(no subject)
Jeff and I had an interesting conversation during the college group meeting last Sunday night. About arguments. It was something I'd never really thought through, about my family's tradition of arguing, and what purpose it could possibly serve. Apparently Jeff's become rather alarmed at the whole idea of theological arguing, and the apparent lack of compassion, understanding, and edification that it represents. And he has a point. 'Cause theological and ideological arguing, for the most part, is an absolutely terrible way to introduce most people to Christian thought, and the goal of most arguements - winning - is not something we Christians should aspire to.
Thing is, though, I love arguing. And so I had to think through whether this was a good thing.
In a lot of cases, Jeff's right. It's not a good idea. Most people don't know how to argue dispassionately, and assume that any attack on their ideas is an attack on their person. A lot of the arguing does little but to solidify both sides' conviction that a) they're right, and b) the other side is stupid. I'll be reading something online that has comments, and if it's at all controversial, an argument will start that nine times out of ten ends up just a bunch of name-calling. Which does nobody any good.
In my extended family, arguing is an integral part of social interaction. My grandmother's siblings are champion debaters: the ability to hold one's own in an argument goes a long way towards establishing one's place in the family hierarchy. Even though they do it dispassionately (mostly - I can't say there haven't been tense moments), that doesn't make it right. Some families use gossip the same way. My undergrad professors were also fond of a good argument, and would play devil's advocate just to see how we would defend ourselves. Were they teaching us to take sides, and no prisoners? Were they teaching us that every conversation is a contest to be won? Were they doing us a favor, or harm? I myself get a bit of a thrill out of arguing. I love matching wits with my friends and family, and the verbal volley that is part dance, part tennis, part wrestling. But does it do me any good?
I didn't witness the arguing up close until I was in high school, when my extended family all showed up for my brother's graduation and spent two hours debating pre-tribulationism vs. post-tribulationism (and we all found out that Grandpa is preterist). I was fascinated. Here were adults debating real, deep theological issues and enjoying it. I learned a ton from just listening. 'Cause arguing definitely wasn't allowed in high school. Information was simply given us, and we gave it back in test answers pretty much the way it came. When my relatives argued, they deconstructed each other's arguments, picking out the evidence, the merits, the weaknesses, and the relevancies. When I got to college, arguing framed discussions, forced us to define our terms, and showed us things we'd never thought of before. To argue, one had to think, and I'd never had that kind of training. Since then I've worked, arguing with other people, arguing with myself, turning ideas and philosophies over in my mind to see all their sides, so that I could argue them - for or against - no matter which way the argument went.
As I thought about Jeff's objection to arguing, and thought about the argument that had preceeded it, about the nature and definition of virtues, I had to examine my motives for arguing. Did I just want to win? Did I want to catch him in a contradiction, pin him down with a vaguery? Was I trying to prove how smart I was, how much better I was at thinking? I've been guilty of that enough. Was there any merit to my arguing at all, whether or not I was right?
But then I thought, what did I learn? Well, to be honest, I'd never given much thought to virtues before. I didn't have a clear definition of them in my head. As soon as the argument started, I was forced to find out exactly what I thought a virture was - and pretty soon, the discussion had veered off into whether people possessed any inherent goodness and how they could be good without God, and on into the idea that people seek God without knowing it. I had never thought to link all that to virtues, which feels kinda silly now, 'cause of course they go together. My mind was working at top speed, taking all that Jeff said, all anybody else in the group said, all I said, and filleting it, inspecting it, analysing it, turning it inside-out and upside down to see what it was made of and whether it fit. Nobody won the argument: we won't finish it until we meet with a friend of Jeff's this coming Sunday. But I didn't care. I learned something. I was given an idea and in order to argue it, I broke it apart, then put it back together.
Too easily when we are given new ideas, we accept or reject them as if they are puzzle pieces which may or may not fit the picture we're making. That's too simple. Ideas are made up of many sides. Some of them are incomplete. Others have a whole bunch of parts right and one that's wrong. Others still have a whole bunch of parts wrong and one that beautifully illuminates everything we ever thought. I refuse to face them passively, to let them be as they are and decide about them as whole chunks. Arguing is, for me, a wonderful tool to take them apart and put them back together, to see if there are any bits that fit, to see if they can be made into something right. I can argue with myself - I do it all the time - but one single human mind is not enough to see all sides of an idea. Two minds going at it together are iron sharpening iron, each forcing the other to rethink in ways they couldn't do themselves.
I should never argue to be proved right. I should argue to become right. Arguing helps me see where my thoughts are weak, or ill-formed, where someone else has better view. And when the argument's over, it can transform into a discussion, one in which the borders are marked and clear, and everyone's on the same page, 'cause the argument laid out the map before us. I should never argue with someone who doesn't follow (or know) the rules, or who seeks to win, or who takes it personally. But I do think that arguing need not tear down. A good argument is like the wounds of a friend which can be trusted, and done right, can build each other up to new heights.
In other news, I'm thinking of taking a vacation next month...
Thing is, though, I love arguing. And so I had to think through whether this was a good thing.
In a lot of cases, Jeff's right. It's not a good idea. Most people don't know how to argue dispassionately, and assume that any attack on their ideas is an attack on their person. A lot of the arguing does little but to solidify both sides' conviction that a) they're right, and b) the other side is stupid. I'll be reading something online that has comments, and if it's at all controversial, an argument will start that nine times out of ten ends up just a bunch of name-calling. Which does nobody any good.
In my extended family, arguing is an integral part of social interaction. My grandmother's siblings are champion debaters: the ability to hold one's own in an argument goes a long way towards establishing one's place in the family hierarchy. Even though they do it dispassionately (mostly - I can't say there haven't been tense moments), that doesn't make it right. Some families use gossip the same way. My undergrad professors were also fond of a good argument, and would play devil's advocate just to see how we would defend ourselves. Were they teaching us to take sides, and no prisoners? Were they teaching us that every conversation is a contest to be won? Were they doing us a favor, or harm? I myself get a bit of a thrill out of arguing. I love matching wits with my friends and family, and the verbal volley that is part dance, part tennis, part wrestling. But does it do me any good?
I didn't witness the arguing up close until I was in high school, when my extended family all showed up for my brother's graduation and spent two hours debating pre-tribulationism vs. post-tribulationism (and we all found out that Grandpa is preterist). I was fascinated. Here were adults debating real, deep theological issues and enjoying it. I learned a ton from just listening. 'Cause arguing definitely wasn't allowed in high school. Information was simply given us, and we gave it back in test answers pretty much the way it came. When my relatives argued, they deconstructed each other's arguments, picking out the evidence, the merits, the weaknesses, and the relevancies. When I got to college, arguing framed discussions, forced us to define our terms, and showed us things we'd never thought of before. To argue, one had to think, and I'd never had that kind of training. Since then I've worked, arguing with other people, arguing with myself, turning ideas and philosophies over in my mind to see all their sides, so that I could argue them - for or against - no matter which way the argument went.
As I thought about Jeff's objection to arguing, and thought about the argument that had preceeded it, about the nature and definition of virtues, I had to examine my motives for arguing. Did I just want to win? Did I want to catch him in a contradiction, pin him down with a vaguery? Was I trying to prove how smart I was, how much better I was at thinking? I've been guilty of that enough. Was there any merit to my arguing at all, whether or not I was right?
But then I thought, what did I learn? Well, to be honest, I'd never given much thought to virtues before. I didn't have a clear definition of them in my head. As soon as the argument started, I was forced to find out exactly what I thought a virture was - and pretty soon, the discussion had veered off into whether people possessed any inherent goodness and how they could be good without God, and on into the idea that people seek God without knowing it. I had never thought to link all that to virtues, which feels kinda silly now, 'cause of course they go together. My mind was working at top speed, taking all that Jeff said, all anybody else in the group said, all I said, and filleting it, inspecting it, analysing it, turning it inside-out and upside down to see what it was made of and whether it fit. Nobody won the argument: we won't finish it until we meet with a friend of Jeff's this coming Sunday. But I didn't care. I learned something. I was given an idea and in order to argue it, I broke it apart, then put it back together.
Too easily when we are given new ideas, we accept or reject them as if they are puzzle pieces which may or may not fit the picture we're making. That's too simple. Ideas are made up of many sides. Some of them are incomplete. Others have a whole bunch of parts right and one that's wrong. Others still have a whole bunch of parts wrong and one that beautifully illuminates everything we ever thought. I refuse to face them passively, to let them be as they are and decide about them as whole chunks. Arguing is, for me, a wonderful tool to take them apart and put them back together, to see if there are any bits that fit, to see if they can be made into something right. I can argue with myself - I do it all the time - but one single human mind is not enough to see all sides of an idea. Two minds going at it together are iron sharpening iron, each forcing the other to rethink in ways they couldn't do themselves.
I should never argue to be proved right. I should argue to become right. Arguing helps me see where my thoughts are weak, or ill-formed, where someone else has better view. And when the argument's over, it can transform into a discussion, one in which the borders are marked and clear, and everyone's on the same page, 'cause the argument laid out the map before us. I should never argue with someone who doesn't follow (or know) the rules, or who seeks to win, or who takes it personally. But I do think that arguing need not tear down. A good argument is like the wounds of a friend which can be trusted, and done right, can build each other up to new heights.
In other news, I'm thinking of taking a vacation next month...