LIFT UP YOUR HEADS! POSTURES OF PRAISE AND HUMILITY

But I have to admit I'm not crazy about this look.

POSTURES, I.
My friend and colleague (and excellent pastor) Mike and I have a congenial ongoing disagreement regarding the appropriateness of permanent large video screens in worship spaces. My position is that the screens (on which are projected hymns, liturgy, etc.) are simply the hymn-book of the twenty-first century – tools for worship that are value-neutral as regards piety or the content of the worship. (Also, I argue, no church would be built today without them.) Although I don’t claim to speak for Mike (Mike?), I understand his anti- argument to be that the screens detract from the solemnity and focus of worship, and are more of an architectural intrusion than they’re worth in what would otherwise be a place of contemplative beauty (especially in an older sanctuary in which they would have to be retro-fitted).*

Although I continue to maintain my basic argument, a recent worship experience gave me pause. Participating as a worshiping member of the congregation in a church with screens, it occurred to me that this set-up allows for only one posture: upright. This is fine for joining in a song of praise, but is restrictive if the liturgy calls for a confession, prayer of lament, or even a doleful Lenten hymn. Restrictive in the sense that at such times the body (at least my body) is naturally and spiritually inclined to bow the head or bend the knee. This is why I have decided that my first preference is for another relatively new worship practice: Printing the entire service—hymns, scripture, liturgy—in the bulletin. Not only is this welcoming to the visitor, it allows for a variety of postures. I suppose many churches have the practice of doing both: the screen and the bulletin. If I had to choose one, however, I’d go with the full-service bulletin. So I can bow my head and still see the words.

POSTURES, II.
And there are times when one is bowing the head but should be looking up. Attending a conference in Chicago recently, I was walking through the lobby of our hotel, mid-morning, and I noticed that everyone—I mean everyone (including me)—was bent over a screen. People of all ages. Some (like me) were walking along and consulting a smartphone screen, some were at a lobby table working on a laptop, some sitting in the cushy chairs looking at an iPad. The desk clerks, of course, on their computers. At the moment-in-time I took this stroll, I’d say fourteen or fifteen people. Everyone.

We live on a fairly busy thoroughfare. People of all ages walk or run past our house. A mere glance out the window at a passing figure always—always—reveals the bent-down-head silhouette of the screen-user. Then I turn back to my iPhone, bend over my screen, and log in my latest move in the Scrabble game I’m playing with my friend in Texas.

I hope it’s clear that this is not a finger-pointing rant, but rather a confessional and societal observation. The old cartoon staple of the newspaper-reading husband listening with half an ear, mumbling, “Uh-huh…” to his wife’s comments has been multiplied and miniaturized. I was that cartoon husband. I finally learned (with some, uh, encouragement), that I needed to physically lower the paper and look Caryl in the eye and participate in the human interaction of conversation. I have similarly changed my lowdown ways and now physically turn away from the computer screen if someone walks in to talk.

Certainly I am not the first person to notice that if I take the bent-head smartphone posture and remove the phone, I’m gazing straight at my navel.

In third grade we actually had a unit on “telephone etiquette.” I am optimistic that as we emerge from the infancy of the digital age into some kind of maturity, we will routinely teach the eye-to-eye lessons of screen etiquette to our kids, and ourselves. Our brave new world gives a cogent (and literal) new meaning to John Updike’s profound and challenging line, “We are all so terribly alone, but it’s important that we keep making signals through the glass.”

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*Another topic is the abuse of screens in worship: Cute butterfly pictures; the speaker reading, badly, words that you can read better by yourself, etc. Screen or no screen, give me a skilled talking head in a pulpit anytime.
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I am also curious about why a person curled up in a chair with a tattered crossword puzzle book seems somehow less off-putting than the same person in the same chair doing a crossword on a device. Do you agree?
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Since publishing this post, I came across this related article in the Christian Century.

SCREEN TIME AND FACE TIME: AN INTERIM REPORT

I just wanted to stand up close,

shoulder to shoulder, heart to heart
with this, my friend. ~Gerhard Frost

Caryl and I recently spent a week with my sisters and their husbands at the  remote mountain cabin we share – our annual work week and “partnership meeting.” Although it is more common for us to use the cabin separately, we get along well and enjoy these times together. At one point during our week my sister Barb made an observation to the effect that “everyone seems to be on some kind of screen.” And she was right: one of us was doing a crossword on an iPhone, another was on the deck trying to get a cell signal, another was reading a book on Kindle, two others playing Scrabble on an iPad. All of this in spite of the fact that, by mutual agreement and technological limitation, we don’t have internet or wi-fi (or TV or radio) at the cabin.

My first response (a bit defensive) was to point out that we were doing the same things we’ve always done when relaxing at the cabin: working crosswords, reading books, playing board games. But upon further reflection, I had to wonder if there wasn’t in fact a kind of qualitative difference. Is it possible that one is more “absorbed” and isolated from others when reading a book on Kindle than when – sitting in the exact same easy chair – reading a bound book? Or is it that the electronic device erects a more off-putting shield than does a tattered-corner paperback book of New York Times Crossword Puzzles? I don’t know; thus my suggestion of an “interim report.”

Electronic screen time may be one of those areas in which we think of ourselves as the exception. Even the most hard-bitten cell phone libertarian who doesn’t want anyone to pry the phone out of his steering wheel-clutching hands tenses up just a bit when he notices another driver approaching with a cell phone to her ear. I think the reason for this is that we all know that when we’re on the cell phone we’re sort of “out of it” – we’re in that phone-zone. But we excuse ourselves, thinking we can handle it, even though we keep a wary eye on anyone else using the phone in the car. Likewise, when Caryl clicks to yet another round of solitaire Scrabble on her iPad, I may mutter internally, “What, another game of Scrabble?!” while I turn back to the neat new Crostics app on my iPhone.

There are historical reports of post-Gutenberg parents complaining that their children were spending too much time with these new-fangled “books,” and fearing the effect it would have on their brains. (The development of book-reading has, in fact, had an evolutionary effect on brain wiring.) Similarly, I take pride in how adroit my three-and-a-half-year-old grandson is with “Angry Birds” (not just his game performance, but the smarts to figure out how the whole thing works),* then I wonder just how long it is “good for him” to play the game in one stretch.  Some sociologists and brain scientists are publishing opinions that decry the effect of computer games, others that herald the technology as brain-enhancing. Interim.

A few weeks ago I joined some friends at a pub where another friend was performing on the small stage. We were never more than a handful of patrons, and at one point there were just two of us in the room when, in a coincidence of timing, my friend was texting his kids – checking in with them for some good parental purpose – and I was glancing at a text that had just vibrated to my attention. Something made me observe this scene from the viewpoint of our friend, the singer: looking out at the bare room, in mid song, he sees two of his friends, both with heads cranked strangely down toward their knees – certainly not looking at him. Having a personal policy against the use of cell-phones in these kinds of situations, we were both making exceptions for ourselves.

And we’ve all witnessed the disturbing scene of an otherwise caring parent bent intently over her device as her two- and three-year-olds scramble over her shoulders, vainly seeking mom’s attention.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer cautions us against that habit of listening “with half an ear,” while we’re actually preparing what we want to say.** (Listening with a switched-on device in our hand cuts that down to about a quarter of an ear – and pretty much wipes out eye contact.)

So I guess I’m musing over two issues here. One is the so-far ill-defined effect that this new technology has on our brains and our society, the other is the old-fashioned question of etiquette. Can we any longer have face-time conversations with our loved ones without our eyes drifting toward the enticing glow emanating from our cupped hand?

Who knows how this will all work out. In the interim, let’s keep talking, eye to eye and heart to heart.

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* It occurs to me that the game “Angry Birds” -- launching cartoon birds at goofy monkeys -- just may be an effective and harmless (?) way for a three-year-old to work out all of that “shooting” that he seems to want to do.

** Bonhoeffer makes this observation in "Life Together," his engaging small treatise on Christian community.

"YEW DON'T KNOW NUTHIN'!"

"Everybody's ignorant, only in different areas." ~anon.

The line that is the title of this piece occurs near the beginning of James Dickey’s “Deliverance.” It is the response of a mountain man to city-slicker Bobby’s smart-aleck comment about the man’s hat. In the novel, the comment can almost be overlooked as a kind of throw-away; in the movie (especially after a couple of viewings), it becomes a Delphic omen, foreshadowing the what and the why of the disastrous events the bright young urbanites are about to experience in the backwoods.

But the warning of “Deliverance” is not just that the smart guys don’t know –- it is that they think they do: An almost perfect application of Jesus’ pronouncement to the self-assured folks in John’s gospel: “If you were blind, you would have no sin, but now that you say, ‘We see,’ your sin remains.”

I don’t claim to know Dickey’s literary intent with this line, but it strikes me as being an apt description of all who seek to navigate their way through the city streets or the backwoods of the human condition. We set one toe outside the bounds of our familiar experience, and “we don’t know nuthin.” The wisest among us are not those who actually do know – but those who know that they don’t know.

There is a discouraging new study in this area, reported recently on NPR, which indicates that when we’re wrong we don’t want to know. The facts will not dissuade us from clinging to the beliefs that –- one way or another –- we have come to hold. The emphasis of this study was on political thought (the findings were born out all along the liberal-conservative spectrum), but I have no doubt it also applies to religious belief, non-belief, health issues, science, education, and….

We are left with the irony that, although the wisest possible thing to say in a given situation may be, “I don’t know,” that is the very comment that is the kiss of death in electoral politics. (Any politician hapless enough to utter such a line will find it re-broadcast in and out of context until the cows come home.) In a similar vein, we get inane scenarios such as having a Supreme Court nominee defend a position she took in a college paper. A college paper! (My favorite professorial comment on a returned college paper is this: “Dick, you write very well. One would hope, however, to find your writing undergirded with the structure of thought.”) I was amused to note that nominee Kagan replied to the inquiry by saying, “If you really want a defense of a thirty-year-old college paper, here goes….”


Statements such as, "You have a good point there, my friend," or, "I've never thought of it that way..." are considered "waffling," and of course admitting that one has changed one’s mind on any issue is tantamount to treason. I am reminded of Homer Simpson’s declaration, “I never apologize. I’m sorry, that’s just the way I am!”

I read an article recently about the “myth of the decisive leader.” The most successful leaders, it turns out, are not those who use their giant intellects and charisma to make unerring spot decisions, but rather probe with trial-and error, advice from multiple points of view, planning, precedent, etc. (I won’t bore you with a repetition of the joke for which the punch line is, “The smartest man in the world just put on my backpack and jumped out of the plane.”)

According to David McCullough’s “1776,” George Washington was such a decisive leader that he barely – just barely – pulled off more revolutionary victories than (blundering) defeats. Neither I (nor McCullough) take anything away from the fact that Washington was the right leader at the right time when I observe that he probably wouldn’t recognize himself as the paragon of military leadership that storybook history has made him out to be. In fact his ultimate victory had much to do with his British opponents' arrogant assumption that the colonists, well, didn't know nuthin," (spoken, of course, with a British accent).

I once heard the late Rev. William Sloan Coffin advise that a good thing to have in the back of one’s mind in certain arguments is, “I could be wrong.” I pay lip service to that advice, but I wonder how often I actually apply it. Yet it does seem that if there is an antidote to hidebound ignorance in relation to the facts, perhaps it is humility. In regard to the question of ultimate origins, for example -- and other questions of mystery -- the theologian, the philosopher, and the scientist are brought together in mutual humility.

The eighteenth-century philosopher George Berkeley’s famous contribution to philosophy is to conclude that we can know nothing except what comes to us directly through our senses (even then, says Berkley, all we know is the sensation –- we can make no conclusions about any concrete reality behind the sensation). A less cerebral way to apply this is to make the common-sense observation that I am formed by my experiences (and sensations) and you are formed by yours. How to bridge the gap? True openness of communication.

Perhaps this openness begins by acknowledging that, in fact, I do not know what you know. As John Updike, another chronicler of the human condition, has said, "We are all so curiously alone, but it is important that we keep making signals through the glass.” Otherwise, as with the mountain man and the city slicker, "We don't know nuthin'," and disaster ensues.


Footnotes:
I continue to be intrigued by research that suggests that our deep-seated political and religious attitudes may be, at least partly, genetically based, as I mused on in an earlier post. 


Jesus' quote from John 9:14

THE THINGS THAT MAKE FOR PEACE V: "You & I"

"Let us then pursue the things that make for peace and build up the common life." ~ Romans 14:19

"Speaking the truth in love..." ~ Ephesians 4:15

Imagine that you are at a community meeting to discuss whether to build a new school or remodel the old one. You have just found the courage to stand and speak a word in favor of saving the old school, explaining your reasoning. A neighbor sitting nearby stands and says, "You're crazy! You don't know what you're talking about! You just want the bricks to come crashing down on our kids’ heads!” How would you feel? What would your emotional state of mind be like? How would you feel about your neighbor at that moment? Now imagine the same scene. This time, following your speech, your neighbor stands and says, "I disagree; here's how I see it . . ." and goes on to explain his point-of-view.

In the first instance, the neighbor was labeling you, challenging your intelligence, and – most egregiously – taking the liberty of describing your position in words you had not chosen.  In the second, he was expressing an opinion of his own. In the first example the neighbor was almost picking a fight with you personally; in the second he was participating in the general debate and conversation. Even though it may never be comfortable to have someone disagree with you publicly, the anxiety level surrounding the second example is much lower than that generated by the first. It is much more "civilized."

In the first example, above, the neighbor replied with a "you" statement; in the second, he used an "I" statement.  Your reaction to the accusation of "You're crazy…" would likely be either to sit down in red-faced anger and embarrassment, or to respond with "Oh, yeah?..." and jump into the verbal fight. (In addition, you might be much more timid in the future about speaking your mind.) The "you" statement almost automatically invites argument. The "I" statement invites dialogue.

Here's another way to look at it: If I say to you, "You're wrong," (or "you're stupid," or any other "you" statement) you can (and probably should) argue with me, because not only do you not think that you're wrong – your intellect and grasp of the facts are also being challenged. If, however, I say, "I disagree," you might debate the facts with me, but you can't argue with that statement; it would be absurd for you to say, "No you don't disagree with me!" (I've come to appreciate "I disagree" as one of the most useful I statements. As noted above, it's a good one to use for civilized debate; it also has the effect of being surprisingly disarming when you're accosted by someone who's actually looking to start an argument.)

The you/I dynamic is a very important idea in family communication. "You" statements, especially accusatory ones, almost always raise the level of anxiety and lead to hurt feelings or a fight. Accusatory "you" statements say, "I don't care what you think about you. I am standing in judgment of you and here's what I have decided about you;" they are based on the power differential between parent and child and have about them a decisive "case-closed" feeling. "I" statements, on the other hand, say, "let's talk;" they contain the inviting sense of "what do you think?"

The "I" statement is an example of a technique that can be learned and practiced. In a situation of rising anger, for example, a parent can stop herself from saying "You're just lazy!" and instead say, "I'm angry because you went to the movies without making your bed!" The child can argue about being lazy; the child can't argue about whether or not mom is angry (or if the bed is made!). As with other techniques, this one becomes more natural with use.

I am grateful to the late renowned child psychologist Haim Ginott for his practical suggestions regarding this kind of communication between parents and children. One of Dr. Ginott's particularly novel and helpful insights is that parents may wish to be cautious in the use of "you" statements even when communicating praise. Ginnott points out that to praise a five-year-old’s drawing by saying, "You are a great artist!" may lay a heavier burden of artistic achievement on the child's image of herself than she is able to accept, and – once again – the "you" statement invites argument. ("I am not a great artist!”) On the other hand, a statement such as, "I like this drawing!" expresses how the adult feels, and is not open to argument. The child may feel how she wishes about her drawing, but she also knows how someone else feels about it. And, in the case of this example, she can take pride in the fact that an adult likes her drawing without taking on the burden of being a "great artist."

As with other techniques, it is easy to parody this one. As a friend once put it, “The ‘you statement’ is ‘You’re a jerk.’ The ‘I statement’ is ‘I think you’re a jerk.’” Yuk, yuk. Still, I’m happy to recommend this simple approach to healthy communication. It works.

(This is the last in a series on healthy communication. For a general introduction to the series, see this post.)

THE THINGS THAT MAKE FOR PEACE IV: "Speak For Yourself"

"Let us then pursue the things that make for peace and build up the common life." ~ Romans 14:19

(Note: I lied in my last post, saying that this would be the final installment in this series. Actually, I'm going to do one more. I know you can't wait!)

"Speak For Yourself, Part I: The Triangle Trap"

One of the good things about living in Alaska – which we did for about six years when our children were young – was receiving visits from friends and family who took our presence in the Last Frontier as an opportunity for the great Alaskan tour. On one of those occasions, when my sister’s family was visiting, we were belting ourselves into the van in preparation for heading up to Mt. McKinley when I became aware of a commotion in the back seat. My niece, Sarah, and her cousin, Beret (they were ten or eleven years old at the time), were having one of those predictable tussles about who got to sit by the window. I turned around and started to intervene, “Sarah you sit here and Beret, you sit…” when Sarah interrupted me, “You’re outta this, Uncle Dick!” I turned back around. Sarah was right. Allowing for appropriate adult constraints against violence or unfair behavior, it was advisable to let the two combatants settle it for themselves. I had been trying to initiate a triangle. And triangles are hardly ever helpful.

Here’s another scenario (this one is made up): You are a sales manager and as you arrive at work on Monday morning, a co-worker greets you by saying, "Mr. Jones (your boss) was really unhappy with your work on the Smith contract." You would undoubtedly feel anxious and unhappy. And imagine further that you hear nothing from Mr. Jones himself on the matter for the entire week. What would your attitude be during that week? How would you feel about coming to work each day? You'd most likely be somewhat miserable, apprehensive, and perhaps even angry. Why? Because you were caught in a triangle trap. Instead of hearing directly from Mr. Jones, you heard a third-party report from your co-worker. Beyond that, you're not even sure that what you've been told is accurate – you're not certain what Mr. Jones is really thinking. It may even be an innocent misunderstanding or baseless rumor. You don't know what – if anything – you should say to Mr. Jones.

Imagine, on the other hand, that Mr. Jones comes to your office on Monday morning and says, "I need to have a word with you about the Smith contract," and went on to describe one or two things he is dissatisfied with.  It's never any fun to be criticized by your boss, but at least in this situation you know exactly what he's thinking, you have an opportunity to clarify any misconceptions, and you have a chance – if necessary – to let him know how you feel. And when the uncomfortable Monday-morning session is behind you, you'll be more likely to breathe easier and see the rest of the week as a time of opportunity rather than dread. Mr. Jones has done you the favor of bringing the criticism to you directly. He hasn't involved you in a triangle.

Triangles (what Family Systems Theory calls "emotional triangles") all have the same shape, but they come in many variations. What they have in common is that they interfere with direct communication. Triangling is a way of avoiding "straight talk." The simple antidote to triangling, according to Edwin Friedman in Generation to Generation, is de-triangling: Finding one way or another to eliminate that third leg – the third person – and get two people involved directly. The simplest de-triangling response to an A-B-C triangle is for person A to report to person C what person B has said about them. For example, in the hypothetical office situation described above, the confused sales manager might go directly to Mr. Jones and ask to clarify the situation, reporting what has been said. (This, of course, assumes a basic level of mental and emotional health on the part of Mr. Jones.)

Here are two more common triangle traps (there are dozens):

1) “People are saying….” I serve in a context where this kind of statement is sometimes heard. After many years of experience, I can now assert authoritatively: 99.5% of the time the one who utters this comment is speaking for him/herself – and maybe one crony (and that is probably someone who nodded tentatively while the speaker was opining).  My de-triangling prescription is to say, “Lydia/Hank, unless you bring ten or twenty people with you here into my office, I won’t believe you.”

2) “Just wait till your father gets home” (and variations on that theme). In addition to signaling to junior that (in this case) mom doesn’t have any parental authority and that dad is the “boss” in an unequal family system, this comment has the effect of making dad a bad guy in the father-child relationship. De-triangling? Mom deals with it as it happens. Here’s one of those variations. I once caught myself saying (just once, thankfully), “Anna, mom wants you to practice the piano now.” (Message: If it wasn’t for mean old mom, what a good time you could be having!)

I’ve tried to think of a healthy triangle. The only one I can come up with is if Harry tells Bill what a great guy Ralph is. Otherwise, if you’re tempted triangle-ward, remember, “You’re outta this.” 

Next post: "Speak For Yourself II: You & I"

(For a general introduction to this series, see this post.)

THE THINGS THAT MAKE FOR PEACE III: The Anxiety Thermostat

"Let us then pursue the things that make for peace and build up the common life." ~ Romans 14:19

"You can learn something from books." ~ Ringo Starr

Have you noticed the Emotional Anxiety Thermostat on the wall right there next to the furnace thermostat?

When our youngest daughter was in kindergarten our family schedule was such that it was my responsibility to see that she got up, had breakfast, and made it to the school bus on time. A pattern soon developed: I would enjoy my coffee and morning paper until the last minute, then I would go to the bottom of the stairs and shout, "Anna – time to wake up!" Of course she didn't respond quickly enough for me, so in a few minutes I was yelling louder, and the message became more urgent as the minutes ticked away: "Anna, you have to get up right now or you'll miss your bus!" (I want to emphasize that these were not angry yells, but yells nonetheless.) The morning would often end with both of us frazzled as Anna gulped down her cereal, I made a laughable attempt to fix her hair, and we rushed to meet her bus.

Then I was introduced to Edwin Friedman’s wonderful book, Generation To Generation and his concept of “the non-anxious presence,” which helped me to understand why my morning approach wasn’t working very well – for Anna or for me. I was making two common mistakes:  I was imposing my time agenda on my daughter (by waiting until I had finished the paper to rouse her, thereby producing the very time crunch that made me anxious), and my raised voice (and choice of words) was guaranteeing that our morning together was going to be a time of anxiety. Nudged by Friedman’s insights, I decided to take a different approach: I gave Anna her first wake up call five or ten minutes earlier than before, and instead of yelling from the bottom of the stairs, I went to her bedside and said, in a gentle tone, "Anna, I think if you get up now you'll have plenty of time to eat breakfast and catch your bus." If second or third calls were in order, I 'd say, "How's it going up there?”


Our mornings were transformed! Although there was little difference in the time spent getting ready for school, Anna and I were both much happier and more relaxed as we said good-bye at the bus stop. This new approach worked for Anna – but it worked for me, too!

Although the vignette I describe here was not an argument as such, the family-conflict principles Friedman suggests still apply: His common sense suggestion is that in situations of discord or tension someone needs to be the non-anxious one if emotional balance is to be maintained or restored. When anxiety is allowed to set the emotional tone, no real communication takes place, and – in  cases of argument – no conflict gets resolved. The result is an emotional "vicious cycle" that simply goes round and round within the family. It is never really resolved, although it may fade until the next cycle starts up. The "non-anxious" presence, on the other hand, provides the emotional context which allows for true conversation (as opposed to the proverbial shouting match), leading to understanding and healing.

Someone has said, “Remember, you are the one who makes the weather.” By what we say and by what we do we can raise or we can lower that Emotional Anxiety Thermostat. Hitting and yelling will always raise it, thus producing (always) non-communication.

Non-anxiousness is not just a favor one does for others – it is a favor to oneself. Try this mini-role-play drama on yourself (you might want to warn those around you). You are a parent waiting for your teen-age daughter to come downstairs to go to a family wedding. Go to the bottom of the stairs (or just stand anywhere), raise your voice and yell, “You get down here right now!” Even though this is an artificial drama that took about two seconds, your heart is racing just a bit and you’re kind of worked up. After you calm down, imagine the same scenario and say, loud enough to be heard, but in a conversational tone, “How’s it going up there, honey?” Now how do you feel? (And imagine the difference in the atmosphere in the car on the way to the wedding!) You can actually choose – even as you are opening your mouth – which of those two statements you will make (and which emotional climate you will create.)

About fifty per-cent of us are naturally non-anxious (to use a statistic I just made up), the other fifty per-cent are not. And we often marry each other! My wife is naturally non-anxious. Our grown daughters are not exaggerating when they say that they cannot remember a time – ever – when their mother raised her voice to them. (She says this is quite understandable because her father never once raised his voice to her .) Me? I’ve had to learn to be non-anxious (which is one of the points that Friedman makes – it can be done). However, even after my great insight, my daughters would often remind me, “Dad, you talk a good non-anxious game.” But, for everyone’s sake, it’s worth doing. Good luck to my fellow fifty per-centers.

This is the third of a four-part series on communications techniques that work. Next post: "Speak For Yourself"