Community and Honesty

Honesty is a fourth essential ingredient to meaningful, authentic community. Honesty is obviously necessary for self-disclosure, and honesty works in tandem with active, unconditional love. We should take a look at this in more detail, and we should also consider how truth-telling intersects with hospitality and service to one another.

Some Christians say that Jesus commanded them to "speak the truth in love," even though it may seem rare to see anyone putting that into practice. It was actually a passing comment made by Paul in his letter to the Ephesians (Eph 4:15), but it's still a useful idea. Sometimes we get caught up in being loving (or appearing to be loving, or doing what we think is going to make others love or accept us) and we fail to tell the truth. We might lie about who we really are, what we really want or think or need, what we see in other people, or the dynamics we see at work in a system. When we don't tell the truth, we aren't being loving. 

Of course, we can tell the truth in an unloving way, too. We can be so blunt and direct -- and maybe even confrontational -- that the truth we express isn't very well received. Some people even get the cause-and-effect of this twisted around, thinking that their truth-telling gets a bad reaction from people rather than realizing that the way they express the truth has a lot to do with how others react. Even a lovingly-expressed truth can create some anxiety, but speaking truth without regard for a relationship is irresponsible. Actually, our reason for speaking the truth unlovingly is the same as our reason for not speaking the truth at all: fear. Dealing with our fear or anxiety about ourselves or other people is an important step toward speaking the truth hearably and lovingly. Speaking the truth is necessary for meaningful, authentic relationships, and the context of those relationships is active, unconditional love. So the way we speak the truth is as important as being willing to speak the truth.

When we aren't honest, it's always because of anxiety or fear. It may not seem that way, because we're so accustomed to a low-level of chronic anxiety that it feels normal. But when we avoid the truth, it's because we fear the consequences of the truth. We lie because we believe that someone else will react in a way that we won't like. We lie because we have something to lose. Some people are convinced that there's nothing wrong with telling a "white lie" to spare someone's feelings or to avoid a lengthy conversation with a stranger or acquaintance when you just don't have the time to spare. In his little book Lying, Sam Harris makes a compelling argument that it's always unethical or immoral to lie. Either way, lying doesn't create meaningful, authentic community. 

There are all sorts of reasons we might value community enough that we're concerned about how people will react to us, though. If we find something meaningful in community, we don't want to do anything to jeopardize those relationships. That anxiety -- that we have something to lose, and we'd better be careful -- can lead us to believe that telling the truth is dangerous. Yet, we can't have the quality of community we really want and need if we keep things at a polite, surface-level veneer of social falsehoods. Community is most valuable to us when we can practice self-disclosure, and hospitality, and active and unconditional love in a safe environment. Letting our anxiety convince us not to be honest in that community means that we are in some way showing up as a false person -- that we're pretending to be someone different from who we really are -- for the sake of being accepted, or loved, or safe. 

Pretending to be someone different from who you really are doesn't mean adopting a deep cover secret identity. It's simple things that erode our ability to be known and accepted for who we are. We pretend to be someone who likes gazpacho, or someone who is alright with a particular kind of humor, or someone who doesn't mind waiting 15 minutes for folks to arrive for a group activity. We may be none of those things, but we value the sense of community so highly that we feel obligated to make some sacrifices -- to give up part of ourselves -- in order to keep or strengthen that bond. Some people just call that being polite, but let's be clear about all of those times when we hide who we really are: When we hide who we really are, we lie. And when we lie about who are are, we can't be known. It isn't self-disclosure when what we disclose isn't really who we are.

We also can't be as meaningfully served by someone if we aren't honest. Yes, someone can prepare us a meal and we can sincerely appreciate it, even if it isn't our favorite food. But we can also lovingly, gratefully say: "Thank you so much for fixing dinner for me. I usually don't eat meat, but everything else here is delicious." Now, you can say that with a bit of an attitude, or you can be sincere in your gratitude that someone has done something hospitable for you. If you keep that bit of information entirely to yourself -- that you don't eat meat -- you may think you're just being polite, but what happens the next time that person prepares food for you? Do you keep lying? How many meals do you eat before you tell the truth? "Going along to get along" may be easier in some contexts, but it doesn't create meaningful, authentic community.

Serving others is also more meaningful when we're able to be honest. Some people practice "hospitality" with an ulterior motive. "I'll do something nice for this person, and then they'll owe me one. I can butter them up and then ask for this big favor, and they refuse, I can make them feel guilty." This is in no way hospitality. When we're honest with others about what we want and need, and we're honest about our interest in being of service, there's less anxiety in the exchange of hospitality and service. 

In the context of meaningful, authentic community, we find loving ways to be honest. We don't engage in manipulation or playing safe. We stir honesty in equal measure alongside self-disclosure, service, and active and unconditional love. Then, when we serve others, they can legitimately trust the sincerity of our actions without worrying about ulterior motives. (To be clear, other people might suspect that we have ulterior motives when we are hospitable, but our willingness to be transparent and honest can alleviate those suspicions.) And when others serve us, they'll get sincere gratitude from us, and they'll learn more about what we appreciate. They'll learn more about what makes our hearts sing. 

And while we're being honest, keep in mind that doing something that contributes to another person's well-being also does something for you. Research has demonstrated that altruism feels good. Plus, our sense of interconnectedness suggests that when the lives of people around us are moving toward greater wholeness, our own lives are enhanced. So, there's no need to get caught up in puzzling through the selfishness of service. Hospitality is always of mutual benefit, if you're willing to receive those benefits.

Even at a purely selfish level, honesty is the best way for us to get what we want and need. When we play manipulation games with people, we're always hoping people will take hints and read between the lines, or maybe that we can ensnare them in a situation where they feel obligated to give us what we want. The problem is that what we actually want requires us to be vulnerable. Having power over other people is a reaction to fear -- maybe fear that we aren't lovable or acceptable, that we don't matter, that someone is going to take advantage of us, or whatever fear might bubble up for you. 

Persuading or compelling someone to do what we want seems to feel good because it alleviates that anxiety and fear for a moment. But it doesn't convince us that we are lovable or acceptable, or that we matter. It's the "consolation prize" of co-existing with others, when "first prize" is actually knowing that we are lovable, valuable, acceptable, worthy human beings. The best possible outcome is for us to get our legitimate needs met by other people who are willing to acknowledge and address those needs in legitimate ways. And we've seen that there's a mutuality built into that equation, because some of the things we need have to do with what we are able to offer to other people. The best way for people to understand and address one another's needs is for them to be honest about those needs to one another. 

It may feel safer to hide parts of ourselves. It may feel vulnerable to admit that we have needs, or to reveal that we have fears about not being lovable or acceptable or worthy. But everyone wrestles with these issues in one way or another. Being human means having needs and being vulnerable. There's no shame in that. It's just reality. Honesty about that reality is one of the key features that distinguishes meaningful, authentic community from so many of the other ways we try to find community. Rather than giving up who we are in order to have connection with other human beings, we show up as we are -- as our authentic selves. We don't carry around shame about who we are, and we don't make demands for acceptance. 

One person can do this, but it may freak out a lot of people, and it might be a challenge to infuse bold honesty into an anxious system where everyone is pretending to be someone they're not. A handful of people with a commitment to be in more authentic relationship with one another have a better chance of transforming an existing system to a more honest, loving, hospitable community. We'll see later on how honesty about current reality is a necessary part of casting vision for the direction of a community as a whole. For now, it's enough to see that honesty is a necessary component to blend with love, hospitality, and self-disclosure. 

There's one more essential ingredient to meaningful, authentic community: affirmation. So, next time we'll explore the importance of being sincerely celebrated, and sincerely celebrating others.

The Connection between Belief and Caring for Others

As a reminder, here are the big questions we want to address:

1. How do I live in such a way that I'll be satisfied with how I influence the world around me?
2. What am I passionate about? What personal life dream of mine creates greater wholeness in the world?
3. Where do I find a genuine sense of belonging? Where do I find authentic community? 
4. What fears get in my way? How can I dismantle those fears and understand what I actually want?
5. How can I get what I most deeply want and need by creating less suffering and greater wholeness?

You'll notice that at least three of those questions include some perspective about how we influence the world around us toward greater well-being (or "wholeness"). This is a topic that keeps coming up when I talk with believers, who often have an impression of atheism that equates with utter self-absorption. In one conversation a friend told me that a large number of people only do good in the world because of their belief in a higher power, and that without belief in a higher power, people would be less inclined to help others. I've also heard people say, "You can't really be an atheist. You care about [the homeless/people going hungry in our city/etc.], and atheists don't have any reason to care about other people." First, it's worth taking a look at this idea that only people who believe in a higher power create greater wholeness in the world. Then, we'll see something even more interesting about people doing good in the world. We'll wind up someplace we've been before, a guiding principle that helps us answer our big questions with integrity.

To begin with, it doesn't take much education about world religions to notice that all of them have something to say about making a positive difference in other people's lives. If it was just one religion that promoted creating wholeness in the world, then we would have something to compare and contrast. In reality, contributing toward the well-being of others is something every belief system holds in common, even though some practitioners choose to draw narrow boundaries around who they feel responsible to. 

People can actually hold two opposing ideas in their heads at the same time. This creates a bit of anxiety and it certainly lacks integrity, but people do it all the time. So, a believer can claim that their loving supernatural wants its followers to be vessels of love and healing in the world and also proclaim hatred for people of a different religion or of a particular sexual orientation. How well practitioners of various religions carry out the mandate to care for other human beings varies widely, but the fact remains that every religious tradition expresses a concern for the well-being of others. This is true of monotheistic, polytheistic, and atheistic traditions.

This suggests that it isn't actually belief in a higher power that inspires people to care for others, but something inherent in human nature. Every religion invented by human beings includes this concern, so it's obviously a human concern. We know that it's important to care for others and to attend to their well-being. Our internal guidance system has naturally included this subroutine. 

We also seem to feel burdened enough by the magnitude of that task that we find ways to put fences up around who we're willing to care for. "We'll care for people who think like us, but we'll still hate those other people over there." Or even more predatory, "We'll meet your needs, if you convert to our religion." Our tendency to corrupt ideas because of our fear clearly plays a role in how we carry it out, but this idea that we ought to care for other people is inherent to every belief system human beings have constructed. Thus, we can reason that it's a human idea that can persist in the absence of belief in the supernatural.

We need not rely on reason alone, however. Research on altruistic behavior continues to affirm that helping other people is an inherently pleasurable human activity, regardless of one's faith identity. Even more intriguing is a study published late last year (in Current Biology vol. 25, issue 22), which discovered that children raised without a religious identity are more generous and have a greater sensitivity to justice than peers raised with a religious identity. The study observed primarily Christian, Muslim, and nonreligious families, in six different countries, including the United States. Across all cultures, children in religious households actually expressed less care for others in terms of generosity and justice, despite their belief in a higher power. Clearly, caring for other people is a human trait that exists strongly in the absence of belief in a supernatural. Why and how might belonging to a religious tradition dampen that human tendency?

The research does not delve into reasons why, so this is merely a hypothesis extrapolated from other things we know about how the mind works. Is it possible that when you believe human beings are corrupted and evil that you have less tendency to care about people -- especially people you don't know? Or is it possible that this serves as an excuse to behave as though you are corrupted and evil sometimes? After all, that's just "human nature", right?

Is it possible that believing that a higher power is in control of everything alleviates some sense of personal responsibility to do what is within your power to do in terms of helping others? Believers don't often say it out loud, but if a god is in control of reality, that god must want a significant number of people to be hungry, homeless, abused, and marginalized, since that is the reality we can clearly see. Is it possible that people let themselves be less vulnerably caring because of their belief in a supernatural?

Is is possible that you care less about the people around you if you believe in an afterlife that isn't dependent on one's health, wealth, or success in the real world? After all, if what "really" matters is that you are spiritually aligned with the right higher power, then suffering in this life is superficial and unimportant. So, you don't have to care for the real physical and emotional needs of people -- you just have to make sure that they have the opportunity to be admitted into a better existence when they die. Even as I type this, it seems absurd and mean-spirited, and yet I know of some believers and even some service organizations that are more interested in "saving souls" than they are in making sure people have their physical and emotional needs met.

In a nutshell, then, I invite you to wonder along with me whether religious beliefs about a supernatural and about human nature actually serve to dampen the natural human tendency to care for others. Consider whether a subtle sabotage on the human capacity to create wholeness emerges through ideas promoted in various religious traditions that "salvation is by divine grace and not by human works", or that suffering will be rewarded in an afterlife, or that we are only really responsible to care for people who believe what we believe, or even just that human beings are wicked by nature. If our beliefs form the foundation of our actions, then there is something about religious beliefs that fuels actions contrary to the mandate to care for others. There is some reason the research finds that the beliefs of children in nonreligious homes allow them to express greater generosity and empathy. Even if my suppositions are off base, there is obviously some connection between belief system and how well a person can live into the human tendency to contribute to the well-being of others.

As we consider meaningful answers to the big questions we're posing to ourselves, it's vital for us to recognize our interconnectedness with others. Our lives influence and are influenced by other people. There is no way around that fact. It helps to have at least one clear guiding principle that aligns with our natural tendency to care about other people's well-being -- a deep value that undergirds the questions we ask and the answers we explore. I would like to suggest the very basic idea that every person has inherent worth and dignity as a shared guiding principle that fuels a meaningful journey toward a best possible version of oneself.

That every person has inherent worth and dignity means that we don't choose who is worthy of our attention. It isn't just people who think like you, and it isn't just people who are part of your local community. Every person means every human being in existence. This doesn't mean that you are compelled to meet the specific needs of every person, and it doesn't mean that a person's inherent worth is going to be easy to see all the time. What it means is that you get to choose how you will honor the inherent value of the people around you. 

That every person has inherent worth and dignity means that their worth isn't in question. Your actions toward them are the part you get to decide. You never have to figure out why a person is important or worthy of your time and attention. You don't have to try to fix them or convince them to believe something different that what they currently believe. And you don't have to worry about what sort of afterlife they'll experience. You can focus instead on how your actions and decisions contribute to greater well-being in their lives.

That every person has inherent worth and dignity also interestingly means that you have inherent worth and dignity. Your value is a natural human quality that doesn't come from some external force or stem from your decisions. It just is. It's part of what it means to be human to have worth and dignity. This means that you can worry less about your own value and the sense of obligation that sometimes accompanies caring for others. You don't have to earn inherent worth and dignity, and nothing can take it away from you. Which means that you can boldly do those things that fuel your passions and influence the world around you toward wholeness -- that you can care about what you really want without apology, and you can trust yourself to find ways to connect what you most deeply want with your natural tendency to care about the well-being of others. 

People care about other people. You don't really gain anything in this arena by believing in a supernatural. Even if you think it's your faith that undergirds your contribution toward other people's well-being, it isn't. People of every faith tradition and of no faith tradition care about other people, and the people with no faith tradition might actually do it a little better, based on recent research. If you're willing, let the idea that every person has inherent worth and dignity steep in your mind for a bit. That one guiding principle can fund a lifetime of growing more confident in yourself and your ability to contribute to greater wholeness in the world. 

Mark 12: Authority, Money, and Responsibility

Two short passages finish out Mark 12. First, the author of Mark tells us that the scribes love their positions of authority in the community, and they use their power to take advantage of the disenfranchised (particularly widows). This is inappropriate behavior for a person claiming to be righteous, and thus they will receive condemnation in proportion to the respect they demand. The second passage turns contributions to the temple treasury into an object lesson. The wealthy give appropriate amounts, but not so much that they are inconvenienced; a widow gives "everything she had, all she had to live on," and is praised for being the most generous contributor.

As has been our practice, we can look to parallel passages in which the authors of Matthew and Luke have copied from the gospel of Mark. The authors of Luke presents these two passages almost identically to the gospel of Mark. (This is what we might call plagiarism today, but the ancient world took a different view.) The authors of Matthew, however, have quite a bit to say against the scribes and Pharisees. The authors of Luke include similar words in an earlier chapter. The sentiments are about the same as what the authors of Mark express, just a bit less succinct and a bit more incendiary. Due to the drastic differences, it would serve us best to wait for a walk through the gospel of Matthew to deal with this extensive castigation. The gospel of Matthew, incidentally, leaves out the object lesson about the widow's generosity.

Both of these observations bear some similarity to situations we see in the twenty-first century, and while we could delve into first-century Jewish sectarianism and expectations of contributing to the temple treasury, such intellectual pursuits would not necessarily bring us any closer to understanding and applying the basic points of these passages in our own lives. At first, the two seem like unrelated comments on two different behaviors. The underlying foundation of both of these passages, however, is understanding the motivations behind actions. We may not be able to understand the motivations of another person, even though we may think we have somebody pegged. We should, at the very least, be attentive to our own motivations, though.

Looking at the scribes of Mark 12, then, we get a picture of people who think very highly of themselves and want other people to think very highly of them too. We don't actually know what the motivations of the scribes were; we know that they were religious and legal authorities with a lot of community responsibilities. In an authoritarian system, lack of respect for the people who make the rules is a problem, so it's possible that the stereotypical scribe persona was an intentional attempt to command respect from the people over whom one had responsibility. It could also have been a corrupt system that allowed for some people to benefit from other people suffering.

We can probably think of a long list of people who think very highly of themselves today. Some politicians, celebrities, religious leaders, and even big fish in little civic groups have a habit of telling everyone who will listen how important and right they are. Some people are a little more subtle, but astute observation will indicate that they are putting on a bit of a show. There are also some politicians, religious leaders, and celebrities who do some admirable things while maintaining very admirable attitudes. It's not really about the position of authority they hold, it's how they behave in that position. Some people may not know how not to react with boisterous self-inflation when they think they are being attacked. Other people seem to have developed the skill of remaining centered even in the midst of chaos.

This speaks to a person's emotional maturity then--what some call self-differentiation. When we are emotionally immature, we sometimes do harmful things to ourselves and to other people because we are trying to alleviate our own anxiety. We might throw our authority around because we're afraid that people aren't going to respect us. We might make a show of force because we're afraid that if we look weak, people won't do what we want them to do. We might take things from people we perceive as less important than us in order to curry favor with people we think can benefit us. All of this comes from letting anxiety or fear govern our behavior. We can't know what the scribes criticized in Mark were thinking, but it's obvious that not all of them were handling their authority with emotional maturity. Their actions wound up harming the people and the community for which they were supposed to be responsible.

It isn't just famous people who have responsibility, though. It isn't just politicians and celebrities and leaders of organizations who suffer from emotional immaturity. There may be times in our own lives when we just want people to listen to us and do what we want, and we may be tempted to throw our own authority around, such as it may be. It's tough in those situations to realize that our anxiety is pulling the strings. When we work toward greater emotional maturity, we benefit ourselves and the people around us--the people to whom we are responsible regardless of our title or level of fame. More about emotional maturity in a moment.

First, though, let's take a closer look at the widow that the authors of Mark praised. It's important to recognize that the people who gave "out of their abundance" aren't criticized for doing so, but it's clear that the widow is considered more generous because of the proportion of her wealth that she gave. Unfortunately, knowing only what we are told about this woman's circumstances, she seems to be committing an act of profound irresponsibility. Why would she give everything she had to live on? (This is what we are told. It's pointless to question whether that is an accurate assessment of what she gave.) The only reason she would give everything she had to live on would seem to be that she knew that someone else was going to provide for her needs. The modern day equivalent would be to sign over your social security to a church because you know that the people around you are going to buy your groceries, mow your lawn, pay your utility bills, and generally take care of you. There may be some people in this very situation, but does this reflect a lack of responsibility in one's life?

Money is a frequently discussed issue in a lot of ethical and religious contexts, and the practicalities of managing money are not always easy. Only about 10% of the population of first century Jerusalem could be considered wealthy, and there was a profound gulf between the wealthy and the common citizen. One could not work one's way into the upper class. In our own time, what had seemed to be a gradual equalization of wealth has been reversed to such an extent that we are in nearly the same position, except for the illusions of prosperity that coat the West. We have become a part of a global economy in which the wealthiest 10% of the world's population holds 86% of the world's wealth. On the lower end of the scale, 50% of the world's adult population (altogether) holds 1% of the world's wealth. This means that any of the problems of this world that can be solved by throwing money at them cannot be realistically shouldered by half (or more) of the people who currently exist, no matter how inspired they might be to contribute something. The hope of working together financially is an illusion for most of the world in terms of global issues.

In more localized systems, however, cooperation can be much more meaningful. Contributing money toward something in cooperation with one's immediate neighbors can have a big influence for that community of people. What is more responsible, then, if a person has a small amount of money? Is it best to give that money to an organization that doesn't directly support one's well-being holistically? Or is it best to pool one's resources with one's neighbors in order to improve well-being for a community of people of which one is a part? When the widow gave all that she had, paltry though it may have seemed to some, she was assuming that she would be dependent upon others. Fortunately, the Jewish practice at the time was to take care of widows and orphans, so she was contributing toward an organization that was committed to tending to her care. Our culture is different, for better or worse. Our decisions require a bit of thoughtfulness if we are to be personally responsible in our lives.

Even when we choose to contribute some of our money toward something we consider to be worthy, we have a choice about our attitude. A wealthy person who gives to a cause out of sincere generosity and a wealthy person who gives to a cause for a tax break or out of a sense of obligation do not have the same experience. The fact that they are wealthy has nothing to do with it. The values behind their contributions are what makes their experiences distinct. A wealth of psychological research has demonstrated that altruism is pleasing to people. We like to be generous. We like to help others. There is something about the development of our brains that has linked altruism with our own sense of personal satisfaction. So, when we are altruistic, we are happier. It seems a shame to limit the opportunities for altruism to a minute portion of the world's population simply because they have the most money with which to be altruistic.

From a logical standpoint, then, it seems most reasonable to place the financial responsibility for global issues on the shoulders of the wealthiest 10% of the world's population. It seems most reasonable (especially for the 2/3 of the world whose personal wealth is less than $10,000 each) to use available funds to be as personally responsible as possible for one's own well-being. There's a bit more to these stories than the allocation of wealth and responsibility, though. These lessons are about one's motivation. Are you giving money because you feel ashamed or afraid? Are you giving money out of a sense of obligation? Are you giving away money without considering how that act will affect your ability to care for yourself and the other people for whom you are responsible? Or are you being thoughtful and passionate in what you contribute? Are you giving because you care about something greater than yourself and you can do so without jeopardizing your own well-being? What we have to offer goes far beyond money. If we care about other people and want to make a difference, there are many ways that we can do so without harming ourselves or those around us.

Whether we are considering how we use our power and authority or how we use our wealth and resources, the underlying foundation is our attitude. Basically, it is a matter of considering whether we are being emotionally mature about our decisions. Emotional maturity is the ability to respond thoughtfully to a situation instead of reacting thoughtlessly. Emotional maturity reflects one's commitment to deeply held guiding principles instead of being influenced by the anxiety of the moment. Emotional maturity is about one's willingness to be responsible for one's own actions and beliefs instead of blaming other people or circumstances. From a perspective of emotional maturity, then, being responsible for one's own well-being is very different from being self-indulgent or hedonistic. Emotionally mature people keep their commitments (and make commitments they can keep). They don't fold or discard their values in the face of flattery or criticism. Emotionally mature people exhibit gratitude and humility, and they recognize the value of connection and partnership as much as they recognize the value of having clear boundaries in human relationships.

When it comes down to it, we are capable of doing those things that lead toward the greatest happiness for the greatest number of people. We can't be responsible for other people's actions, but we can strive for our own actions to reflect our deepest, most noble selves. We can commit to being the best possible versions of ourselves. That means handling our authority well--not demanding respect but earning it, and not harming the people under our care. It means handling our finances well--not hoarding what we have out of a fear of scarcity, and not neglecting our own well-being out of a sense of shame or obligation. It also means handling all of the resources of our lives in a way that reflects our guiding principles. Our time, our intelligence, our communication, our compassion, our skillfulness--anything that we have at our disposal through which we can live authentically.

All people have inherent value, and that includes us as well as every person with whom we come into contact. We can live by that principle if we choose.