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The Challenges of Being Human

You’re in a new parents group at your child’s middle school. You’ve really hit it off with some of the parents; it feels great to have made good “parent friends” and for your child to have another source of community connected to school.

You invite one of the women to Starbucks with you after a meeting to plan for the fall bazaar, and she comes, but when she shows up, doesn’t order anything. “Even water?” you ask. “Even water,” she says, smiling, “It’s Ramadan.”

Multiple emotions and thoughts flood your brain and body at the same time:

• Cool! I have a Muslim friend! I’m progressive and inclusive.

• Oh, crap: how did I just invite a fasting person out for coffee and not know?

• Why did she come if she can’t eat or drink anything?

• Is she going to think I’m terrible if I eat or drink something?

• How long is Ramadan? Can I ask? I’m an educated person, I should probably know . . .

• Why doesn’t she wear a veil? Can I ask her that? Probably not.

• I don’t want to make her uncomfortable, I’ll just act like she’s just like me.

• I wonder if she has any ultra-conservative family members or friends. (I can’t believe I just thought that!)

• I wonder if she’s ever been discriminated against.

• Wait, what does she think about all of my jokes about wine and “Mommy’s Sippee Cup”?—she must think I’m really sinful or something.

• The next time I see something anti-Muslim on Facebook, I can’t wait to tell my family that they are Islamophobic and I know plenty of perfectly wonderful Muslim people.

• Does she hate America?

• Curiosity

• Fear

• Interest

• Pride

• Stress that you’ll make a mistake

• Embarrassment

And you think all of these thoughts and feel all of these emotions within seconds.

To most adults, stress—even good stress—doesn’t feel good. We get butterflies in our stomachs, our hearts race, our palms or bodies get sweaty, we might feel tongue-tied, our minds race. This is dissonance, this is disequilibrium: a shaky feeling of uncertainty.

In contrast, young children experience disequilibrium all day long. They learn depth perception and object permanence, they fall and learn to navigate steps and different kinds of flooring, they are faced with differences in food and language throughout the day. They’re used to not knowing. Feeling uncertain as they encounter new things is a semi-permanent state.

We adults like to believe we have it all figured out. We are masters of our little worlds, and know what we like and how to successfully navigate life with minimum confusion, stress, uncertainty, or failure. At least, this is so often our goal—and the world of self-help, religious and ethical leadership, renewal retreats, and professional development often seek to impart new information and new practices with minimum risk or discomfort. And in our rapidly interconnecting world, where we bump up against new ideas and people dozens of times per hour, we can either choose to be paralyzed by fear of the new, or understand that exposure to difference can lead to learning that will transform us: body, soul, and nation. This book is intended for activists, practitioners, and leaders in religious and inter-religious work. They may have some academic background (like having an MDiv), but this book is intended to be both framework and toolkit. Definitions for “interfaith,” “alterity,” “disequilibrium,” and “resilience” will be given, and author’s original research on resilience as a key ingredient for interfaith learning will be shared. That said, this book is intended to be useful and to make a difference in general readers’ lives.

Seen on social media, February 2017:

“I’ve never unfriended a person for disagreeing with me, and I’ve even argued for why I should keep someone on my friend’s list with a vastly different worldview. However, when I’ve tried to be reasonable, show compassion, offer different ways of understanding, and he chooses to post something condescending and hateful about me specifically, I get to let him go and to let him live on in his echo chamber of ignorance. #selfcare #somepeopledontwantaconversation #letthemgo #breathe”

Underneath an Islamophobic video, a friend had written, tagging her publicly:

“Becky Smith1 is killing me with her Islamophobia! I’m tryin to find all the shit I can and jam it up her Muslim lovin ass!”

Another mutual friend approved, commenting:

“Keep it up! Lol!”

These messages were not from strangers. These messages were written by people she’d known for years. In recent years, after sharing news of her marriage to a Muslim man, she had remained “friends” with them. As an interfaith leader, and person who believes in compassion and the transformative power of education, she had tried to remain committed to being in relationship with them for two reasons. First, she believed it did her good to understand what others believed, especially those with different perspectives from her. Second, she believed that her friendship with them could help them learn about difference. As she pointed out, their friendship with her, and ability to see the posts and information she shares about Islam in America, might be the only accurate information they get about Islam, or immigrants.

Is all difference good? Are there limits to engagement?

Mail received, on paper headed with the Trump presidential campaign logo, (hand delivered by a neighbor in a suburban town in the American southwest), shared on social media, November 2016:

“Dear Terrorist-Bitch,

We are writing to you as the newly organized Neighborhood Town Watch. We understand that you currently wear a scarf on your head, and we would like to put you on notice that this will no longer be tolerated in our neighborhood. Now that America is great again, we would like to offer you two opportunities to avoid any consequences of your poor previous decisions. First, you can take your radical attire of [sic] and live like all Americans. Or, your second option, you can go back to the God Forsaken land you came from. America is Great Again, Neighborhood Town Watch.”

Note, the recipient of the letter was born in America. (Does that make a difference?)

People who are interested in doing interfaith work come to this arena for a variety of reasons. Some of us believe interfaith engagement is a natural outgrowth of our own spiritual commitments. For example, many religious systems include an imperative like, “Love your neighbor” or the Golden Rule.

Here are some examples of the Golden Rule from a variety of philosophical and religious systems:

Bahá’í Faith: “Ascribe not to any soul that which thou wouldst not have ascribed to thee, and say not that which thou doest not.”

Brahmanism: “This is the sum of Dharma [duty]: Do naught unto others which would cause you pain if done to you.”

Buddhism: “Hurt not others in ways that you yourself would find hurtful.”

Christianity: “And as ye would that others should do to you, do ye also to them likewise.”

Confucianism: “Do not do to others what you do not want them to do to you.”

Ancient Egyptian: “Do for one who may do for you, that you may cause him or her thus to do.”

Hinduism: “This is the sum of duty: do not do to others what would cause pain if done to you.”

Islam: “None of you [truly] believes until he or she wishes for your brothers or sisters what you wish for yourselves.”

Jainism: “Humans should wander about treating all creatures as they themselves would be treated.”

Judaism: “What is hateful to you, do not to your fellow human. This is the law: all the rest is commentary.”

Taoism: “Regard your neighbor’s gain as your gain, and your neighbor’s loss as your own loss.”

Zoroastrianism: “Whatever is disagreeable to yourself do not do unto others.”

Why are we emboldened online to be the worst versions of ourselves? It’s likely that the men and women who wrote the posts quoted above, and who wrote and shared the “neighborhood watch” letter, consider themselves Christian to some degree. Maybe they go to church, at least for Christmas, Easter, or for weddings and funerals. Part of what many Trump supporters believe makes America “great” is a return to a nostalgic yet nonexistent status as a “Christian” country. What do we, as a general public, believe that it means to be “great” or “Christian”? Is it possible that these two ideas might be at odds?

The Golden Rule seems, in every example, to be an exhortation to do two things. First, we must know or reflect on what we would want. Do we wish to be welcomed? To be safe? To have a home and a way to provide for our families? To have the rights to study, speak, and participate in community?

And yet, many of us don’t know what it is we want. Magazines, advertisements, and lifestyle blogs exist to help us determine our needs, our personal brand, the diet and exercise regimen that is right for us, and how we should marry and parent. Are we minimalist brides? Helicopter parents? Frugal, organic families? Soccer moms or tailgate dads? Who are we? Two of the most important therapeutic questions we can ask ourselves are: “How am I feeling?” and “What do I need?”

How am I feeling? Am I overwhelmed? Hungry? Angry? Nervous? Entitled? Jealous? Confused? Concerned?

When I see a high school friend sharing pro-Islam ideas on Facebook, how am I feeling? Am I afraid? Impressed? Jealous? Angry? Uncomfortable? Confused?

What do I need? To be the right one? To delete and retreat? To pray or meditate? To reassure myself that there are good people in the world? To lash out? To try and convince? To unfriend? To mobilize politically? To shame her? To be reassured that I am safe?

When I see that one of my neighbors has a good university job, a newish car, frequent NBA tickets to see the local hometown team, a pretty wife, and a healthy child—and he wears some kind of head covering and has a beard, how am I feeling? Confused? Jealous? Worried? Surprised? Afraid? Nostalgic for another kind of neighborhood? Competitive?

What do I need? A better job? A happier marriage? Reassurance that my community isn’t changing? Reassurance that if my community changes, I’ll still play an important part? Health care and good schools for my own children? A sense of certainty? To be reassured that the things that are important won’t change?

When I see that my pastor is being attacked on Facebook by anti-Islam commenters, how am I feeling? Angry? Surprised? Embarrassed? Self-righteous? Certain? Smug? Afraid?

What do I need? To prove publicly that I am an ally? To console her? To teach her friends that they are wrong? To feel safe online? To know that diversity (even beliefs I don’t agree with) is still a good thing?

When I see that my coworker has been threatened by a so-called neighborhood watch group, how am I feeling? Outraged? Surprised? Confused? Disbelieving? Disappointed?

What do I need? To let him know not all white people or Christians believe like that? To mobilize politically? To apologize? To buy a gun? To be reassured that our community really is affirming?

For many of us, when we’re consuming digital media, we’re moving, acting, and reacting incredibly rapidly. Indeed, many digital platforms and tools (Twitter, Snapchat, e-courses, Pinterest) are designed to give us as many images and nuggets of information as quickly and seductively as possible. It’s soothing to, for example, scroll through images of homes decorated for a holiday on Pinterest: the images are endless, and they wash over us. It’s empowering (in a sense) to scroll through our newsfeed on Twitter, “liking” and retweeting, sharing with outrage and a sense of purpose.

Our emotions, hungers, hopes, and fears are being activated. The yawning sense of “I want/I need/I should” is activated, but not in a way that can lead to a healthy outcome: education, study, reflection, time for pause, time for connection, conversation, sustenance.

For these reasons, when we encounter something violent or disturbing online, we are not in the practice of pausing. Our choices seem to be: defriend or block the offending person, immediately type out a response that either solidifies our own position as expert or “the right one” or undermines the other person’s point of view or credibility, or ignore, delete, or retreat.

When we feel overwhelmed at the types of conversation we’re seeing, we may find that sharing humorous or inspiring quotes or videos is helpful, or we may vigorously “like” and re-share images and statements that take down the points of view of those with whom we disagree. All of this happens very rapidly: click, share, like, retweet, delete, block. In early 2017, in Los Angeles, March mid-term elections were held. Measures on the ballot included issues on raising or lowering taxes and addressing homelessness, roads, bicycle lanes, and health care. As local politicians and organizers pointed out, these issues arguably affect Angelenos’ lives to a greater degree than which president won national election. And yet, in Los Angeles County, only 11 percent of registered voters turned out to vote.

Why don’t we vote? Why isn’t the dialogue, debate, and wide array of stormy, inspiring, infuriating, seductive, and creative content with which we so constantly engage online indicative of actual political action? One answer: we don’t take time to pause, process, or reflect. Time for reflection has the capacity to transform us, body and mind, but we rarely access this resource. When “time is money” and we glorify “being busy” and multitasking, we suffer—but reflective practice is always available, and can be used immediately by anyone, anywhere. It’s our most immediate and underused ingredient for fostering interfaith grit.

Because encounter with difference can be discomfiting and transformative, it is likely that connecting reflective practice to grit will benefit us individually, and also benefit leaders who seek to develop and foster interfaith education and initiatives. This chapter is a starting point for considering how interfaith leaders can best facilitate spaces, methods, and encounters that lead to the kind of personal and community transformation interfaith work makes possible.

What does “interfaith” mean?

Interfaith: For me, religious education seeks to develop methods and techniques for participants to query questions of faith and spirituality, and which then leads to participants growing and becoming transformed.

Thus, it follows that inter-religious education seeks to allow for spaces where participants from different faith traditions (or religious traditions, or from ethical commitments) come together for learning, for dialogue, and for mutual enrichment. For interfaith education to work, it must allow for participants to share their perspectives and wisdom, co-creating meaning and purpose. An inter-religious educator will be a facilitator, shepherd, coach, or co-learner, but will not be teaching content . . . because the content of inter-religious education comes, by necessity, from and through those engaging in it. We are the content. Our lives are the content. Our fears, children, parents, tragedies, hopes, and similarities are the content.

It is also important to define key terms that I use throughout: “inter-religious,” “inter-religious education,” and “interfaith.” In this book, “inter-religious” refers to a conversation or space shared by multiple dialogue partners. That is, within the conversation, lesson, experience, or encounter, participants name and can be known by their religious or ethical tradition, and this religion or ethical tradition can inform their participation in the space.

Participation is key. This kind of learning cannot be passive. Imagine the difference between watching a cooking show and attempting to make ravioli from scratch the first time. Watching passively, you may appreciate both how beautiful and difficult it is to stretch, fill, and form the pasta. But when actually doing it—you are learning the texture of the dough, the nuanced difference between rolling just thin enough and the dough breaking, the scent and heat of the filling, the pleasing way the edges crimp with the fork, and the disappointment when poorly formed ones break in water. While making them, you might be experiencing memories about eating canned ravioli as a child with cousins, or fantasies you had about having parents who cooked, or new ideas about traveling to Italy with a lover. You may experience frustration with your thick, unyielding fingers, and embarrassment that you have never been able to afford good cookware, and impatience with your significant other who doesn’t want to help.

In passive learning, some parts of our brains, hearts, and bodies are activated.

In participatory learning, so many more parts of your brain, body, memory, emotions, and abilities to collaborate, problem solve, balance, and build up your capacity to make mistakes and keep trying.

In addition, when we partake of participatory learning with others, all of these capacities and strengths are magnified. It can be frightening—or exhilarating!—to try new things, make mistakes, and learn about ourselves in front of others. And yet, the relationships that are built, and the self-knowledge that we gain from learning with others—these positive outcomes strengthen all points of learning, especially learning in diverse contexts.

There are some problems with multiculturalism and religious education. I use “inter-religious education,” as distinct from “religious education” or “multicultural education.” In the latter, differences are named and valued, but religious, faith, or ethical commitments are not necessarily made explicit or leveraged. Often, in multiculturalism, we highlight, share, celebrate, and work to tolerate differences. The differences we choose to highlight are often surface-level differences, and can often make outsiders to various traditions mistakenly believe they are monolithic.

For example, in the month of December, well-meaning teachers and religious leaders often share Christmas and Hanukkah side by side, as key examples from two Abrahamic traditions, and in hopes of being inclusive. And that’s a great start! However, Christmas is one of two major, foundational holidays in Christianity. It represents one of two key beliefs (that God found a way to be born as a human into our world). (The other key belief is that Jesus died and came back to life, celebrated in Easter.) But Hanukkah is a “lesser feast” in Judaism—key holidays in Judaism are Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. It is good to know about Hanukkah, and very good to make space in our inclusive holiday lives to learn about it and celebrate it, but years of seeing Christmas and Hanukkah highlighted side by side has given many Americans the false impression that they are equal in some way. Worse, this false equivalency has given many Americans the sense that they know something important about Judaism, and so they don’t need to learn much else.

In “religious education,” either the educator or material is mono-religious or ecumenical, or the starting place or frameworks come from Christian religious education. In contrast, “inter-religious education” seeks to have multiple voices as “teachers,” a diverse body of learners, and attempts to bring into the educational space—either by material or through facilitation—time and space for learning about religious difference and for learning how to learn or live with religious difference. Religious education is still important—we must know about ourselves, and about our own histories, and the lineage of readings, actions, and communities that precede us and ground our existence. And yet: if we are going to participate in diverse communities and be open to change, we need to grow beyond mere religious education. We need to encourage and enable others to come with us, as well.

In this way, we’re not talking about the kind of theological learning that happens at church or synagogue, or where we learn mostly about our tradition and what other traditions believe. This work is relational. And scary. In traditional coffee hours, adult education programs, lecture series, or book clubs, we explore ideas, but we explore ideas with people who are like us. We might gain new information, or appreciate new viewpoints, but we aren’t often challenged to the point of feeling uncomfortable.

If we never feel uncomfortable, how can we be changed? The central thesis of this book is that uncertainty and disequilibrium have the potential to crack us open and propel us into positive transformation. As C. S. Lewis said, “You cannot go on indefinitely being just an ordinary, decent egg. We must be hatched or go bad.” How do we hatch? And how, as leaders, do we help our communities not fear hatching? It takes grit.

This book is the culmination of formal research with interfaith teachers in higher education, over ten years of experience teaching in and learning from religiously and culturally diverse communities, encounters with curious kindred spirits in countries including Haiti, India, and the Czech Republic, and ongoing engagement with storytelling as a reflective, transformative practice. You will find it useful in understanding why we humans resist difference, and how (paradoxically!) exposure to difference—and embrace of the other—can gild our lives with meaning and richness.

1. Not her real name.