.”[1]

[1]Guinness, Os. The Case for Civility: And Why Our Future Depends on It. New York: HarperOne, 2008, pp. 168-170.

Cultivating Civil Disagreement in an Uncivil Age

Does civil disagreement really matter? And if so, how can we encourage its practice in a world increasingly marked by its opposite?

These are the questions I addressed in a lecture on July 18, 2019, at St. George’s Anglican Church, Colorado Springs. In that talk, I argue that civil disagreement does indeed matter—crucially so. I present both secular and theological defenses of that claim, both of which center on the following argument:

P1) If we want increase our chances of achieving clarity and reconciliation today, we need to practice civil disagreement.

P2) We want to increase those chances.

C) Therefore, we need to practice civil disagreement.

Those of you familiar with my earliest blog posts may recall that these concepts of “clarity” and “reconciliation” play a crucial role in the case for civility, as I see it. We stand in desperate need of both today—and therefore in need of that virtue, civil disagreement, which helps make them possible.

The talk expounds on the core ideas found in this blog, while also presenting some new ones. Those who wish to listen to the recording should begin at minute 12. For a copy of the handout I provided, see here.

What to Make of our Modern Trench Warfare

When I think of the First World War, my mind leaps almost immediately to an image of trenches. Here, in places like Verdun, the Somme and the Marnes, millions of soldiers fought a bitter, bloody and seemingly futile war, with measly gains. It’s no wonder that this war bred such despair among the generation of veterans who fought in it.

Though we’re now 100 years removed from that horrid conflict, we find ourselves in a new trench warfare: the modern public square. As our debates grow increasingly bitter and futile, with little advance (in the way of persuasion) by either side, despair proves tempting once again.

Many feel this temptation most acutely in the realm of our moral debates. Take abortion, for example. Nearly 50 years after Roe v. Wade, we continue to debate the biological and moral status of the human fetus, with huge numbers of supporters on either side. Not only that, but there are intelligent people on both sides. (Some, of course, will dispute this last claim. Another day, another challenge.)

We might summarize the above description by saying that our moral debates face a three-fold challenge: they are persistent, pervasive and involve apparent peers. Faced with such a challenge, many people gravitate toward one of two conclusions:  they either abandon their belief in objective moral truth, or else they abandon any hope of finding it, inferring that such bitter stalemates should make us agnostic.

Some may wish to resist these conclusions, believing that there is in fact moral truth and that we can in fact know it. Nonetheless, they may wonder how to support such a position in the face of objections. I share this twofold belief in the existence of moral truth and its knowability. Though I’m sensitive to those who grow skeptical or agnostic in the face of disagreement like ours, I believe we can avoid such skepticism once we lay bare the sources of our disagreement.

Specifically, I think many of our moral debates stem from a prior or deeper disagreement along worldview lines. We view the world in fundamentally different ways, disagreeing about, e.g.:

– Whether God exists and what such a God, if existing, is like

– Whether this God has communicated reliably to human beings and which supposed text is authentic

– Whether we have a defined nature as human beings or are instead self-constituting

– Who among us (if anyone) really knows the answers to the above sorts of questions

I believe our disputes over these sorts of beliefs account, in many cases, for the kinds of moral disagreement we find downstream in the public square.

This suggestion shouldn’t surprise us, since we live in pluralistic society, a place where people of different worldviews live and work alongside each other. Yet, it should also prove hopeful. For, if I am right about the source of our moral conflicts, then this opens the possibility of avoiding the forms of skepticism noted above. Maybe, just maybe, one could maintain one’s moral beliefs and work with conviction in the public square, despite the reality of persistent, pervasive, peer disagreement.

So I’ve argued, anyway, in a recent essay in the journal Philosophia Christi. Those with an interest in these questions may find my reflections helpful (or in need of criticism!). I welcome both sorts of feedback.

The Ascent from “Tribalism”

“The pursuit of knowledge and the maintenance of a free and democratic society require the cultivation and practice of the virtues of intellectual humility, openness of mind, and, above all, love of truth.”

These words commence a joint declaration issued by Princeton’s Robert George and Harvard’s Cornel West called “Truth Seeking, Democracy and Freedom of Thought and Expression.”

Their March 2017 statement, which readers can sign online, didn’t emerge from nowhere; it came in response to our growing inability to engage with–and even coexist among–those with whom we disagree. Elsewhere, the authors have called this phenomenon “tribalism” and “identitarianism”–the assumption that my side has a monopoly on good will and reasonableness, coupled with incredulity at the suggestion that my opponent could offer a legitimate complaint.

As an instructor at the United States Air Force Academy, I had the privilege of hearing George and West speak recently during the final hours of the Academy’s annual National Leadership and Character Symposium. If Aristotle is right and man is indeed a political animal, then this explains why something deep within me burned as I heard them talk. Nor was I alone in this. The auditorium was charged with a muted excitement, as we glimpsed an endangered virtue on display.

The remarkable thing about George and West is that they represent opposing sides on the political spectrum–George, as an outspoken conservative, West as a liberal. Though united in their Christian faith, they understand the implications of that faith in very different ways. Whereas these differences of conviction have led many in our culture to dig trenches (myself, alas, included), the speakers instead have formed a friendship, one rooted in their mutual recognition of the other’s integrity, his honest attempt to grasp at truth as best he can.

In recent years, they’ve taken to traveling around the country and speaking to college students and faculty about our precarious moment in history, calling us to reclaim the intellectual virtues without which our nation’s social experiment cannot survive. As West put it, “Democracy is an interruption” in the nature of things, a rare and precious break with the dominant arc of history. Yet, as West also claimed, and others have warned in turn, we risk becoming “so weak in our soulcraft that our statecraft becomes authoritarian.”

Have we reached that fateful tipping point? God alone knows. It is not for us to speculate on this question but to act. What, then, can we do?

George and West suggested some concrete ways forward. We can begin by reflecting on what George said were “three things we infallibly know”:

1) That each one of us is “fallible” and “imperfect.” This applies not only in a       moral sense (though it certainly does!) but also in an epistemic. That is, our minds        are capable of falling into error.

2) That there are “reasonable people of good will who see things differently     than us.” For some, this might seem like the very point in question. Yet, have you never in your life had the experience of being persuaded about something? Surely all of us have. You had good will before your change of view, and it was good will (in this case, desire for truth) that led you to your new view. Thus, good will existed on both sides. Is it that much of a stretch to think this could happen with others beside yourself?

3) That right now, in this moment, “we hold some beliefs that are incorrect.” We        hold lots of beliefs, and our experience of being corrected, coupled with our general       awareness of point (1), should make it clear that at least one of our present beliefs is           wrong.

How does acknowledging (1)-(3) help us avoid tribalism? Well, if we value truth more than mere victory, then the above insights imply that we need to listen to our fellow bearers of good will who happen to disagree with us, for in so doing we stand a better chance of arriving at truth. As George notes, we must not “hear without listening”–a polite counterfeit. Rather, we must genuinely engage others, “while entertaining the possibility that [we] could be wrong.”

We can do this with our contemporaries, the speakers noted, by reading things outside of our comfort zone or befriending someone with a different view. (If the latter suggestion seems unthinkable, continued reflection on (1)-(3) should help.)

Likewise, we can do the above with our intellectual forbearers. This happens when we consent to read dead writers and make a serious effort to understand their points of view. In his essay “On the Reading of Old Books,” C.S. Lewis commends this practice as a corrective on generational groupthink. There, Lewis writes,

“Every age has its own outlook. It is specially good at seeing certain truths and        specially liable to make certain mistakes. We all therefore need the books that will          correct the characteristic mistakes of our own period. And that means the old books.”[1]

Finally, we can seriously engage ourselves. George called on us to “be our own best critics,” a mark of what West called “deep education.”

How do we counter our modern descent into tribalism? It might start with figures like George and West, but it doesn’t end there. The things they spoke about are things that all of us, to varying degrees, can practice. And by practicing them–with all our failures and repentant returns along the way–we will be modeling these behaviors for others, inviting them to join in the task of cultural renewal.


[1] Lewis, C.S. “On the Reading of Old Books.” God in the Dock: Essays on Theology and Ethics, edited by Walter Hooper, Eerdmans, p. 202.

Toward Fixing those “vulgarest misunderstandings” in the Public Square

Months have passed since my last entry. In the interim, I finished my master’s degree, moved my family halfway across the country, helped my wife welcome our fourth child into the world, and began a new job teaching philosophy at the U.S. Air Force Academy. I had been wondering how and when I would resume these reflections on civility, when I happened upon the following quote by John Stuart Mill:

“persons, even of considerable mental endowments, often give themselves so little trouble to understand the bearings of any opinion against which they entertain a prejudice…that the vulgarest misunderstandings of ethical doctrines are continually met with in the deliberate writings of persons of the greatest pretensions both to high principle and to philosophy.”[1]

Mill’s observation comes in the context of an extended defense of utilitarianism—an ethical system he helped to champion—against a host of objections, some of them rooted in mere ignorance. One need not be a utilitarian in order to appreciate the quote. Indeed, if Mill’s claim holds true, then the phenomenon he describes extends far beyond his particular dispute, with relevance for many a contemporary debate.

Doubtless, I am guilty of committing the very fault Mill so eloquently describes. Yet I have also known what it’s like to be the object of those “vulgarest misunderstandings”—to have my views vilified and represented with all the accuracy of a straw man. In a culture as divided as ours, who hasn’t had this experience?

It was out of those sorts of situations that I first developed an interest in the subject of civility. I pondered what it would take—what sorts of societal practices would be required—to enable people like Mill, myself and those whom I’ve misunderstood to make a fruitful defense in the public square. It seemed to me then, and still does, that we would need to adopt a certain style of disagreement: namely, one constrained by the intrinsic worth of our opponent. By pursuing our disagreements in this way, we increase the chances of gaining clarity about each other’s beliefs—and with that clarity, newfound avenues for reconciling with our neighbor.

How, exactly, does this work? If you’ve followed my blog from the beginning, then you’ve heard me explore the mechanics at some length. If you haven’t—and even if you have—I encourage you to check out my master’s thesis, where I delve into these and other ideas concerning our civic health.

Civil (that is, respectful) disagreement may not be the only ingredient needed for resolving the widespread misunderstandings Mill laments. Nonetheless, it strikes me as indispensable, a practice worth cultivating as widely as we can.


[1] Mill, J.S. “Utilitarianism.” Classics of Moral and Political Theory, edited by Michael L. Morgan, 5th Edition, Hackett, 2011, pp. 1079-1080.


Who is my Neighbor? Implications of the Christian Answer for Civility

I recently finished a weeklong seminar at the Witherspoon Institute, in Princeton, NJ, concerning common themes in the work of Thomas Aquinas and Charles Taylor. The seminar was illuminating (though often over my head!) and engaged important questions about human nature, individuals and society, ethics, religion and secularism. Though I found the discussions stimulating and the level of engagement inspiring, my favorite moment proved much more personal and came from an unlikely source.

I tend to have a high regard for successful academics, people who’ve “made it” in the cutthroat world of university education. Perhaps it’s their ability to reason at such a high level, or the fact that they’ve read (and in some cases written) so many books, or that they’ve managed to secure a tenured job in a world where hundreds apply for a single post. Whatever the case, I find myself admiring such people and perhaps viewing them as above the ordinary.

Yet, near the end of my seminar, something shattered that illusion beautifully.

I listened as one of our professors—a woman with two PhDs and who teaches at a world-class institution—broke through the wall of formal academic discourse, in order to share about something unusual: her church. Yet it wasn’t just the fact that she spoke about something so personal, so intimate, that struck me; it was what she said about it.

Her church is located on the outskirts of Chicago, in a particularly troubled neighborhood, where passersby might pose an inconvenience if not a danger. Nevertheless, the church teaches its members to be able to look at the strangers around them and say (in quiet, if not aloud):

“You are someone for whom Jesus died. You are made in the Image of God.”

Perhaps you’ve never sat through a philosophy seminar, in which case let me assure you: this is not the sort of thing one often hears—certainly not from tenured faculty at leading research institutions. Nonetheless, what interests me here is not the sheer novelty of my professor’s words or even their theological insight. Rather, what interests me are the implications of this way of thinking for our broader social life.

What would our society look like if we regarded our neighbor as “someone for whom Jesus died, someone made in the Image of God”? Like a child trying to wrap his arms around the world, I can’t grasp the full implications of that thought. Therefore, let’s narrow our subject a bit: what would our disputes look like, were we to see our neighbors in the way described?

This brings us to the realm of civility. Briefly, let me suggest a few implications that I think would have to follow, insofar as we seek to live out this understanding of our neighbor in the context of our disputes.

First, those who understand their neighbors along the above theological lines will find themselves constrained in important ways. If my neighbors really do bear the image of Almighty God, and if God really did love them enough to die for them, as the Christian gospel proclaims, then, even if I find myself in a serious dispute with those neighbors, I cannot pursue my dispute by whatever means I might like. Contrary to the old saying, all is not fair in love and war.

First and foremost, I must not resort to violence against my neighbor. That sounds simple enough, but a whole host of recent events show our propensity to do exactly the opposite.

Yet, I think the constraints imposed by this theological understanding of our neighbor go further than that. They extend to what I say and how I say it. I must refrain from insults, slander and that perennial temptation: the rumor mill. If the person with whom I’m disputing is absent and I am speaking with a friend, in private and in full confidence, even then I need to speak of the person in question with respect. Does the fact of my neighbor’s absence somehow change the status that person has as a Divine Image bearer and someone loved by God? Of course it doesn’t—in the same way that when I’m sleeping I do not cease to be a human being. As such, my obligation to constrain my disputes extends even in such cases.

However, lest one think that the theological understanding of our neighbor imposes merely a negative burden—a series of “Thou shalt not’s”—let me suggest some positive counterparts.

To the extent that I love God and seek to grow more like Him, I will want to love what He loves. If it turns out that He loves my neighbor, I will need—and want!—to love that person too. At the very least, I will recognize my need and ask for help to do so more fully. In a famous passage from Paul’s first letter to the church in Corinth, the Apostle writes:

“Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things” (1 Cor. 13: 4-7).

Can you imagine if we brought these qualities to our disputes—whether in the newsroom or debate floor, the classroom or public square, online or off? What would our society look like if we extended the patience, kindness and regard for others described above, even as we disputed vigorously with our neighbors?

For those who do not regard their neighbor as someone for whom Jesus died, someone made in the Image of God, this may have seemed like an interesting (albeit hypothetical) exercise. Yet, for the millions of people who really do hold this view, I hope it gets us thinking.

I am one such person. By no means have I fully practiced the above ethic—not even toward my family, let alone perfect strangers or those I don’t like. I want to live it, though, and so should you. A society that aspired—however imperfectly—to live this ethic would be far better than the one we have at present. We might just find that we could bridge some or more of the yawning chasms that divide us and recover the basic goodwill needed to hold together our common life.

Civil Society and the Challenge for Public Discourse

I recently began a book by Princeton University professor Robert George entitled Conscience and Its Enemies: Confronting the Dogmas of Liberal Secularism. The book is provocatively titled, to be sure, no matter where you fall on the political spectrum. I have only completed a few chapters, but already I have found much to ponder on the subjects of civility and social health, broadly speaking. I plan to share some of those insights in the weeks ahead and hope that they might provide food for thought for readers, whether left, right or center.

My reading this morning came from a chapter called “The Limits of Constitutional Limits.” It concerns the question of how we, as members of a liberal democratic regime, can ensure that our rulers are themselves ruled—that is, that they exercise their power within certain, carefully defined limits: “rules they do not themselves make and cannot easily or purely on their initiative revise or repeal.”

Although George is a scholar of jurisprudence (and, incidentally, holds the same chair at Princeton that was held by Woodrow Wilson), and is therefore familiar with the various constitutional limits on power, he argues that these limits, taken alone, cannot prevent the state’s encroachment on civil liberties. We need something more. The people themselves must get involved, particularly through their participation in the institutions of civil society—namely, non-government organizations like the family, the church, private organizations and educational bodies that “provide a buffer between the individual and the state.”

“These institutions,” George writes, “sustain a culture in which political institutions do what they are established to do, do it well, and don’t do what they are not authorized to do.” Civil society does this by “inculcating knowledge and virtue” in its members and by providing “health, education, and welfare functions” that would otherwise fall to the state.

George’s point about virtue is especially interesting. He quotes John Adams, who said that “our Constitution is made for a moral and religious people” and “is wholly inadequate to the government of any other.” George seeks to explain what, to our ears, may strike us as Adams’ perplexing and even shocking statement. We need virtue, George says:

“Because a people lacking in virtue could be counted on to trade liberty for protection, for financial or personal security, for comfort, for being looked after, for being taken care of, for having their problems solved quickly. There will always be people occupying or standing for public office who will be happy to offer the deal—an expansion of their power in return for what they can offer by virtue of that expansion.”

Hence the need for a virtuous citizenry, working together in various civil (that is, non-governmental, buffering) societies, to ensure that constitutionally-mandated limits to power remain in force. (Note: for those interested in a more in-depth exploration of the relationship between freedom and virtue, I highly recommend Os Guinness’s book A Free People’s Suicide: Sustainable Freedom and the American Future.)

This raises a problem, however. On the one hand, we the people must work together to prevent governmental overreach; we must be potters, as it were, shaping aberrations in the “clay” of our state back into their original mold. Yet, on the other hand, we ourselves are susceptible to being shaped by that same state, such that we become ill-suited for our task of reform.

George raises this point powerfully in a discussion about the nature of public discourse. He notes a 2008 incident involving Jeremy Waldron, an Oxford University legal and political philosopher, who returned to his home country of New Zealand to chide its parliament on the state of its discourse.

“Waldron,” George writes, “concluded by pointing to the possibility that the deficiencies of parliamentary debate may be at least partially compensated for by a higher quality of public debate, which could prompt the reforms necessary to begin restoring the integrity of parliamentary debate. But he warned that things could also go the other way. The corruption of parliamentary debate could ‘infect the political culture at large,’ driving public debate down to the condition of parliamentary debate.”

If that happens, then our public forums become places where, in Waldron’s words, “Debate is closed down…where the greatest victory is drowning out your opponent with the noise that you can bring to bear. And then the premium is on name-calling, on who can bawl the loudest, who can most readily trivialize an opponent’s position, who can succeed in embarrassing or shaping or if need be blackmailing into silence anyone who holds a different view.”

George calls this description chilling. I agree. It is also eerily familiar. Suffice it to say that our public discourse has by and large actualized the above description. Yet we needn’t continue.

We, who are reeling from the current state of political and civil discourse, can recognize the problem and refuse to participate in it. We can commit—in our families and religious organizations, classrooms and town halls, online and off—to practicing respectful, principled disagreement, the kind that brings clarity to controversy and clears a path toward reconciliation. In so doing, we can reclaim the kind of public discourse needed for us to work together to promote the health and, yes, even the liberty of our society.

Civility and Family Life

Have you ever wondered about the relationship between civility and family life? Should we view our family interactions as opportunities to practice civility and, thus, to condition us for the public square? Or should we avoid the sorts of disagreements that civility requires when we’re among the ones we love?

I took up these questions in a recent article with Public Discourse. In it, I argue that we need places where we can learn (or relearn) the practice of civil disagreement, and that family life is uniquely suited to serve as such a place.

Wrestling with Restlessness

The themes of rest and, more importantly, of restlessness, keep appearing in my experience of late. I’ve just finished a month’s vacation—a rare and precious luxury—at my parents’ log home in the Adirondack Park. Travelers have been seeking solace in this park for at least the last 150 years, so it’s hardly surprising that I would be thinking about rest. What is surprising, however, are my more frequent thoughts about restlessness.

The latter theme has arisen in my experiences:

  • Of climbing New York’s tallest mountain on a clear, temperate day, only to wish that I were at home, off my sore feet
  • Of finishing a beautiful kayak ride with my wife, with mist over the water and not a person in sight, only to want another
  • Of eating much-anticipated soft-served ice cream in a dish, only to long for a cone

In my conversations:

  • With my brother-in-law, who described a book he’s reading on the widely-noted gap in satisfaction between what we expect a purchase to give us—be it a TV, a car, a house—and what it actually provides
  • With my grandmother, about how, despite seeking for years to get my present job, I find myself already dreaming of what comes next

In things I’ve read:

  • Thoreau, in the opening chapter of Walden, describes the hoards of his contemporaries, who “are so occupied with the factitious cares and superfluously coarse labors of life that its finer fruits cannot be plucked by them” and who “lead lives of quiet desperation”
  • Charles Taylor, who, near the end of his A Secular Age, writes of the “number of ways in which our modern culture is restless at the barriers of the human sphere,” stirred by “the sense that there is something more”

Taylor’s words, which I’ve taken from the close of a chapter called “The Unquiet Frontiers of Modernity,” are haunting and warrant further space. Speaking of this sense of “something more,” he says:

“Great numbers of people feel it: in moments of reflection about their life; in moments of relaxation in nature; in moments of bereavement and loss; and quite wildly and unpredictably. Our age is far from settling in to a comfortable unbelief. Although many individuals do so, and more still seem to on the outside, the unrest      continues to surface. Could it ever be otherwise?”

All this talk about unrest or restlessness invites the question: What should we make of this experience? Is it an unhappy but inescapable aspect of human life, one that we try to bury as best we can or else embrace in Stoic resolution? As Taylor puts it, “Could it ever be otherwise?”

Some say yes. Their answer requires some context, however.

In his poem “The Pulley” (yet another piece that I’ve stumbled upon during my vacation), the 17th-Century Anglican priest and poet George Herbert makes a startling suggestion. He attributes our phenomenon of restlessness to God. God, says Herbert, deliberately withheld this blessing from us. Yet, far from being an arbitrary act of spite, the divine equivalent of a middle finger on the world, God withheld the gift of rest for our good.

Herbert puts the matter as follows, in God’s words:

“For if I should,” said he,

“Bestow this jewel also on my creature,

He would adore my gifts instead of me,

And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature;

So both should losers be.

This may sound strange to modern ears (or anyone’s, for that matter), but the idea is this: God, in his goodness, had already given us “a glass of blessings”—gifts like “strength,” “beauty,” “wisdom, honor, pleasure”—which, were these to join with “rest,” would prove so satisfying, so seemingly complete, that we would stop searching and simply rest content in ourselves. What’s the matter with that, you might ask? The problem is that our sense of satisfaction would be a lie: it would hide from us the fact that we are made for relationship with God, that in this relationship our true flourishing consists.

I was blessed to get braces as a teenager, to straighten my otherwise-crooked teeth. Yet before I could receive them, I had to have a horrendous number of teeth removed—upwards of nine. My mouth was simply too crowded. When it came time for the surgery, I received, in addition to Novocain, an ample amount of laughing gas. I remember lying in the dentist’s chair, “high as a kite,” as the saying goes. I thought the laughing gas was the greatest thing in the world. Never mind the fact that I had a pair of pliers in my mouth, along with a series of gaping holes and gushing blood. These I forgot or brushed aside in my happy delirium—sort of like we would do, had we been “drugged with ‘rest’” into believing we were complete, whole, without need of God. It’s a painful analogy, I know, but it captures the picture—if only in part.

Herbert concludes his poem in this way. Referring to the blessings he had given man, God says,

“Yet let him keep the rest,

But keep them with repining restlessness;

Let him be rich and weary, that at least,

If goodness lead him not, yet weariness

May toss him to my breast.”

This, then, is how the story concludes. It’s not just that restlessness keeps us from seeking fulfillment apart from God; rather, it “toss[es]” us to him. We see in restlessness the paradox of “The Pulley”: that, in pulling us down, restlessness in fact lifts us up—or, at least, points us to the One who can lift us up, should we ask him.

As St. Augustine, the 5th-Century convert and Catholic Bishop, wrote (in a passage I did not read this vacation): “You [God] have formed us for Yourself, and our hearts are restless till they find rest in You.”

Thus, in answer to Taylor’s question, “Could [our unrest] ever be otherwise?” Herbert and Augustine reply, yes, it can, if we but seek our rest in the One for whom we are made. As it so happens, Jesus himself spoke similarly, when he instructed his listeners to “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Mt. 11:28).

This, then, is the culmination of my recent wrestling with restlessness. It comes not as a new insight but as a reminder, from fresh and unexpected sources. For those who have been following my blog thus far, this entry may seem out of place. How, you might ask, does this reflection on rest and restlessness connect with civility? In one sense, it clearly doesn’t. Yet, if we recall that one of civility’s chief fruits is clarity—insight into what others believe and why—then this reflection provides an instance of such clarity. At least I hope it does. It offers a historic, Christian perspective on the answer to an enduring human problem: the problem of restlessness. May we allow the pulley to do its work.

Finding the Balance: A “Civil” Position on Offending Others (Part 2)

In my previous entry, I raised the question of the relationship between civility and offensiveness. Can civil people—those who are committed to respecting their neighbors in the context of a dispute—wittingly offend those same neighbors? Or must they do all they can to avoid giving offense?

I sketched two popular answers to this question about the acceptability of offensiveness. The first, which I called the politically correct view, says that we must avoid offending others at all costs, especially those from historically marginalized groups. The second, which I called the hardnosed realist view, says that offensiveness is an inescapable part of life in a pluralistic society and therefore that we had better learn to deal with it. I then suggested that the correct answer lies somewhere in the middle.

In this entry, I’m going to propose what I see as the solution to the above question. The solution turns on a crucial distinction between two types of offensiveness—what I’m calling ill-meaning and well-meaning offensiveness, respectively. Ill-meaning offensiveness occurs when we speak or act with the intention of wounding another person (often, though not always, our conversation partner). Such offenses can be brazen or subtle, crude or sophisticated. What matters is not the style but the senders’ intentions: our express desire to cause harm.

By contrast, well-meaning offensiveness issues from good intentions. Those who commit such offenses do not wish to harm others; that they do so is, in some way, an accident. Such people aim to speak or act in accordance with what they believe is good or true or beautiful—it just so happens that those beliefs conflict with their neighbors’ in some way that creates offense. Perhaps they strike a nerve in those neighbors’ pasts, or they grate against one or more of their core assumptions. From the standpoint of the offended party, a well-meaning offense may sting just as much as its ill-meaning counterpart. What distinguishes this form of offense is not the response it generates but the fact that it originates from the sender’s pure motives.

Having distinguished these two forms of offensiveness, I am now in a position to state my thesis—namely, that civil people must avoid ill-meaning offense, but they cannot be expected to avoid all cases of well-meaning offense.

The first part of this thesis follows naturally from my conception of civility. According to my view, civility is the virtue we show toward others when we dispute their ideas in ways that respect those persons’ intrinsic worth. In practice if not in principle, civil people honor their neighbors’ worth. Yet, surely, it would be inconsistent with that worth to intentionally wound another person through ill-meaning offense. Therefore, civil people must avoid such offense. If and when they do commit one, they apologize. This answer shares at least some connection with the politically correct view above, insofar as those who hold that view insist on the intrinsic worth of all people and therefore demand behavior consistent with that worth.

Yet what about the second half of my thesis—the idea that civil people cannot be expected to avoid well-meaning offense? What makes this latter type of offense unavoidable? Let me suggest three things.

First, just as the politically correct view contains a kernel of truth, so too does the hardnosed realist view: we do in fact live in a pluralistic society, which, by its nature, makes offense all-but inevitable. To say that we are “pluralistic” is not simply to say that we are “diverse.” One hears all sorts of talk about, and celebrations of, diversity today, yet the diversity in view rarely extends to viewpoints, to ways of seeing the world. A panel of scholars discussed this fact in a May gathering at the American Enterprise Institute, noting what they perceive as a lack of viewpoint diversity in American higher education—the very institutions that often lead the charge in promoting diversity. Pluralism, in contrast, applies the adjective “diverse” to beliefs or viewpoints, specifically. It denotes a society whose members differ in their fundamental commitments, a difference which leads to widely different values and practices.

This brings me to my second point. Often, our differences of belief present us with incompatible positions. One could conceive of a pluralistic society in which members disagreed about, for example, their favorite color. I like green, you orange, you purple, and so forth. Reasonable members of this society will quickly realize that our differences of preference represent equally valid positions: the fact that I prefer green is consistent with your preference for some other color.

Not so with many of the things that actually divide us in today’s societies. Take religious positions, for example. Orthodox Christians claim that Jesus is God incarnate; Muslims, while they revere Jesus as a prophet, emphatically deny his divine nature; and Atheists reject both positions, since, on their view, God does not exist. Unlike the color example, these differences are not compatible. There must, of necessity, be a truth about the matter under dispute, a truth captured in the Christian, Muslim, Atheist or some other position.

And this brings me to the last of my three points. It is not just that we believe different things or even that those differences are often incompatible: it is the fact that we care about our particular beliefs that makes offense inevitable. I believe that the pine tree I currently see outside my window belongs to the coniferous or evergreen family of trees. Were you to contradict me on this point, calling it deciduous, I would think you were wrong, but your position wouldn’t offend me. Yet that is because the question of tree classification doesn’t matter to how I order my life, to my sense of who I am and of how I take the world to be on a fundamental level. It doesn’t affect my deepest convictions about the true, the good or the beautiful.

Contrast this with the point about Jesus’ divine nature, noted above. Since our belief about this question carries profound implications for a host of issues—indeed, for an entire way of life—a difference here has great potential to cause offense. Recall the recent dispute between Senator Bernie Sanders and Russell Vought, regarding the latter’s fitness for duty as deputy director of the Office of Management and Budget. In a senate hearing that caught national attention, Sanders opposed Vought’s fitness for duty because he objected to a theological position Vought had espoused in a blog post. “Objected” does not quite capture it; the senator seemed indignant. Vought’s position offended against some of his strongly held convictions about the nature of the world’s religions and of fitness for public service.

In short, because our society consists of people with differences of belief about fundamental issues, because these differences are sometimes incompatible (i.e., they cannot both be true), and because we care about the questions at issue, we cannot expect the civil person—or anyone, for that matter—to avoid all cases of well-meaning offense. Should Sanders, for example, have insisted that Vought renounce his claim about the theological position at issue, on the grounds that it offends Muslims and others, that request would itself be offensive to Vought and others who share his views, and who would feel like they were being asked to renounce a core conviction. Sanders would simply have shifted the offense from one group of people to another, not uprooted it altogether.

One final point, before I close. You may have notice that I qualified the second part of my thesis above, when saying that civil people “cannot be expected to avoid all cases of well-meaning offense.” This raises the question whether there are cases where we can be expected to avoid well-meaning offense. Suppose (1) your motives are pure, but (2) you know something about your conversation partner that makes it likely that she will be offended by what you say or do. How should you proceed in such cases? Can you still call this a case of well-meaning offense, or does your knowledge implicate you in the pain that follows?

No, it does not implicate you. In other words, yes, you can proceed—however, three caveats are in order. First, it can be genuinely hard to predict whether someone might be offended by your actions. The Sanders/Vought controversy provides a case in point. In the days following the incident, Ismail Royer, from the DC-based Center for Islam and Religious freedom, defended Vought from Sander’s criticism. Although Royer is a Muslim, and although Vought’s blog post concerned what he sees as Muslims’ “deficient theology”, Royer writes:

“[Vought’s] statements were not crude bigotry, but a passionate defense of his creed            entirely within the realm of discourse of reasonable, civilized men and women… Taken out of context, and to the sensitive ear of those unaccustomed to religious      discourse about absolute truths, Vought’s statement that Muslims are “condemned” sounds harsh. As noted, however, it was part of a broader theological argument. Nowhere does he conclude that Muslims should be hated or treated differently from non-Muslims.”

Royer’s response demonstrates the difficulty of making judgments abut the likelihood of offending others based on mere demographic information.

Second, just because our intentions are pure does not mean we should abandon good judgment. There may be a time and place where we need to speak or act in ways we think likely to offend others, but that doesn’t mean we should do so indiscriminately. By wisely navigating social settings in search of a more-opportune time, we stand a chance of minimizing undue offense.

Yet, third, when the situation demands it, as when some important matter of truth or goodness is at stake, we need to speak or act according to our conscience. Where possible, however, we should do so in a way that demonstrates our good will. It was the knowledge of this good will, despite deep differences of belief, that enabled Royer to defend Vought as he did. To the extent we can demonstrate our own good will by our words and actions—by how we speak and not just what we say—we may be able to minimize offense and perhaps even to make an unlikely ally.