With the sights and sounds of last week’s Fourth of July celebrations still vivid in my heart, I have been thinking a great deal about then and now. How would our nation’s founders regard our current reality? What would they make of the incredible progress our society has made? What would be the mix of pride and exasperation (and maybe bewilderment) they might feel, to see the interesting, varied, robust lives many of us live, especially as viewed alongside some of the real challenges we face as a society?
But really, what I wonder about most is what they would make of the way we handle conflict and disagreement. From everything I’ve seen and read, we know that the events leading to American independence were far from placid. The people who labored and fought to bring this nation into being came to these shores with a wide range of backgrounds and viewpoints. To say there were disagreements among them is an understatement.
How was it that in their day, these conflicts were productive, leading to compromise and growth; while in ours, the same sorts of conflicts seem ever more unproductive, leading to contentiousness, stagnation, and even violence? What makes some arguments worth having? What makes some disagreements result in stronger relationships?
This is a question that traditional Jewish wisdom has been engaged with for millennia. “Pirkei Avot” (“Ethics of the Elders”), an early work of Jewish teaching from the second century CE differentiates as follows: “Every dispute that is for the sake of Heaven, will in the end endure; but one that is not for the sake of Heaven, will not endure.” (Avot 5:17)
In other words, the reason for the argument matters as much as its substance. If you engage in discussion for the sake of seeking the truth, it is a conversation worth having. If you engage in discussion for the sake of being right, maybe not so much. Arguing “for the sake of Heaven” means there is a higher purpose to your words; such arguments definitionally make room for deeper understanding and closer social ties.
You’ve probably heard the saying: Two Jews, three opinions. We Jews are not a people given to uniformity of thought. Rather, we make it a spiritual practice to listen across difference, and to remain in community regardless. Looking at our sacred texts, we see multiple viewpoints represented, disagreements preserved, minority opinions articulated and commented on. We don’t mind the messiness of multivocality, in fact we embrace it.
Lately, I have been meeting with an old friend, someone I’d had only sporadic contact with over the 20 years we’ve known each other. We reconnected because we realized, through viewing each other’s social media posts, that we have some real disagreements politically and wanted to come to understand each other’s thinking better. It has been enlightening and inspiring — and sometimes disquieting — to be in dialogue together. Neither one of us is trying to change the other’s mind; we simply want to be friends who are capable of disagreement — two people willing to listen compassionately to what feels unsettling, and move forward in relationship.
This, I feel, is holy work.
In the Talmud (Brachot 9b), the Sages discuss the correct time to say morning prayers. How much light should there be? Perhaps it is when there’s enough light that you can tell the difference between blue and white. Rabbi Eliezer says it’s when you can distinguish blue from green. Rabbi Meir posits it’s when you can differentiate a dog from a wolf, while Rabbi Akiva suggests it’s when you can distinguish between a donkey and a wild donkey. Others venture: it’s when you can see someone from 6 feet away and recognize them.
This argument endures because it is not just about the practicality of saying our prayers. It invites us to consider the ways in which connecting to the divine is linked to being in genuine and right relationship with the people around us. If we cannot fully see our neighbors, the divine will always elude us.
So as the many roiling conflicts in our world continue to churn, I urge everyone to take a deep breath. Hold still for a moment.
See your neighbor.
Rabbi Naomi Gurt Lind is the rabbi at Temple Ahavat Achim in Gloucester. Midweek Musings rotates among Cape Ann clergy.