Lesson No. 3: Curiosity is kindness. But curiosity requires courage.
This is the third in a series of “Lessons Learned as a Young White Pastor in a Majority White Church Pursuing Racial Unity and Multiethnic Ministry in the Bible Belt South.
Lesson No. 3: Curiosity is kindness. But curiosity requires courage.
I was sitting in an elder’s meeting. 6 AM on a Tuesday. A small group of mostly older white men. One of them pulled out a stapled stack of printed paper. And began to pass the sheets around. They were printed copies of Twitter posts. None of them personally written by anyone on our church staff. But all of them “liked” or “retweeted” by either a staff member or a pastor we were supporting at seminary. And both of them, women.
Before the “evidence” made its way over to me, I first took note of the men’s faces as they perused the material. One thing was evident: they were not pleased. Their eyes squinted. Lips curled. Heads tilted and swayed. Like your dad’s when you had done something wrong. The disappointment. Disdain. Disgust.
As I held the printed social media posts in my hands (a strange experience all its own), I took in the damning material. Carefully. Thoughtfully. Open-mindedly. Both my education of exegesis and of journalistic exploration rising to the surface. Like a napping dog whose ear has awoken and is fixed on figuring out what was stirring enough to shake the sleep.
What I immediately saw was the immense distance between these two differing worlds. The middle child in me could swiftly gather how these older white men could be so quickly confounded and confused by the words set before them. While I could just as fully appreciate what would lead my sisters to share the social and theological statements they had re-posted online. But what I didn’t understand is what happened next.
This conversation was not open for conversation. There were stances to be taken. Lines to be drawn. Positions to be held. Consequences to be had.
But never, never in any of it, was there ever a Christ-like curiosity to consider the worlds of the women behind these words.
What would inspire one of these women to re-tweet another writer’s righteous anger toward John Piper, in response to Piper’s statement that women could never be police officers — because this would give a woman authority over men in certain situations?
That question wasn’t asked. Nor was whether or not Piper’s stance held up to the heart of God’s Word. And certainly there wasn’t a woman present (nor allowed) in this room to offer a potentially different perspective in these matters.
Instead, what I heard a man defiantly proclaim was, “And one of these posts is against John Piper? How could someone say something against John Piper?!” The look of incredulity on his face almost as great as the bewilderment brewing in my own inner dialogue:
“So John Piper is above rebuke? No matter what? That sure seems like a dangerous approach to employ toward anyone, especially a faith leader.”
I did my best to speak up, and a few others did, too. We knew silence substituted for agreement in situations such as these. But our voices were quickly drowned out in a sea of dismissal as the tides of discourse shifted to impact and implications.
Someone would need to sit these women down and set them straight. And if they didn’t change their course, then…well, then we’d need to have an even more serious discussion.
Perhaps seminary support would need to be cut off, even as this pastor was in her last stretch of seminary, 1,600 miles away from this meeting. No longer on staff at this church. Never given certain social media standards to abide by. But just like that…if we don’t understand what you’re re-posting, then we can make you pay. Period.
I pictured this Latina sister of mine there at her home. Her husband. Her son. Sitting at the dinner table. Potentially with financial assistance shut down and cut off because of decisions made by mostly older white men in a meeting at 6 AM on a Tuesday. None of these men had any idea of the costly sacrifice it took to uproot from one’s family, one’s hometown, all in order to follow the heart of God calling one to pursue a master’s education at one of the most rigorous theological and academic institutions in the world. Making it month to month on the generous blessing of those giving to you fully and freely.
I thought of that price, while also considering the cost of another:
Curiosity.
– – –
Curiosity is kindness. But curiosity requires courage.
The cost of curiosity is courage. Because inquiring about something you do not know nor understand means venturing into uncharted territory. The fear of the unknown. And the confrontation with another who passionately believes something far different than you has the potential to be both disruptive and disorienting. And it takes courage to step into such sacred spaces, the places where our experiential understanding crashes into its uttermost limits.
So when we find ourselves at such a catalytic crossroads, we have two options.
And both require building: will we construct walls or build bridges?
Condemnation carries with it the hardware to construct walls.
Curiosity bears the blueprints needed to build bridges.
– – –
As you look through the gospel, fix your eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith. What trails does he blaze? What pathways does he perfect? Over and over, Jesus is met by the religious leaders of his day with inquisition. But this is not the kindness of curiosity. No, this is condemnation cloaked by questions. Preconceived notions aimed at proving one wrong. Deep-seeded suspicion in action. These keepers of the law have no holy imagination to see things anew. All they see is things askew. And their job is to fix it. To bring back order. To keep things as they are. No matter the cost.
But these Pharisees are not the only ones with questions throughout the gospels. Notice how Jesus invokes earnest sincerity through curiosity.
In just a handful of chapters midway through the book of Luke, I hear Christ asking a handful of questions:
“I ask you, which is lawful on the Sabbath: to do good or to do evil, to save life or destroy it?”
“If you love those who love you, what credit is that to you?”
“What did you go out into the wilderness to see?”
“Who do the crowds say I am?”
“Who do you say I am?”
Each question, a Christ-centered encounter. No condemnations. Just opportunities. Possibilities. Faith steps to be taken. Journeys of introspection and interaction to be had.
Christ calling us to consider. And re-consider. Our motives. Our desires. Our beliefs. Our traditions. Our practices.
Why do we do what we do? Why do we believe what we believe?
As we hear the heart of Christ, we can discern the difference between interrogation and invitation. Tearing down the walls. Building up new bridges.
– – –
I volunteered to speak with both women. Knowing I could do so with care and compassion. These were dear friends. Sisters, even. We’d spent years serving together. Our families had shared time. Tables. We’d prayed. Laughed. Sang. Sat. All of life and all of ministry. And over the years, many a conversation that would challenge and stretch and provoke and illuminate.
But isn’t that what relationship is? Isn’t that what the Body of Christ is? Don’t we each bring different backgrounds that help us build up and support what one cannot see solely on their own? Couldn’t our world use more kindness and curiosity? Couldn’t the Church?
To the best of my knowledge, these elders never sincerely sought the “why” behind these women’s re-posts. They never did the hard work of having the hard conversation. Not once.
They were willing to talk about cutting off seminary funding without even a firsthand, kind-hearted, compassionate conversation with the woman they would stop sending support to. A woman who had served and led in that church for years prior.
I would say I was shocked. But I got the same treatment. Not once did one of these elders seek me out, either, for my differing beliefs regarding God’s design and desire for women and men to serve and lead together, side by side. As true equals. In all levels of leadership in the local church and beyond. Police officers included.
They would never a share a cup of coffee with the Word opened humbly between us and before us. Instead, one would go behind my back to demand my resignation after I voiced my beliefs at an elder’s meeting. Another would show up at a different meeting with another stapled stack of printed paper. Quotes from a conference where I shared my convictions about the Spirit’s divine empowerment upon sons AND daughters.
As a man, though, I had the privilege of presence. I was able to be there in person in the face of such accusations. To speak up for myself right there in the moment. A luxury my sisters were never afforded. Instead, all they got were hard stones thrown from a cold distance.
– – –
Church, there is such danger in leadership defined by condemnation and not curiosity. Conversations not open for conversation. Stances to be taken. Lines to be drawn. Positions to be held. Consequences to be had.
But there is such opportunity in a world of curiosity. Because curiosity truly is kind. Why do I say it’s “kind”? Because curiosity cares rather than convicts. It lets the person on the other end of the line know you find value in their worldview. Their opinion. Their belief. Their interpretation. Their experience. Their convictions.
This does not mean that any and everything goes. It does not mean that truth is whatever we want it to be. But it does mean that we each are limited by our own points of view. And more often than not, there is a greater blessing to be had in holding the heart of another.
When we do so, we let the person sitting across from us know that we’ll take the time to simply sit together. Learn together. See a new perspective. Share a beloved presence.
While a church, organization, and institution needs distinguishable boundaries, there also needs to be a different approach if and when those lines are clearly crossed. We must come to these critical conversations with such care. Compassion. Kindness. And curiosity. Knowing we know not everything. It might not be as clear as we thought. And often, what pierced their heart was an arrow that’s never been aimed our way.
There is always more to the story. And as we take the time to share our stories, and humbly hold theirs, we receive the reward of having our eyes opened a little wider, our hearts stretched a bit more. And we are knit together, tighter, as the shared Body of Christ.
So set down the stones, Church. And pick up the phones.
Courageously call. With curiosity, kindness, and care. Seek and listen and learn. Open yourself up to hear something new. Offer yourself up with the compassion of Christ. The world needs your curiosity. The Church needs your courage.
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