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This is the 7th article in our Peacemaking Series. The previous article: The Complex Art of Christian Kindness: Building Bridges

I don’t agree, but I’m not saying anything. 

I’m going to keep my opinion to myself. I don’t want to rock the boat. I’m just trying to avoid contention; I don’t want to argue or start a fight. I want to maintain the peace, get along, and play well with others. If I say something, it’s a party foul: nobody likes a party-pooper, buzzkill, debbie-downer, wet blanket, tight-wad, stickler, contrarian, Nazi, one-upper, smart-aleck, know-it-all, skeptic, cynic, nay-sayer, zealot, fanatic, troublemaker, right-winger, left-winger, fence-sitter anyways! There’s a lot of pressure to choose a side and be a team player. It takes less effort to go with the flow, blend in, keep my head down, and roll with the punches. Right now, I’m being selfish: I need to let others have their turn. It’s important to listen to those you disagree with, be open-minded, and have diversity of thought. If things get out of hand, then the system will correct itself. Plus, it’s not like they’d listen anyways…right?

There are so many “good” reasons to stay quiet.

Many haven’t had effective communication patterns modeled for them. Online, clickbait writing and algorithms tend to exploit extreme opinions and communication tactics, promoting the most extreme and loudest “shouted” opinions because it maximizes engagement. For the same reasons, so many movie conflicts get “resolved” by shouting matches, fist-fights, gun-fights, building smashings, battles, death, and war. Not to say these problems are new; they’re only the most recent evolution in negative gossip and tall tales. We are saturated with extreme portrayals of what disagreements can lead to.

But disagreeing is so important. I’m sure we’ve all felt the crushing blow of accountability when hearing variations of the quote, “Bad men need no better opportunity than when good men look on and do nothing” (Mill). But realistically, not all disagreements are good versus evil; rather, they distinguish among variants of “good, better, best” (Oaks). Unilaterally shared information, collaboration, and perceptive participation are necessary in resolving such issues. 

The seventh of its kind, the following article is a compilation of research used when creating a video for The Skyline Institute’s playful yet informative videos on conflict resolution called the Peacemaking series. This month’s video, “Disagreements Bring Balance,” teaches the value of and tactics for voicing one’s opinion, even when disagreeing.

Our intent is to help people embrace vocal disagreement through an empathetic framework that can align actions with beliefs. There are several contributing factors affecting one’s ability to disagree effectively, such as personality, emotions, and verbal tactics.

What Makes Me So Special?

It is clear our genetics––as much as how we were raised––have a significant influence on our personalities. Psychologists often use the Big Five personality traits—or Five Factor Model (FFM)—to describe our natural tendencies. The traits are Openness (to new experiences), Conscientiousness, Extraversion, Agreeableness, and Neuroticism—often remembered by the acronym OCEAN. For our purposes, Agreeableness is most relevant. Agreeableness describes the tendency to be compassionate, cooperative, and trusting in social interactions. Individuals high in agreeableness are typically described as friendly, patient, and often prioritizing the needs of others––seeking to maintain positive relationships. Personalities oriented toward agreeableness are just going to have a harder time finding the internal motivation to disagree. Those who score low in agreeableness (or high in disagreeableness, depending on how you wish to phrase it) will find the motivation to disagree easier. However, they will find it harder than agreeable people to express their disagreements in a socially effective way.

Consider the irony of staying silent because of wanting to respect and not contradict someone else’s opinion. It’s almost as if saying, Their opinion is important, they should share it, and I should listen to it. In fact, everyone’s opinion is important, everyone should share, and we all should listen. Except for my opinion, I will not share it, and therefore, no one can listen to it. When stated in this way, the illogic is exposed. 

As an example of this same sort of illogic, one co-author of this current video works as a mental health professional at an OCD clinic and interacts with clients who have determined they are unworthy of God’s forgiveness, often diagnosed as scrupulosity. When he asks them, “Who is God willing to forgive?” They reply, “Well, everyone.” He then, smiling, gently asks them, “So what makes you so special?” To which they often chuckle, recognizing their own mistaken perception of themself. So for those of us who don’t share our opinions out loud for fear of whatever reason, consider: What makes me so special that I’m the only exception to the rule ‘every voice matters’, or ‘two heads are better than one’? We invite you to consider yourself responsible for voicing your perspective; every voice matters.

Brene Brown’s research on these ideas clarifies the power of vulnerability. Vulnerability is a social currency that strengthens and deepens relationships. Relationships die when only one side is vulnerable. Internally, if I consistently diminish and disregard my own voice by not sharing my opinions out loud, I reinforce a negative perception of my own thoughts and ideas or a negative perception of other people’s opinions about my thoughts and ideas; and, repetitive silence can lead to resentment and emotion bottling. Externally, it will eventually impact my relationships with others “because, as it turns out, we can’t practice compassion with other people if we can’t treat ourselves kindly” (Brown). Instantly obliging without voicing one’s opinion excludes the other participants from the opportunity of increased perspective and possible collaboration (to be explored more in an upcoming article). Intrapersonally and interpersonally, a deep sense of connection can only come from authenticity: letting go of who one thinks they should be in order to be who they are. The principle of sharing isn’t just for kindergarten. To truly connect with others, we also have to share our honest thoughts and feelings—starting with ourselves.

Some might not share because they think other people aren’t worthy of their opinion. It’s worth considering whether that reluctance comes from a place of insecurity masked as arrogance—often, what looks like detachment is a quiet need for compassion.

Tactics for Assertive Communication

With motivation lined up inside of an empathy-oriented framework that is mutual empathy toward self and others, we can move on to verbal strategies that help structure disagreements effectively. Last month, we highlighted the importance of curiosity—like asking questions and restating the opposing view before expressing disagreement. This month, we share tools for expressing disagreement. These help foster “emotional safety” in our relationships.

Assertive communication clearly states personal needs with consideration for the needs of others. This is in contrast to passive or aggressive communication. Passive communication is preoccupied with the needs of others, inappropriately apologetic, and timid or silent. Aggressive communication focuses only on personal needs, often with an intensity, blame, or shame at the expense of others. Then, of course, there is that toxic cocktail of passive-aggressive communication that shames others while never clearly expressing personal needs. Just like other problems, the best way to address passive-aggression from others is not to ignore it (that would be passive), or by attacking it head-on (that’s aggressive), but by 1. keeping emotions in check, 2. directly addressing the negative behavior, and 3. asking direct questions. For example, you might say calmly, “It looked to me like you rolled your eyes. That makes me feel small and disrespected. I think I’ve upset you—do you want to talk about it?” This is what assertive language reads like; it clearly states personal needs; it is unambiguous and addresses the actual issue (which is not eye-rolling); and, it creates space for them to express their needs and feelings; also, it doesn’t force a conversation. However, even if the language is assertive, but the emotion is uncontrolled, then the communication is no longer assertive: the emotional intensity tips it into aggressive communication. The manner of conduct and the language expressed contribute to the quality of communication, whether it’s aggressive, passive, passive-aggressive, or assertive. 

Communication that is couched in personal experience doesn’t shift blame and direct anger toward other people. Instead, it focuses on personal feelings and personal perceptions of the situation. The Gottmans––marriage relationship experts––recommend using “I statements” or “I language” as a technique for verbally structuring disagreements. Begin any statement with an “I,” and make sure what follows is factual information from your own perspective. For example, an “I think…”, “I feel…”, or “I noticed…” are all particularly good ways to generate a “soft start” in a disagreement. This isn’t an excuse to say something like, “I think you waste your time on video games.” That’s still blaming and shaming the other person. Instead, describing without placing judgment, like “I’m worried you’re spending too much of your time on video games,” would be way better. Better yet, adding “… and I think it could be affecting your grades and relationships. I want to see you succeed and spend more time with you myself. Can you help me understand this from your perspective?” The real concern is addressed, vulnerability is shared, and an abundance of space has been created for the other person to share their feelings. There’s a chance the person could be wasting their time, but the latter conversation could foster an environment for the next Shigeru Miyamoto. 

Lastly, we offer the tool of talking in parts as a way of exploring and giving voice to the complex array of emotional nuances inside of oneself, especially when in a conflict. This technique draws from therapeutic models like Internal Family Systems (IFS), which recognize that we often have multiple internal perspectives. “Part of me wants to, but another part of me doesn’t.” One of the benefits is that there’s no limit to how many parts of you there are; “Part of me feels angry, but part of me gets where you’re coming from, and another part of me doesn’t want me to admit that.”

Closing Exercises

As our last exercise, let’s construct a “soft start” for an argument. Think of the last conflict you had or one that’s preoccupying your mind right now. Surely something came up. For the sake of exercise, let’s go with it. No scenario works out perfectly, but assuming the best, let’s apply the techniques in this article. 

1. What am I feeling? Emotions—like awkwardness, frustration, or fear—usually pass within 10–90 seconds. Instead of pushing them away, notice what you’re feeling and name it. Then choose how to respond. For the sake of the exercise, name the emotion, and accept it. Whether it sticks around depends on how we react to it, our thoughts, and our actions. So, what am I gonna do? Let’s decide to say something—which might not be appropriate for every situation (more on that in a future article), but for the sake of the exercise, let’s play it out in our mind.

2. What questions should I ask? Find my curiosity. Foster a feeling of goodwill. Ask as many clarifying questions as necessary. Do not try to trap or blame, seek understanding. For the sake of the exercise, think of at least 2-3 questions that could help or would have helped.

3. What is their perspective? Restate their perspective for them to hear in a way with which they would be completely satisfied and wholeheartedly agree. It is a generous and compassionate perspective of the other person, not some reduced characterization or strawman. We must steelman their argument and maybe even take the time to consider, Do I really disagree? At the very least, what do we agree on? Vocalize what you agree on. For the sake of the exercise, restate their opinion in the best version you can consider.

4. Share my perspective. Use assertive language. State actual needs and feelings. Use “I statements” or talk in “parts” to help. Avoid shame, and seek the deeper connection your vulnerability has enabled. For the sake of the exercise, structure an example of using at least one “I statement” and one talking in “parts”.

Depending on the situation, these steps may not always happen in the same order. But generally, understanding the other person (Step 3) follows curiosity (Step 2). And, Step 4 often clarifies Step 1 as we speak out loud.

May you find belonging and a deeper connection, and make more peace within yourself and your relationships.

The Peacemaking Series

You can view the rest of the videos in the Peacemaking Series HERE on YouTube. Each month, a companion article is released with new tools and insights. Next month’s topic is Forgiveness. To explore more articles by The Skyline Institute published in Public Square Magazine, visit us HERE. You’ll also find our original research supporting The Family Proclamation, along with videos and podcasts, at TheFamilyProclamation.org. Follow us on social media for more.

The post Disagreements Bring Balance: When Silence Isn’t Peace appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

Honey places more trust in me than my other chickens; she even has a habit of perching on my shoulder like a parrot. Our bond deepened recently when I rescued her from a red-tailed hawk’s attempted fast food run. As the other chickens sought cover, Honey instead ran to me, finding safety in my presence.

Reflecting on this incident, I’m struck by how trust, earned through time and shared experiences, forms the foundation of relationships. Much as Honey instinctively turned to me for protection, our trust in others grows as we spend time together, demonstrating reliability.

During a recent LDS General Conference, President Russell M. Nelson emphasized the importance of trusting spiritual leaders over public opinion. His words resonated with me:

Seek guidance from voices you can trust—from prophets, seers, and revelators and from the whisperings of the Holy Ghost, who “will show unto you all things what ye should do.”

President Nelson, a figure of trust for me, embodies qualities such as honesty, conscientious decision-making, and a genuine desire for the well-being of others. My trust in him is akin to the trust Honey places in me—built over time through positive experiences.

However, the challenge lies in distinguishing trustworthy voices amid a cacophony of squawking opinions. I believe we can discern voices we can trust through their honesty, integrity, conscientious decision-making, loyalty, trust-building over time, vulnerability, emotional resilience, expertise, and humility.

The adage “honesty without tact is cruelty” captures the essence of truthfulness. In a world where communication is paramount, the ability to express truth with compassion is a highly skilled art form. It fosters understanding, strengthens relationships, and ultimately contributes to a more compassionate society. As Theodore Roosevelt said, “No one cares how much you know, until they know how much you care.”  The tone, choice of words, and the overall delivery become the brushstrokes that paint the emotional landscape of a dialogue. While there is a multiplicity of pitfalls to brutal honesty, many individuals still prefer it over placating fake niceties. This delicate performance of tactful truth is essential in building trust. 

Maintaining this balance, we recognize that integrity in communication is indispensable and equally precious. The lens through which we view the world influences our reception of information, either embracing it charitably or resisting it defensively—respectful communication becomes the bridge that fosters understanding, enabling constructive dialogue even amidst differing perspectives. Approaching conversations with an honest curiosity about the other person’s perspective promotes respect. I recently participated in an interfaith conversation that was unpleasant from the very start. The other person’s rudeness tempted me to reciprocate, leading to an unproductive tug-of-war where both of us expended energy without making any progress. A moment of self-awareness enabled me to disengage from the futile situation. Self-awareness enables individuals to manage emotions, avoid unintentional offenses, and adapt their communication tone to suit the situation. Without acknowledging and respecting another person’s culture, beliefs, background, and humanity, there is no point in expecting to establish a meaningful rapport with them to share your own thoughts. When individuals consistently demonstrate thoughtfulness through thoroughness and a genuine commitment to ethical considerations, they convey reliability and integrity. 

Conscientiousness instills confidence in others. As a teen, I once sat at a party talking with a new acquaintance, who promptly took out a knife and stabbed a balloon hovering over my head. Needless to say, any inclination I had toward building a connection there came to an abrupt end as well. While their intention was to showcase a new knife, it came at the cost of my sense of security. Trust-building hinges on the predictability and coherence of one’s choices, and conscientious decision-making serves as a powerful signal of accountability and principled conduct. It communicates respect for the consequences of one’s actions and fosters an environment where individuals feel secure and valued.

This naturally segues into the discussion of the virtue of emotional resilience—an individual’s adeptness at adapting and recovering from adversity, stress, or substantial life challenges. During times of intense stress as a heart surgeon, Russell M. Nelson was known for being level-headed. He said, “It’s a matter of extreme self-discipline. Your natural reaction is, ‘Take me out, coach! I want to go home.’ But of course you can’t. A life is totally dependent on the whole surgical team. So you’ve got to stay just as calm and relaxed and sharp as you ever were.” Emotional resilience is not about how much stress you can take; it’s having the tools to navigate challenges, manage emotions, and emerge stronger. 

Emotional resilience begs us to patiently take our time in building trust. Trust-building happens gradually and slowly—it’s a delicate endeavor. Both parties must contribute to its consistent development. While first impressions are helpful for the initial steps of a quickly formed trust, this must eventually evolve over time if we want to achieve long-term genuine trust. American writer and humorist Joe Abercrombie is often attributed with the proverb, “Trust comes in a thimbleful and departs in a bucketful.” In essence, this highlights the fragility of trust. It’s also a reminder to us that once trust is established through long-term effort, we should exercise caution before hastily discarding it the second things become unclear, confusing, or even hurtful.

This period of seeing an uncomfortable moment through often requires individuals to be vulnerable with each other. Brené Brown reminds us, “Staying vulnerable is a risk we have to take if we want to experience connection.” Inevitably, all human interactions can become strained and awkward at times. Effort and time are needed to rebuild when the occasion arises that trust is damaged. Adapting expectations involves recognizing that an integral aspect of building trust includes the occasional need for repairs to the bridge of understanding. Navigating trust-building involves the significant contributions of patience, care, politeness, intuition, cultural sensitivity, desire for repair, and various other elements.

In the New Testament, Matthew pleads for all of us to become like little children. This is a call to be teachable and to embrace vulnerability in order to build trust. Vulnerability is often overlooked but is vital in building trust in a relationship. It’s not a passive stance; rather it’s a radical boldness to be humble and open to feedback. This is similar to my trust in President Nelson’s spiritual guidance. While he, like all humans, isn’t perfect, his teachings have been highly instrumental in connecting me to spiritual nourishment, even to the bread of life, Jesus Christ. Humility is not a sign of weakness; it’s a bold act of strength. It takes courage to admit mistakes, to learn from others, and to embrace a humble mindset in a world that often values preservation of one’s ego.

For example, when I was diagnosed with a brain tumor, one person counseled me to get hypnotherapy and use my faith to blink the tumor away into thin air.  Conversely, my neurologist, with years of study and practice, advised that the most effective course of action was prompt and decisive surgery to remove the tumor. I truly believe that the neurologist was the qualified person worthy of my attention and heed. Listening to his expert advice based on ample experience was the blessing God offered me. My surgeon had paid a price of several decades of learning and practice to know what he knew. Much like my choice to heed the experienced advice of a neurologist during that health crisis, seeking spiritual guidance involves turning to those who have paid the price in gaining spiritual understanding to be considered experts. 

My experience with Honey reinforces the universal principles of how to build trust in all aspects of life. Drawing parallels between Honey’s trust and the recent counsel from President Russell M. Nelson, we see that trust isn’t blind acceptance; it’s a discerning choice based on shared experiences, reliability, and a commitment to mutual well-being. Our trust in others flourishes through the expressions of vulnerable reliability, preserving patience as we strive to comprehend each other amidst our imperfections.

The post Lessons in Trust from a Crooked-Beaked Chicken appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

Prince Rupert’s Drops have fascinated scientists from the 17th century to the current day. They are tadpole-shaped pieces of glass with long, sinuous tails. To create one, a glassmaker drops molten glass into water. This causes the outer layer of the glass droplet to cool very rapidly. The inner core cools much more slowly. As it does, it seeks to contract, but it can’t. That’s because the outer layers have already contracted. This creates “residual stress.” Long after the cooling is complete, the outer layer remains locked in extreme tension, pulled towards the inner core.

The result of this extreme tension is that the outer layer—the bulbous part around the inner core—attains remarkable strength. How much? Enough to easily withstand a hammer blow or to even shatter a bullet. Prince Rupert’s Drops do have an Achilles’ heel, though: if the long tail is snipped, the entire drop will explode into powdered glass fragments as the tension is finally unleashed. But as long as the tail remains intact—as long as the strain remains in place—they are unbelievably strong.

Another example of the structural benefits of constant strain comes from radio masts. These narrow towers are some of the tallest structures humanity has ever built. One example is the Warsaw Radio Mast, which was the world’s tallest structure until it collapsed in 1991 (more on that later). The Warsaw Radio Mast reached almost half a mile into the sky (more than 2,120 feet), but it was only as wide as an SUV (16 feet on each of its three sides). How is it possible to keep such a thin tower standing?

The answer, as with tempered glass or Prince Rupert’s Drops, is tension. In the case of masts—including radio masts but also masts on sailing ships—the tension is provided by ropes or cables called guy wires or “stays.” These stays are not only anchored to the ground (or the ship) to keep the mast from leaning in any direction, they are kept “taught” or tightened. Ironically, pulling the mast down provides the tension that gives it enough strength to stand tall.

Critically, these stays have to be in place on all sides of the mast. If only one side is anchored, then, of course, the mast will tilt to that side. So, in another paradox, the way to prevent the mast from tilting to the left or to the right is to pull it to both the left and the right.

The Warsaw Radio Mast collapsed in August 1991 when one of the main stays was disconnected so that it could be replaced. Two temporary stays were supposed to take its place, but a gust of wind caught the mast before they were properly anchored. The mast twisted, ripping other stays free of their anchors, and then snapped about halfway up. The mast collapsed from a lack of paradoxical tensions. Without the strain supplied by the stays, the mast lacked the continuing strength to stay upright.

The reason I got to thinking about Prince Rupert’s Drops and radio masts and stays has to do with a tragic tendency I have seen unfold far too often in contentious online discourse. How often have you heard honesty cited as a reason to abandon kindness and embrace hard-edged contention? Or, conversely, fear of contention used as a pretext to silence dissent or suppress sincere concerns?

You could argue that properly understood, all virtues exist with each other in harmony. That is probably true. I, too, believe that ultimately all virtues can be reconciled with each other from God’s perspective. In the final analysis, honesty and kindness will never conflict. But we don’t have God’s perspective, and the analysis we conduct is very far from final. From our limited human perspectives, it is actually very common for honesty and kindness (just to give one example of tension) to come into conflict. What should we do when this happens? And when we find ourselves torn not between obvious good and obvious evil but trying to muddle our way through conflicting, irreconcilable (to us, for now) virtues?

First, we should not let go of any one virtue. The tension of striving to hold onto kindness and honesty both—together—is like the tension that keeps a radio mast from collapsing or that gives tempered glass its strength. 

Holding on is not easy to do. Tension is uncomfortable, and the arguments in favor of letting go can be seductively persuasive. It’s not hard to cast honesty in a courageous light and to disparage kindness as superficial niceness. Or, conversely, to celebrate the ideal of kindness while denigrating truth-telling as uncompassionate callousness. Of course, these rationalizations are compelling. That’s why we call it rationalizing—because you’re generating lots of reasons for the dubious conclusion you prefer. 

But that easiness is a trap. It’s like snipping the tail of a Prince Rupert’s Drop. Once the tension is gone, there is no strength left. Any virtue, divorced from the society of other virtues, becomes a monstrous idol.

As Elder Neal A. Maxwell once taught, in the “spiritual ecology” of the gospel of Jesus Christ, individual teachings “are so powerful that any one of these doctrines, having been broken away from the rest, goes wild and mad. … The principle of love without the principles of justice and discipline goes wild. Any doctrine, unless it is woven into the fabric of orthodoxy, goes wild. The doctrines of the kingdom need each other just as the people of the kingdom need each other.”

Therapist Ty Mansfield applied this last fall to the widening sexuality conflict in America—elaborating on prophetic encouragement towards embracing both “love and law” while raising concern that “most people don’t actually seem to do very well at holding this tension.” As he put it, “There are too many who seem to be more concerned with truth than love, while others are more concerned with love than truth.” 

Mansfield went on to illustrate, “the morality of promoting the Church’s position on marriage and chastity is challenged to the degree that we are not at the same time looking deeply enough into the lives of others who feel somehow hurt or confused,” while also suggesting that “those who advocate for a stronger love and ministry often seem to have a kind of disregard for truth and law.” He then concluded, “I believe as we let ourselves take seriously the prophetic invitation and truly sit in this tension between truth and love, practicing more intentionally to hold both together, we can become better disciples of our Lord.”

As you can see, if you worship kindness at the expense of truth, you will be left with neither. How is it possible to be genuinely kind—genuinely concerned with the welfare of another—if you have given up regard for truthfully answering the questions of what will help or hurt them? If all you care about is honesty, then it, too, evaporates. Honesty is a condition of relationship, but how can you be honest if you no longer see other people as truly independent, valuable beings?

The easiness is a trap in another way as well. Why have we been sent here to Earth? It’s not to merely arrive at the correct conclusion to various moral questions. Propositional knowledge cannot save anyone. The devils know and tremble. That means life is not a theology exam. The reason we face these difficult, ambiguous moral choices is that the process of feeling our way through them—of holding onto contradictory virtues and never letting go, no matter the strain—changes who we are.

Holding onto opposing virtues is not very glamorous. From the outside, it can be impossible to tell the difference between a person who doesn’t care about virtue and a person who cares passionately about two competing virtues. This is more of an inner struggle, so don’t expect accolades or even notice. 

And yet it is only if enough of us persist in this inner struggle that we can resist the forces tearing the fabric of our society apart. If you cling to competing virtues and embrace the ambiguity and complexity that so often accompanies the process of arriving at moral choices, then it is easy to see people who come to different conclusions as being good and reasonable (even while you disagree). After all, the questions are genuinely difficult. 

And so, in the end, we cannot choose to experience tension or not. We can only choose what kind. On the one hand, we can embrace internal tension by holding onto competing virtues. Internalizing this kind of tension between competing ideals allows a deeper connection to emerge even in the context of disagreement. This allows friendship between opponents and replaces contention with good faith contestation. 

On the other hand, we can find inner tranquility by letting go of virtues one by one until we have a single, monstrous, mutated virtue left as our idol. This will result in some kind of peace on the inside. No one is calmer than an extremist who has extinguished the last embers of self-doubt and conscience. But the more of us who choose this internally “easy” path, the less peace will exist between people. Neighbor will contend with neighbor, parents and children will disown each other, and the love of many shall wax cold.

The right choice is clear, but it is also difficult. I pray we have the courage to make it anyway.

The post The Strength of Moral Tension appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

In low-trust communities and societies, life is a little harder. You keep your doors locked and never leave your kids unaccompanied. You get your guard up when someone asks you for something. You take fewer risks and spend more energy protecting what you already have. You check and recheck, ask for references, and investigate, rather than simply trusting. People in low-trust communities even tend to have fewer kids, because of the vulnerability that is involved in bringing new life into the world.

High social trust is easier to maintain in communities where everyone “thinks the same,” in the sense of having a high degree of agreement on core values and beliefs. This is one reason Utah has tended to score highly on measures of social trust: most people in the state share a core worldview. When you know someone is a fellow church member, you feel you already know a lot about them because of the beliefs you expect they share with you. And when you feel you know someone, you tend to trust them more.

While there are substantial benefits to being part of a high trust community, there is a downside too, which is vulnerability to cheaters and liars, who can use high levels of trust to take advantage of community members. From the point of view of a conman, trust is just gullibility. Communities whose social trust is built on shared belief, in particular, are vulnerable to bad actors who exploit trust by pretending to share community beliefs.

This vulnerability makes high-trust communities unstable in one important sense. When bad actors insinuate themselves into a community, the level of trust diminishes. Community members become warier when they realize someone has taken advantage of them or their friends. Members of faith communities who repeatedly encounter bad actors realize they cannot assume that fellow members are also fellow believers. Social trust takes a long time to develop but can unravel quickly in the presence of bad actors.

It’s not so much like that anymore. Divisions in the Church increasingly resemble those outside of it. We have less in common than we used to—members who nominally share religious beliefs often seem to have wildly different worldviews. There is a diminishing sense of solidarity: we support each other less in keeping church standards, especially when keeping those standards involves a social cost. Other changes fit a pattern of declining trust: we are slipping in our ministering (formerly home/visiting teaching). Marriage rates are falling. We are having fewer children—the rate of decline in Utah specifically is striking. In general, we seem to be acting more and more like a low-trust community.

What explains this unraveling of social trust in the Church, if, in fact, it is happening?

Maybe the Saints have spontaneously become more jaded and untrusting. Or maybe we have become less worthy of trust. But it is hard to see why this would be the case, or, if it is, why the shift has been so rapid. It seems to me the presence of bad actors in our communities is part of the explanation. We have, unfortunately, been exposed to a growing number of them, coinciding with the emergence of a new religion and near-universal adoption of social media by our members.

Meaning, that there are now a lot of very vocal people, especially in English-speaking online spaces, who pretend to be loyal to the Church and to believe in its teachings but are not, and do not. They keep up a pretense of belief, at least in front of fellow members, because it gives them credibility when they criticize the Church.

This credibility is an underrated ingredient in successful efforts to pull people away from the Church. When someone outside the Church criticizes it, we correctly contextualize what they say as criticism and respond accordingly. When someone who appears to be a faithful member criticizes the Church, we assume they share our loyalties and try hard to integrate what they say into our mental model of what it means to be faithful, which causes confusion if the person does not, in fact, share our loyalties. A Latter-day Saint student at a secular university hearing something that challenges her beliefs usually meets the challenge, while a student at BYU hearing the same thing from a deceptive instructor will often simply become confused and discouraged—or worse.

In old-school online forums, the tactic of posing as a member of a high-trust community in order to criticize or sabotage it is called “concern trolling,” and is typically banned because of the poisonous effect it has on discourse. Jesus gave us the vivid metaphor of a wolf wearing sheep’s clothing. As much as we hate to admit it, deceit often works. The wolf’s teeth are not his only weapon, nor are “ideas” the critic’s.

Concern trolling, in the context of the Church, works on two levels. On the first level, bad actors simply trick many members into thinking they are fellow believers. On the second, they rely on members who see through the ruse not to say anything. In high-trust communities where everyone tends to be honest, there is usually a norm against accusing others of bad faith. And for good reason—false accusations of bad faith can themselves be very damaging to social trust. So church members feel compelled to assume good faith, or at least not to openly question it. When someone in our community says they are just as faithful as anyone, we tend to nod and take them at their word, even if they spend most of their time trying to discredit the prophets and introduce tension with church teachings.

Our group ethic of assuming everyone is being honest works wonderfully when everyone really is being honest. The price of engagement goes way down. Life is easier. But when bad actors exploit this tendency, the same ethic means they can do a lot more damage than they otherwise could. When a nontrivial number of people in the community are taking advantage of others by acting in bad faith, an unconditional assumption of good faith becomes untenable. When you become aware of burglars hitting houses nightly in your neighborhood, you lock your doors and install a security system. When violent criminals start posing as hitchhikers, you stop picking people up. When sheep are getting eaten, you start watching for wolf snouts poking through the mask.

But while they seek attention, these influential bad actors do not do what they do primarily for money or even for power, though money and power are often part of the story (defectors tend to lose followers and even funding when they are excommunicated or admit they do not believe in their faith). Rather, they honestly believe in what they are doing, despite the deception involved, because they think it advances a greater good. They are motivated mainly by the missionary urge, felt zealously in converts to any religion, to convert one’s friends and peers to a newfound faith. Such an urge in itself is healthy, but to hide one’s motive in some kind of missionary work is … cheating. It’s as if we sent former Catholics into Catholic communities as covert missionaries, where their job was to pretend they were still Catholic to retain trust and credibility with the people they tried to indoctrinate into our teachings. That might well work, but if it did, it would be at the expense of our souls. It would also be at the expense of considerable social trust in the communities we preyed upon.

Maybe the idea that influential bad-faith actors are contributing to an unraveling of social trust in the North American church is a stretch. Most problems we experience in the Church can be explained by our own flaws and sins, not by nefarious bad actors.

But social trust isn’t like individual righteousness—a thing no one but yourself can deprive you of. It’s not even like a collective virtue, comparable to our tendency to deal honestly with each other as Saints. Social trust is a public good; a social phenomenon. It cannot be sustained at a high level in the presence of dissembling and trickery. Nor should it be: insisting on an assumption of good faith when bad actors abound is like insisting on leaving your doors unlocked at night when crime is at high levels. You might be fine in doing it, but you also might be putting your kids or others in your stewardship at undue risk.

The good news is the situation is not hopeless. Something can be done about bad actors, and social trust can be rebuilt over time.

The bad news is there is no pleasant way to start the process. Criminals must be arrested. Conmen have to be publicly shamed or run out of town. The wolves must be recognized, in the open, as wolves. It’s no good if many of us privately know who the defectors are if we participate in the pretense that enables them to keep deceiving.

Jesus told us we must love our enemies. I think we often fail at this for a basic reason: we decline to admit that we have enemies in any specificity. We assume everyone is our friend and has good intentions for us, then we love them on that condition. But “do not even the publicans the same”? It was in this context Jesus told us to be perfect: to love even those who despitefully use us and persecute us. Such injurious people do exist, both within and outside the Church. They are our neighbors and our enemies, and once we accept this fact we can finally love and forgive them despite it. More than that, we can tell the truth that will free them and us both from the deception that continues to poison our relations with each other and to weaken the bonds of trust among the Saints.

The post Unraveling Trust in the North American Church appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

He’s a picky eater. In his defense, textures and smells hit him far stronger than other people. Most foods outside of his favorites require sheer willpower to eat. But the world isn’t kind to picky eaters, so we felt like we needed to help him stretch himself. After enduring lots of unsolicited and bad advice (it definitely feels like everyone has an opinion about your kid’s eating), we finally settled on giving him new things to experience in very small amounts.

In this dinner of infamy fourteen years ago, he was given a chicken nugget.

Most nights he finished what we gave him, if not always quickly and cheerfully. With a lot of dinners like this, he developed strategies to eat food he doesn’t like.

But not this night. Sweeping up later, I found scattered bits of a chicken nugget littering the floor under his chair. He’d surreptitiously torn it to tiny pieces, an attempt to make them small enough to go unnoticed. I definitely noticed.

What followed was mostly unremarkable. He was punished appropriately and humanely. He still loves us and we, of course, love him. But what I reflect on still fourteen years later is the anger I felt. I’d been duped, disrespected, and dissembled with. My own son had lied to me – and not just passively. There was an actual lie in there because I remember asking him if he was done eating his chicken nugget and he told me he was. He knew he wasn’t telling me the truth and he did it anyway. It was the first, to-my-face lie by one of my children.

Honesty is hard, harder than we admit.

Immanuel Kant famously argued that our obligation to be honest is so absolute that it would even prevent you from lying to a murderer at the door while you hid his intended victim. Ethical principles are universal, so if it were alright to lie at that moment then all lies would be acceptable. To rephrase in the exact words of a past church leader of mine, “There’s no such thing as a little white lie. All lies are heinous black and will send you straight to hell.”

Yet every time I have taught this idea to my ethics students over the years, they’ve found Kant’s example not just wrong, but repulsive. Most people react that way. How could a lie be worse than exposing a person to imminent harm?

But that presents a tricky alternative. If I can lie to a murderer, then that means it’s okay to lie sometimes. This is also hard to accept because it gives us something like an escape hatch. “Sometimes” is a shifty foundation for right and wrong. Everyone agrees that honesty is right and lying is wrong. Right?

And yet we are not—in practice—consistently honest people. Repeated research shows that pretty much all of us lie at least a little bit all the time. Our lies are typically inconsequential, and we usually lie to ourselves the most. But the way we think and communicate diverges frequently from the truth.

Sloppy thinking about honesty serves us poorly. Students use it to cheat. Marketers use it to embellish. Politicians use it to lie. We paradoxically reject dishonesty, yet expect it everywhere. How do we get clearer thinking about the principle of honesty?

When I think of that moment after dinner discovering the scattered remains of my sweet son’s integrity, I have to consider that this five-year-old’s failure wasn’t just about the truth. He wasn’t fundamentally dishonest. Indeed like any kid, he was sometimes brutally honest and we’d teach him what was and wasn’t okay to say to people. (What is politeness if not often tiny, acceptable dishonesties?)

I knew then and know now that he has a good heart. So why was I hurt at being lied to? The problem that dinner wasn’t his commitment to truth, but his relationship with us, his parents. It mattered that he was my son. If I’d been babysitting a nephew, the same sneaky behavior would’ve been funny to me, not offensive. With my son it wasn’t just the truth at stake; it was our connection.

I tell this story because it illustrates why honesty is hard. Practical honesty, the kind that we intuitively use every day, is not measured by the truth alone. It can’t be, considering all the issues noted above. There’s something extra that makes honesty both harder and clearer.

If honesty could be calculated, it wouldn’t be:

Honesty = truth

Instead, the calculation is:

Honesty = Truth x Relationships.

This brings us back to Kant. He saw ethics as an obligation borne from two things: first, our capacity to reason and discern truth; and second, the inviolable dignity inherent in every person. Truth doesn’t matter without people who matter. Ethics doesn’t even make sense if people are removed from the equation. Every lie needs a listener.

How we think of others makes practical honesty so much clearer. We like to say, for example, that someone who lies has a “shaky,” “loose,” or “relaxed” relationship with the truth. But the more precise accusation is that their relationship with others needs to be stronger. They undervalue the people to whom they owe the truth.

This also makes sense of our sloppy thinking about honesty’s boundaries. It’s because relationships are hard. We often struggle to keep them healthy. They compete for our attention and loyalty, putting us in dilemmas about which to prefer. The hardest decisions you’ll ever face about honesty will certainly involve relationships that are at odds with each other.  

Relationships also explain why we frequently feel comfortable stepping away from the truth. We dissemble all the time to give loved ones confidence or comfort. We bite our tongues to keep the peace. Some families are scrupulously honest until they play a board game together where cheating is part of the fun. (This is not a universal experience, as newlyweds discover regularly.) And imagine Christmastime without the perpetual lie of Santa Claus.

Our ineptitude in relationships often leads us to dishonesty. Kids will often lie because they think it preserves good feelings with their parents. Consider how many ill-conceived lies are motivated by love. We’re lucky that same love, in turn, motivates forgiveness.

None of this says that relationships excuse us. This formula—Truth times Relationships—makes more of honesty, not an escape hatch from it. We owe people the truth. And relationships of all shapes and sizes easily come to life, even between total strangers. Anytime our words (or silence) put us in another’s orbit, the gravity of truth pulls us to be honest with them.

The heart of the matter is this: dishonesty is indignity because it discards relationships and the people who come with them. Honesty, on the other hand, is more than mere truth; it’s connection and commitment and it manifests love.

How do we become more honest people? We won’t find useful answers with Kant’s murderer at the door or other hypotheticals, as much fun as I have teaching them to my students. The answers are in our day-to-day relationships. We need to understand those better. What obligations and commitments do we owe to our family, friends, coworkers, and community?

We become more honest by building stronger relationships with those close to us, commitments to those who count on us, and respect for everyone around us. My children have lied to my wife and me many times since that fateful dinner, and with more at stake. But over the years I’ve also seen them show incredible integrity. At every point, it’s been our relationships at the center of it all, not merely the truth.

The post Honesty is Hard. Let’s Not Give Up On It. appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

The Big Idea:  Sure, persuading and being open to persuasion sounds great.  But what if deeper conversation threatens my security, the meaning in my life, my sense of self, or even my very life or the lives of ones dear to me?  There are no easy answers to this, but after years of observing people engaged in radical disagreements over values, we have seen how remaining honestly engaged in mutual persuasion contests with our rivals (and even with people we might consider to be our mortal enemies) can often lead to positive change in attitudes—even if it does not always seem to bring consensus or peace right now.

“Why talk with a Latter-day Saint?”   

We asked a gay rights activist friend of ours this question.  Why, indeed, would a gay rights activist fighting for what she would call “marriage equality” want to talk with a conservative person of faith who believes that sexual relations and marriage between people of the same sex is contrary to God’s law and ultimately damaging to human happiness and societal health? After all, that religionist would be challenging aspects of our friend that she considers fundamental to who she is as a person, and to her ability to live a life of love and fulfillment—along with threatening the validity of her marriage to another woman. Other people in same-sex marriages have children, so entire families are sometimes at stake.  

And why would that same Latter-day Saint want to talk with her?  After all, from this conservative person’s point of view, the very definition of marriage (not to mention its sanctity) is being threatened by her community, as well as the very notion of “family.”  Indeed, from that perspective, the very fabric of society—and people’s very souls—could be at risk. 

If legislation continues to move in a “progressive” direction, at what point will conservative people of faith be forced to choose between their convictions and the law?  Furthermore, if our gay activist friend is right about the naturalness and moral acceptability of homosexuality, then some very fundamental religious beliefs are wrong, and the very structure of spiritual authority in a church like The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is called into question.

On a larger level, this raises the question of why would anyone want to talk with anyone else who questions or challenges something that one views as being so deeply personal and fundamental to who one is as a person?  One’s very sense of self, one’s very sense of the meaning of life, and very real social structures (marriage, nation-state, economic relationships) could be at stake.  Indeed, one’s very life could be at stake.  

So, why risk it?   

Why indeed, when even planetary survival might be at stake?  Why, for example, should a climate change “believer” engage in whole-truth-seeking conversation with a climate change “denier”—and vice versa?  Isn’t the “denier’s” denial (from the climate “believer’s” point of view) reflecting a dangerously delusional belief contributing to a climate catastrophe that could conceivably make the planet uninhabitable?  Why engage with such a person? And in the reverse direction, from the “denier’s” perspective, hasn’t the “believer” simply swallowed hook-line-and-sinker a hoax perpetrated by environmental extremists who do not have our best interests at heart?  Why, pray tell, should either one of these people be open to being persuaded on any point?

Similarly, why should a libertarian advocate of capitalism sit down at the table with a Marxist socialist and engage with someone who (the capitalist thinks) represents an ideology that has caused the deaths of millions and the destruction of entire nations?  And why should a Marxist socialist be open to persuasion by a person who advocates a system (he considers to be) the embodied enemy of people’s right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?

Likewise there are those who find themselves at odds over what it means to be “patriotic,” or, indeed, whether one ought to be “patriotic” at all.  What could such people hope to gain from entering into a conversation that assumes a willingness to both try to persuade and be open to being persuaded?

We might consider the possibility of conversation between a religious adherent talking openly with someone deeply critical of their faith claims—perhaps especially one who has departed from the faith. Given the risk of harming one’s faith, there are many instances of both sides intentionally avoiding any real exchange. 

Or take the divide between black Americans and the KKK.   One can easily imagine either side entering into a conversation in order to persuade . . . but open to being persuaded? That is harder to imagine.

Let us provide just one more particularly poignant example. In order to bring home the difficulty of assuming that being open-to-persuasion may not always advisable or possible, this example involves a mother’s love for her child:  if a parent identifying as an LGBTQ ally believes that her gay child has been harmed by orthodox religious teachings, how could she even entertain the notion of being open to being persuaded by a religious person’s point of view on the matter?  Or, conversely, if a devout conservative Christian mother fears for both the temporal happiness and the eternal destiny of a child considering embracing his or her homosexual orientation as central to that child’s identity, what possible reason would she have for entering into conversation with the aforementioned LGBTQ ally?

Might risking one’s deepest convictions by opening oneself to persuasion be itself an evil thing?  After all, some believe that the devil himself can appear as an angel of light. How do we know when to draw the line?  How do we know when, instead of listening, we should be arming ourselves (either metaphorically or physically) to the teeth and fighting?  

We have been asking a lot of questions in this chapter.  The answers aren’t always so clean and simple. For instance, we acknowledge that the answer to some of these questions may simply be: “No, engaging in conversation with ‘those people’ may not be worth the risk. It may not even be right to entertain the possibility of being persuaded by ‘those people.’”

That may be true for a variety of reasons—ranging from the willingness of one or both parties to be open to new insights (or the emotional readiness either of them may have to  engage in the first place) to occasions in which too much is simply at stake (personal security, or foundational identity or faith, or other non-negotiable values or causes). 

And, of course, at different periods or moments, we may simply feel that it is too painful or threatening to have such a conversation, even if we want to and can imagine good coming of it.  While the potential legitimacy of threats against us is important to acknowledge, it’s also helpful to admit how often we can live from a place of reactivity as a human species—inhabiting almost a chronic “fight or flight” place on a physiological level.  This isn’t true for all of us—and certainly not all the time—but for many of us, many times, this can be a complicating and compounding factor here. In that case, a sense of threat sometimes would say more about us—our emotional and physical state—than it does the objective scope of the threat itself. Like a hyperactive immune system “attacking” a non-threatening antigen during an allergic reaction or in one of the many autoimmune disorders plaguing us today, hyper-reactive emotional responses can possibly hit any of us.  

If that’s where we’re coming from (at times), it shouldn’t perhaps be hard to understand why any of this deeper conversation (especially the persuasive variety) can feel so impossible to engage in.  

It’s important to note, however, that this doesn’t deny the possibility of deeper reactivity being a good thing—in the sense where certain deep gut reactions towards real threats or our enemies can act as wise guides to taking needed action (fight or flight).  Studies of crime victims have found a surprising number of people recollecting a visceral sense of deep threat right before being attacked. In the case of real threat upon us, such a sense can protect us from real harm if we pay attention to it.  

So, is it really possible (or advisable) ever to say “yes” to such potentially threatening conversations?   

We believe it is.  For a number of reasons.

First of all, such conversations are clearly possible, as they do, in fact, happen—even in the most unlikely of situations (e.g. How One Man Convinced 200 Ku Klux Klan Members To Give Up Their Robes).  

Furthermore, while they may not necessarily involve being either initially or ultimately open to persuasion on certain core issues (a black man is unlikely to seriously consider whether or not the KKK’s views on the inferiority of his race are true or not;  likewise, a Latter-day Saint and a gay rights advocate may not be willing to consider changing their beliefs on doctrine or identity), there may be many other levels or dimensions to the issue in which openness to mutual persuasion may be more possible.  

No matter how we might feel about someone’s position, we might at least open to the possibility that this other person who believes something wrong and unsettling might well have goodness or thoughtfulness to them (even despite that disappointing, noxious belief).  That, in turn, might lead to other discoveries—allowing us to see, for instance, that their deeper intent is something we can resonate with, if not the details of how they’re pursuing that intent.  We might, in other words, come to see that their otherwise unacceptable beliefs might point to a more humanly understandable strategy to meet some fundamental human need for security, meaning, belonging, etc. (The Non-Violent Communication folks are especially good at facilitating the appreciation of the “needs” underlying our sometimes “unskillful” strategies we use to meet them.) 

We also believe such conversations are indeed advisable, as we do happen to live together on the same planet, and in the same country, and our interdependent lives cannot help but influence each other.  While “marriage equality” advocates and “traditional family” defenders may never see eye-to-eye on some of their differences, they might find themselves at least “persuadable” on a practical level–merely acquiescing to mutual toleration living in a kind of separate co-existence. While this is a thin foundation for trustworthy stability, it is better than active persecution that leads to social catastrophe.

If such difficult conversations are simply avoided, however—or if they are not engaged in on deep enough, whole-truth-seeking levels—the strategies for co-existence may not be sufficiently rooted in the true lived realities of both sides so as to ensure more lasting solutions.   

Similarly, climate change “believers” and “skeptics” may continue to disagree on many things, but, if they choose to take off their blindfolds and unstop their ears and begin to treat each other as allies-in-tension in the search for the whole truth of what is really going on with the climate, they may find ways to converge—in spite of their differences—on ways of finding more truly life-sustaining and environmentally-friendly sources of energy.  However, if, instead of seeing each other as allies-in-tension, as co-resisters, united in the common project of real understanding of both each other and the world—if instead of this they merely continue to try to “win” the argument, and fail to see their ideological opponent as perhaps their greatest gift, then they are unlikely to “converge” on real solutions (whatever they might be) to real problems (whatever they might be).  Instead, they are likely to remain in mutually-imposed exile from the riches of each other’s insights and experiences—riches which arguably no one else can provide.

In the long run, it is conceivable that one side or the other—on any number of important issues—will eventually “win the day,” leaving no real room for the other’s beliefs, or cherished ways of life.  But the more mutual understanding there can be among people holding even truly irreconcilable points of view, the more likely that mutual influence will, at the very least, be based on the truth—and not on lies we may be telling about each other.  We will no longer be “lobbing bombs on straw men,” as our friend Steve Bhaerman has put it, but rather meeting honestly, respectfully, as worthy opponents on the battlefield of contending truth claims.  

Therein, perhaps—in the larger, whole truth of a matter—can be found the way out of the impasse and into productive conversations.  There is almost always some degree of truth in almost any perspective, and there is also (almost always) something we can learn from nearly anyone. There is, moreover, almost certainly something very important that ‘those people’ can learn from us.  Even if we know in our hearts that ‘those people’ are wrong—maybe even dead wrong—and that we will never change our own minds, we might at least discover that engaging in whole-truth oriented conversations with our ideological (and maybe even mortal) enemies has the potential to help them “see the light.”

It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?

At an even deeper level, even assuming that no such ‘conversion’ in our own point of view is likely, there is always our own integrity to cherish and cultivate.   Standing firm in the face of ideological opposition can serve to strengthen our own conviction of the truth—sharpening our arguments and deepening our own understanding, along with our own sense of self worth and dignity (or the dignity of the individuals or groups of people we may be fighting for).  

And, if, in the end, it turns out that we must face each other on the battlefield—either metaphorically or in physical realities legally or culturally—then, at the very least, we will know we have exhausted the possibilities for peace, and we have pursued the path of truth and persuasion to the best of our ability.  We will, in other words, at least know (to the best of our ability to discern) our enemy as they really are. And we may even have caught a glimpse of their essential humanity, and come to see them as at least “worthy” opponents (even if still wrong, perhaps tragically, deeply, horrifically wrong).  

In this way, we will, at least, have “grokked” our enemies. But peace does not necessarily follow “grokking,” as Heinlein’s novel “Stranger in a Strange Land” describes it:

The Martian Race had encountered the people of the fifth planet, grokked them completely, and had taken action; asteroid ruins were all that remained, save that the Martians continued to praise and cherish the people they had destroyed. 

Like the Martians from Heinlein’s novel who “grokked” their neighbors on the fifth planet—and then proceeded to destroy them (as it seemed they must)—we too may have to draw a line in the sand, and use whatever means we have at our disposal, to defeat our enemies. Peace may not always be possible.  But, perhaps, the kind of love of enemies— real enemies—is still worth it, and we, too, may “praise and cherish” whatever is good and worthy of being saved in them.

But that is only the worst possible scenario.

There are so many other lovely surprises that can emerge from such an encounter—from insights that open our minds to new vistas, to fresh emotions that dissipate a chronic hardness towards Those People we’ve been carrying around.  

More basically, maybe just acknowledging our mutual threat would be an opening to greater empathy.  And, perhaps, a whole new world of fruitful co-existence—as yet unimaginable—could open before our eyes.  

Have we persuaded you to give it a try?   We hope you’re at least tempted. After all, the worst case scenario is still there, if we need it (appreciating something beautiful about an enemy we’ve committed to fight).  Since we all know that we don’t know everything, why not bank on the possibility (however remote) that whole-truth-seeking, even with our mortal enemies, might provide us all with something we can “praise and cherish.”

And in the end, maybe the meeting of hearts and minds—in the midst of deep suspicion and irreconcilable beliefs—is itself worth more than any mere resolution of the conflict.  We happen to think so, and it is this experience of a Third Possibility—a conscious connection in the midst of ultimately unbridgeable chasms of objectively irreconcilable differences—it is the experience of this kind of communion on the level of heart and spirit that is what most motivates the authors of this book.

Jacob may one day have to take the sword of truth and thrust it into Arthur’s heart.  Arthur may one day have to shake the very foundations of Jacob’s spiritual security. Randall may one day have to rudely awaken both Arthur and Jacob to a truth neither wants to see. The mutual threat may be very real indeed.  We do not know.  

But, what we do know is that, in the meantime, here and now, we find we can actually love each other, in spite of—perhaps even because of—the fact that we find in each other worthy opponents on the battlefield of truth claims.

Having grokked each other, maybe there will be nothing left but “asteroid ruins.”  Better that, we think, than ruins left in the wake of a war fought without having first grokked each other. . . . better honest battle than wars fought on the basis of misunderstandings and lies.

The Big Invitation:  

Next time you are in the presence of your enemy, take stock of what you really know for sure (beyond any shadow of reasonable doubt) about him or her.  Then ask yourself: is this someone I should, from this moment on, fight with all my might? Is this already the point of no return? Or is this person someone I may yet find a way to live with in peace?  Is this person, perhaps, even someone I might come to love? Is this person someone I might even need in some way (either as useful opposition to help me sharpen and deepen my own understanding, or as someone from whom I might need to learn something)? 

If there is the slightest chance that this might be so, then ask yourself:  shall I take the chance and engage? Here? Now?

We cannot offer any further advice.  Past that threshold, your choice is up to you.

The post The Threat of Persuasion appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

This plea is surely sound as far as it goes.  And yet the essay passes over troubling questions.  Why has our public discourse become so toxic and even menacing in recent years?  Is it just that people have somehow forgotten (or not been taught) to practice good manners and mutual respect?  Or is the destructive tendency noted in the essay merely one symptom of deeper and more worrisome developments?  In which case pleas for greater civility, however sensible and well-intended, are likely to be ineffectual?

I believe the destructive tendencies in current public discourse are a manifestation of even more serious underlying problems.  The point could no doubt be developed in various ways.  We might consider, for example, the decline or dysfunction of the formative institutions that historically have instilled habits of virtue and respect—churches, families, schools, Boy Scout troops, and other intermediate associations.  In this essay, though, I want to focus on a different causal factor.  More specifically, I suggest that the degeneration of much of our public discourse into name-calling and threats is a consequence of two closely-related developments.

First, ironically, the degeneration is an unintended and yet natural consequence of artificial constraints we have put upon our discourse precisely with the purpose of improving the discourse and making it more respectful and inclusive.  Second, the degeneration reflects a more general depletion of our normative resources (“normative” referring to the store of moral assumptions, values, and premises that we appeal to in addressing questions of justice and morality).  This depletion threatens to leave us with little to say or do except accuse and threaten.

Constraining the Public Conversation: “Public Reason” and  Constitutional Secularity

Start with the idea, associated most closely with John Rawls but developed by a variety of theorists, of “public reason.”  Whatever you may think of these proposals, the basic underlying motivation seems undeniably admirable.  In a profoundly pluralistic world, we need to find ways to reason together, treating one another with “equal concern and respect.”  How to do that? The philosophy of public reason becomes intricate; but the animating idea is that in public deliberations we ought to bracket our “comprehensive doctrines” (Christianity, Judaism, Marxism, whatever), about which we are unlikely to agree, and converse within a domain of “overlapping consensus”—reasoning with each other on the basis of premises that all share.  (Or at least that all “reasonable persons” share).

The goal is a good one, surely.  But notice the predictable and indeed intended effect: public reason drastically limits the normative resources that individuals can reason from.  Many of our most fundamental convictions are part of our “comprehensive doctrines”—our basic worldviews or philosophies of life— and these will now be presumptively inadmissible for purposes of public deliberation under this approach.

But if I cannot defend my positions by invoking and explaining my most fundamental convictions, what am I supposed to say?  I may find myself tongue-tied (so that, like the stammering Billy Budd, I might be able to express myself only by lashing out).  Or even if I can figure out a way to present my position using the more meager and generic resources of public reason, this presentation will likely not reveal the real or deeper reasons for my views. You may perceive that I am not being fully forthcoming, and thus suspect me of being disingenuous.  And vice versa: I may harbor the same suspicions toward you. Is this any sort of prescription for promoting mutual respect, . . . or mutual understanding, . . . or a searching and productive public conversation?

Of course, Rawlsian public reason is only a philosophical proposal.  But something not so different has been legally imposed by the Supreme Court, in the form of a requirement (said to arise from the First Amendment’s establishment clause) that governments act only for “secular” purposes.  The Court has never explained fully just what it thinks this requirement means (which is probably fortunate, because any attempted explanation would likely be less than edifying).  But one definite consequence has been that governments and government officials, and the lawyers who advise and represent them, firmly understand that laws and public policies cannot be justified on grounds that sound “religious.”

Well, so what?  Is that really a problem?  When speaking in the public square, you or I cannot justify our positions on crime or immigration or marriage or abortion by saying “God ordained such-and-such”: how serious a constraint is this, really?  Not very serious at all, it may seem on first reflection. There is a widely-held view, traceable back to Plato’s Euthyphro, which holds that something is not good or bad because God commands or prohibits it; on the contrary, God commands or prohibits things because they are (independently or intrinsically) good or bad.  On that assumption, why should it ever be necessary to invoke God’s will with respect to particular social practices like marriage or abortion or discrimination?  At least in principle, we should be able to explain why some practice that we favor or disfavor is good or bad, without adding the superfluous (and potentially inflammatory) observation that God commands or forbids it.

But this dismissive conclusion oversimplifies.  For many religious believers, God is relevant to normative issues of various kinds not merely or primarily as a dispenser of particular commands or prohibitions.  Rather, God and divine creation are the necessary predicate for the assumption that the cosmos reflects some sort of normative order—that it is not just the product of a random, morally blind evolutionary process.  This sort of worldview underlies, among other things, the kind of normative reasoning sometimes described as “natural law.”  On a humbler level, the notion of a providential order is discernible in the commonsensical musings and opining of ordinary citizens about things like families or the moral significance of being male and female.

But such reasoning, of whatever degree of sophistication, raises suspicions of “religion.”  And so the constitutional requirement of governmental secularity tends to screen these kinds of reasoning out of public deliberation.  As one salient example, think about the various cases adjudicating the permissibility of traditional marriage laws.  Lawyers and judges argued about whether traditional marriage was good for children—good as understood in terms of mundane and measurable criteria like delinquency and graduation rates.  The lawyers and judges did not consider—indeed they eschewed—questions like whether marriage is consistent with natural law or the providential order.  Such questions were understood to be out of bounds.

So then, if religious convictions and natural law reasoning (whether sophisticated or “common sensical”) are excluded from public deliberation, what are we left with?  With more than nothing.  But with a lot less than we might wish for, or than our predecessors had before the constraints of public reason and secularity were imposed.

Reasoning in Babel

Well then, someone might say, maybe we ought to simply repudiate the constraints that prevent us from drawing on all of our discursive resources—our “comprehensive doctrines,” our religious convictions, whatever.  And maybe we should do that.  But even if we could simply wish those constraints away, would we then find ourselves having rich and respectful public conversations?

Probably not. Rawls’s solution to the problem of pluralism may not achieve what he wanted it to, but he did not simply imagine the problem. Our normative world today is a kind of contemporary version of the tower of Babel, with people talking any number of moral languages and routinely failing to understand each other.

The problem is not just that people have radically different moral views—on sexuality, gender, nationalism, equality, environmentalism, wealth distribution, and other fundamental matters.  That much is obvious. But we differ not just in our ethics but also—less visibly but even more importantly—in our meta-ethics. We differ, that is, about what morality even means, or what it is that makes something morally good or morally bad.  We are, variously (and mostly unconsciously), utilitarians or Kantians, or Marxists, or providentialists, or . . . .  And thus we argue that gender reassignment or late-term abortion is or is not “morally wrong” without even realizing that we are talking past one another.  Because we are using the same words but with fundamentally different meanings.

This is a problem not just among lay-people but also among philosophers.  The philosopher Michael Smith observed that “if one thing becomes clear by reading what philosophers writing in meta-ethics today have to say, it is surely that enormous gulfs exist between them, gulfs so wide that we must wonder whether they are talking about a common subject matter.”

Given these difficulties on a philosophical level, it is hardly surprising that confusion reigns on the popular level.  The ordinary citizen may be passionate in his or her moral judgments—and yet wholly unable to articulate the metaethical premises that would explain what these moral judgments even mean.  Moreover, if those premises could be explicated and verbalized, we would likely discover they differ greatly from one person to another.  The sociologist James Davison Hunter thus found that Americans in essence inhabit “separate and competing moral galax[ies].”

So, in other words, even if there were not philosophical or constitutional restrictions on what we are allowed to say in the public square, how could we carry on productive conversations across such galactic divides. So then, in a situation like this, how are conversations to occur?

One possibility is to try to transform public issues into technical or pragmatic questions, using devices like economics or public choice theory.  Our goal here, basically, would be simply to help more people get more of what they want. And this works up to a point.  Other things being equal, as we say, for the most part people do agree that health is a good thing, that higher employment is better than lower employment, that contentedness is better than a state of discontent. Given our moral differences, it is natural enough that we often try to cram our discussions into this kind of utilitarian or consequentialist frame.

And yet for most of us, the utilitarian conversation will take us only so far.  It is fine to say that we ought to maximize the fulfillment of people’s various preferences: but how do we decide which preferences are admirable and which are despicable?  (The problem is familiar, and obvious.  Do we really decide on the permissibility of rape by balancing the utility gained by rapists against the disutility inflicted on the victims?)  And when choices have to be made about which preferences to fulfill (and which people’s preferences to fulfill) at the expense of other preferences and other people, how are those judgments to be made?  

It seems we need a normative discourse that goes beyond mere utility and good consequences.  Especially in the most fundamental matters—life, death, sexuality, basic justice.  But under the conditions of our moral Babel, how are we to find or develop such a discourse?

The Discourse of Denigration

In this situation, our desperate need for common ground from which to reason may lead us to notice that in fact there is at least one moral premise that nearly everyone does agree on—namely, that it is bad or wrong to act from mere malice or hatred.  That is a principle that, for the most part, utilitarians and Kantians and Christians and Jews can agree on.  So, might it serve as a solid foundation for our normative discussions?

Maybe.  Surely it is wrong to act from mere hatred.  And yet notice the effect of embracing the anti-hatred principle as the basis of our public moral discourse.  Now, how do you advance your position or attempt to win your argument?  What arguments will you make? Well, you will try to show that your opponents are acting from hatred.  They are racists, sexists, homophobes. Haters. That is exactly what a discourse founded on an anti-hatred principle prescribes.

The logic of this rhetoric of hatred will not impel you to adopt any principle of charitable interpretation—to interpret your subject or your interlocutors to make them “the best they can be.”  On the contrary.  The dynamics of this kind of discourse will effectively require that you portray your opponents and their position in the worst plausible light—to make them out to be “the worst they can be.”

This sort of public rhetoric is nasty, to be sure—nasty but necessary, in the absence of more affirmative or ennobling normative resources.  And so that is precisely what we see in so much of our public discourse today—people accusing other people of being hateful.  It is not just bumper stickers—and not just anonymous commenters or trolls on gutter-level websites—that resort to this sort of rhetoric.  In more elite discussions the vocabulary may be slightly more elegant—terms like “animus” may be substituted for “hatred” or “bigot”—but the substance can end up being basically the same. Just read the Supreme Court’s decision in United States v. Windsor (2013), the immediate predecessor to the culminating same-sex marriage decision, Obergefell v. Hodges (2015).  Or the opinions of the United States Civil Rights Commission in its statement entitled (with exquisite although presumably unintended irony) “Peaceful Coexistence.”

To be sure, the rhetoric of hatred can be—and often is—given a more chirrupy spin: instead of accusing our opponents of hatred, we can admonish them to “love.”  “Be kind,” we say to our foes, in a condescending, self-righteous tone.  In their actual content, these admonitions are essentially vacuous; they tell us nothing about what love or kindness would entail with respect to the particular issue we are addressing.  But in their tone and connotations, the implication is clear enough: I am being loving.  You are being unloving.  Hateful.

A rhetorical theme closely related to hatred is hypocrisy.  Accusations of hypocrisy are ubiquitous these days.  The Republicans, it is said with indignation, are a bunch of hypocrites.  So are the Democrats. The President is a hypocrite.  And the Chief Justice. And the array of commentators, and professors, and CEOs.  Everywhere we look, crowding us on all sides . . . hypocrites.

Well, no doubt there are plenty of hypocrites.  Jesus was not shy about making this accusation: “Woe unto you, hypocrites.”  And yet indictments of hypocrisy can be at least imprecise and also, often, simplistic and unfair. Do so many instances and varieties of error really reduce down to . . . simple hypocrisy?  People who oppose abortion are said to be “hypocrites” if they support capital punishment or fail to support subsidized contraception or government-funded daycare. “If you sincerely believed in the sanctity of life, as you claim, then you wouldn’t . . . .”  These positions are all debatable, to be sure.  But do the hypocrisy-flinging critics really lack the imagination to perceive possible ways of reconciling these various convictions?

Why, then, are charges of hypocrisy so prevalent?  The answer, it seems, draws on the same explanation that accounts for the pervasiveness of the rhetoric of hatred.  When there is virtually no agreement on moral standards, what are advocates to do?  One possibility, already noted, is to make the most of the one thing everyone still does mostly agree on—the wrongfulness of acting from hatred.  As the theorists of “internal critique” have explained, another possibility is to try to condemn your opponents under their own standards—to convict them of violating their own own moral commitments.  To attempt to show, in other words, that they are hypocrites.

A discourse based on mutual accusations of hatred and hypocrisy is ugly and divisive, to be sure.  As the essay by the Public Square editors noted, many observers today are aware of this problem, and would like to avoid it.  And yet, in the most fundamental normative controversies over life and death and sex and marriage, well . . . what else is there?  Ad hominem arguments were once classified as a logical fallacy.  Today, it seems, they are in many contexts a rhetorical necessity.

The Possibility of Civility?

Given the condition of our normative universe, we should hardly be surprised if public discourse has become increasingly nasty and menacing.  One might wish that advocates would be more respectful of each other.  And yet in our current situation, expressing disrespect and condemnation—accusing others of hatred and hypocrisy—is not merely an extraneous blight on discourse: it is, for some matters and in some contexts, the necessary essence of such discourse.  Indeed, given the nature of the debates and the rhetorical strategies that are employed, pretending to express respect for one’s opponent may itself seem either acidly ironic or else hypocritical.  “I humbly submit, with all due respect, that you are a hateful bigot. Nothing personal, of course.”

Even so, it is not inevitable that these strategies must degenerate into threats of violence.  Not inevitable—but also not surprising.  Once again, our normative and rhetorical situation induces us to express, and to attempt to induce, disrespect for our opponents.  To portray them as, basically, bad people.  But bad people deserve to have bad consequences inflicted on them.  Or so it may seem. At the very least, it is hard to work up much sympathy if bad things happen to people who are basically hateful and hypocritical.

If this diagnosis is correct, then we may doubt the effectiveness of even well-intentioned exhortations to greater civility.  This is not to say that such exhortations are inappropriate.  But the real task—and it is a daunting one—is somehow to replenish our normative resources, so that genuinely respectful and rewarding public conversations become an actual possibility and not just an illusory ideal.

The post Being Nice(r) Won’t Fix America’s Discursive Woes appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

“Now, as you have asked, behold, I say into you, keep my commandments,
and seek to bring forth and establish the cause of Zion.”
—Doctrine and Covenants 11:6

As we draw closer to election season, our minds turn to politics. Politics can sound like a dirty word; however, at its best, politics can be about seeking the betterment of society. Or, in Latter-day Saint parlance, a Zion-like society. 

One of the prophesied great events of the last days is the establishment of Zion on the earth, with the Lord commanding his followers to “seek to bring forth and establish the cause of Zion” (Doctrine and Covenants 11:6). Joseph Smith taught, “We ought to have the building up of Zion as our greatest object.” Emphasizing that Zion is not only a place, but embodies characteristics of each individual, Brigham Young taught, “Zion commences in the heart of each person.”

Given all this, I would submit that we should not be waiting for Zion while we suffer in Babylon; instead, we must be “preparing the ground for the upbuilding of the kingdom of God and the establishment of Zion.” That begins in our hearts and actions. We can build Zion by making choices that increase the characteristics of Zion in ourselves, in our families, in the Church, and in society.

Of course, seeking to build a Zion-like society in the broadest sense—striving and working for the godly and the common good—is not unique to Latter-day Saints. Many citizens—both religious and not—hope to enact justice and righteousness as they see them. And, in the context of a democratic republic, enacting justice and righteousness depends in large measure on electing “honest,” “good,” and “wise” leaders (Doctrine and Covenants 98:10).  

Scriptures teach that “Governments are instituted of God for the benefit of man” and that, ultimately, God “holds men accountable for their acts in relation to them, both in making laws and administering them, for the good and safety of society” (Doctrine and Covenants 134:1). Therefore, we will be held accountable for our acts in relation to our governments, including supporting candidates, voting, and encouraging ethical government. One of the characteristics of a Zion society, as reflected in one of the most joyful sections of the Book of Mormon (the Fourth Book of Nephi), involves a society where there is true justice: “…[they] did deal justly one with another” (4 Nephi 1:2). In order to have a just society, we must choose righteous leaders who will work to uphold the U.S. Constitution and our fundamental rights—who will work to enact policies for the common good. Unfortunately, we don’t always know the true intentions or character of a leader until, in fact, they are in the job. But this must not deter us from doing our level best to find out and make informed, reason-based decisions about candidates. Historian Jon Meacham quotes former President Harry Truman as saying:

You never can tell what’s going to happen to a man until he gets to a place of responsibility. You just can’t tell in advance, whether you’re talking about a general in the field in a military situation or the manager of a large farm or a bank officer or a president. … You’ve just got to pick the man you think is best on the basis of his past history and the views he expresses on present events and situations, and then you sit around and do a lot of hoping and if you’re inclined that way, a certain amount of praying.

“You just can’t tell,” Meacham continues after closing his quotation from Truman. But, even with these “sobering words” Meacham editorializes: “…we still have to try, or else the whole democratic enterprise becomes less intelligible than it already is. History—which is all we have to go on—suggests that a president’s vices and his virtues matter enormously, for politics is a human, not a clinical, undertaking. So, too, do the vices and virtues of the people at large, for leadership is the art of the possible, and possibility is determined by whether generosity can triumph over selfishness in the American soul.”

The importance of righteous leaders was emphasized by the prophet Mosiah when his people desired a king. Reminding the people that an unrighteous king can cause great iniquity and destruction among his people (Mosiah 29:17–18), Mosiah described a just king as one who would establish godly laws from which he would judge the people in righteousness (Mosiah 29:13). As the enlightenment philosopher Thomas Carlyle once observed regarding the Latter-day Saint prophet, Brigham Young, “The Mormon Governor is supreme in Mormon Conviction; what he does and orders is what every good Mormon is longing to see done. That is the secret of just despotism, of a Despotism which can be called beneficent.”

Our system of governance today is not religious monarchy—or beneficent despotism as Carlyle puts it—but those who have the privilege of electing representatives to government and other positions of authority can and should seek leaders who base their positions on enlightened moral precepts, including and especially upholding the freedom of conscience (Articles of Faith 11). As one religious leader, Spencer W. Kimball, observed decades ago in a statement that today is recognizably  prophetic: “It is time for both elected and appointed officials, regardless of party, in our government, nationally and locally, to appraise themselves and their practices. There appears to be too often an attitude of indifference toward serious acts of wrongdoing. There is no better time than now … for a rededication to the high moral principles which have contributed to this nation’s greatness. The workings of our government should be an example to the world—in uncompromising integrity, in wise and prudent stewardship of public funds, in personal morality, including fidelity in marriage, and in an openness on activities which will build the confidence of the electorate. The citizenry should expect no less.”

Members of the Church of Jesus Christ—and all people of conscience and good will— should seek for and support leaders, who “in uncompromising integrity, in wise and prudent stewardship of public funds, in personal morality, including fidelity in marriage, and in an openness on activities which will build the confidence of the electorate,” consistent with President Kimball’s admonitions. To be sure, even righteous leaders in a pluralistic republic may sometimes have to compromise in seeking to accomplish the work of government. But this should not come at the expense of their moral standards. Former U.S. Senator Wallace F. Bennett defined compromise as “an agreement reached through mutual concessions, or an acceptable adjustment between conflicting ideas or desires.” He continued:

There are those who maintain that any compromise is evil or shameful because it may involve some surrender of “principle” or freedom. Unfortunately, my years in the Senate have taught me that those who talk of “principle” in this context really mean “interest”—their self-interest. Nor is compromise a true diminution of one’s freedom or free agency, because the scriptures are full of admonitions to use our freedom in the service of others and not for our selfish ends. Christ said, “Agree with thine adversary quickly” (Matt. 5:25).  … I can now explain why this is not essentially evil. Must a legislator sacrifice his moral standards when he votes for a compromise? Never, unless he makes his personal decision for dishonorable reasons such as personal gain or paid-for political support. The most effective legislator is one who always keeps himself free to use his best judgment in doing all he can to see that every bill on which he works contains the best possible and fairest possible balance between the interests of the various entities that will be affected by it.

One characteristic of righteous legislators is that they maintain their freedom from political parties, lobbyists, donors, and others whose interests could cause them to vote in favor of those interests over the interests of their consciences or the people they serve. Similarly, those who work in the executive, administrative, and judicial branches of the various levels of government should seek to be free of undue outside influences or from desire for personal gain as they make decisions and initiate action. Those ideas, and the search for competent candidates whose lives are most in harmony with God’s commandments—and not only those who agree with us on every issue—can guide us as we choose candidates and leaders for public office.

It’s important to note that the Church of Jesus Christ has taken a position of neutrality with respect to politics: “The Church’s mission is to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ, not to elect politicians. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is neutral in matters of party politics.” Consistently, the Church has been able to do much good through working with imperfect governments, organizations, and people to provide aid to people in need and otherwise fulfill the Church’s mission.

At the same time, members of the Church have been instructed not to be neutral with respect to politics, but to “engage in the political process in an informed and civil manner, respecting the fact that members of the Church come from a variety of backgrounds and experiences and may have differences of opinion in partisan political matters.” Like other believers, when Latter-day Saints have the opportunity to vote and take other political actions in choosing leaders of the highest moral character, we are expected to do so. With wisdom, spiritual maturity, and the guidance of the Spirit we can know how to effectively stand as witnesses for God, seeking to be “wise as serpents and harmless as doves” (Matthew 10:16). 

The question still arises, what can we do when none of the candidates for an office seems to be honest, wise, or good? We can become involved at an earlier point, if possible, when candidates are being selected. Three choices are available: (1) choose the so-called lesser of the evils; (2) choose or write in a candidate who is worthy, although that vote may not have an impact on the outcome of the election; (3) refrain from voting for any candidate. One cannot always foresee which candidate is going to make righteous choices, but refraining from voting seems like a surrender of one’s agency to other voters, especially if we assume the outcome of the election. God seems to think that character, not political party or position, is the important consideration in voting, and so the choice of a candidate of higher moral character, if that can be discerned, seems in keeping with the prophetic admonition to choose those of “high moral values.” In any case, we cannot abdicate to those with more selfish motives our responsibility to participate in seeking good and righteous government and leaders.

The post Building Zion by Choosing Righteous Leaders appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

More counters: “What is an oath then but words we say to God? . . . When a man takes an oath, Meg, he’s holding his own self in his own hands. Like water. (He cups his hands) And if he opens his fingers then—he needn’t hope to find himself again. Some men aren’t capable of this, but I’d be loathe to think your father one of them.”

These words have echoed in my soul for half a century. I often think of them as I partake of the sacrament, participate in (Latter-day Saint) temple ordinances, or formally give my word, as when I sign the Honor Code at our school. At such times, I sense that I am holding myself in my hands like water.

The events of this past week have brought to mind again More’s comment about oaths. I do not write this essay as a partisan brief but in support of principle. Oaths matter. They are a most solemn sort of promise—words we say to and before God. They bind us to act and speak truthfully despite the cost.

For religious people, faith can become something that uses them rather than something they use to justify personal preferences. Thomas More’s faith called him to act against self-interest. After all, he wanted to keep his head. More spends most of the movie (and it’s not just a movie) exploring how to possibly escape martyrdom. Finally, however, his faith required him to put his head on the block. He dies “the King’s good servant but God’s first” – a quote directly attributed to the 16th-century now-hero at his execution as a then-traitor.

Such decisions are little understood by those whose horizon of concern rarely, if ever, rises above mundane personal gain. In A Man For All Seasons, such people are represented by the King, Cromwell, the Duke of Norfolk, and Richard Rich. Norfolk, one of More’s friends, cajoles More to come along with him and others who have signed the oath:

Norfolk: “I don’t know whether the marriage was lawful or not. But . . . Thomas, look at those names . . . You know these men! Can’t you do what I did, and come with us, for fellowship?”

More: “And when we stand before God, and you are sent to Paradise for doing according to your conscience, and I am damned for not doing according to mine, will you come with me, for fellowship?”

Ouch! Going along to get along is not an option when one is under oath before God.

In the same story, Richard Rich not only goes along to get along, he violates his oath to tell the truth “so help me God” in More’s trial for High Treason. His perjury results in More’s execution and Richard’s promotion to office. As Richard is leaving the court, having borne false witness, More notices that he is wearing a new chain of office. More asks Richard what the chain is for. He is told that Richard has been made Attorney-General of Wales. “For Wales?” More remarks ruefully: “Why, Richard, it profits a man nothing to give his soul for the whole world . . . But for Wales!”

“But for Wales!” “Will you come with me, for fellowship?” “When a man takes an oath . . . he’s holding his own self in his own hands. Like water.” These lines from A Man For All Seasons are as timely today as they were when they were written in 1960. They apply in all seasons. They remind me of timeless principles inscribed into Brigham Young University – Hawaii at our own founding.

Sixty-five years ago this Wednesday, President David O. McKay stood out in a sugarcane field to dedicate these grounds for the building of a new Church college. He declared that the purpose of this new school was to produce “noble men and women”

“Who cannot be bought or sold
Men who will scorn to violate [truth]—
Genuine gold.”

The world needs such men and women to be leaders, he said. “All the world is hungering for them.” It still is! So, let us recommit ourselves to become “genuine gold” in word and deed.

Such leaders are men and women for all seasons – and more needed than ever today.

The post What is an Oath? appeared first on Public Square Magazine.