I read the following intriguing quote from Anthony Appiah this morning: "The French philosopher Emmanuel Levinas made much about the difference between the saying and the said. The 'said' is just the content of whatever proposition you’ve asserted. But the 'saying' is an act — a way of opening yourself up to another." I had never heard of Levinas before, but Wikipedia characterizes him as “a philosopher of Lithuanian Jewish ancestry who is known for his work within Jewish philosophy, existentialism, and phenomenology, focusing on the relationship of ethics to metaphysics and ontology” — nice work if you can get it. I haven’t had a good chat about ontology in awhile, but then, I have a rather small social circle. Well, technically, it’s an oblate spheroid, but whatever.
Communication is, after all, about much more than merely the sharing of information. Sometimes it is just that, as when a closed-ended question is given a factual answer. But even then the emotional part of the brain is involved. “What is two plus two?” she asked breathlessly. “Four!” he responded with an air of triumph. I read once that actors are sometimes trained to say neutral words in a way that conveys strong feeling — an elated “three”, a disgusted “five”, an anxious “seven”, a rageful “nine”, and so forth. I don’t know what emotion goes best with eleven, but I’m thinking that a sort of bland indifference might be about right. In any event, the fact-sharing element of communication is just the surface, a thin veneer; any conversation also entails self-disclosure and its first cousin, risk.
We get to know another person by listening (with empathy and curiosity and respect) to what they have to say, which is something of a lost art these days, especially on social media. People don’t usually disclose deep things about one another until they have tested the waters by sharing more superficial things. “Sure is a nice day,” we might say to the clerk at Kwik Trip. “You know what goes great with a nice day? A muffin!” might come the reply. This is in some ways a transactional conversation, but it does involve the sharing of opinions (some people, such as snowplow drivers, might think sunshine and balmy temperatures abhorrent), which is slightly risky — what if the other person doesn’t like my opinion? The risks of discussing the weather are modest, though, and from there one can go on to a chat about American football, a sport in which two helmeted teams of athletes spar over the precise location of an oblong shaped ball, while legions of fans pretend that its location has lasting significance. During the Super Bowl each year, I usually lock myself in a room and read Anna Karenina in the original Russian, but I’m something of a cultural outlier.
Sharing about one’s emotions is riskier, and divulging areas of vulnerability or personal failures riskier still. Communication theorists talk about the “ladder of reciprocal self-disclosure”, in which a person who takes a slightly larger risk is inviting the other person to do the same or, by failing to do so, to indicate that they have reached the deepest level of intimacy they are willing to accept. One needs to match the other person’s current level, and not skip steps without warning. There is an apocryphal story about a man who complained to his therapist that he had problems with women. “How do you approach a new female acquaintance?” asked the counselor. “Well, I go up to her and say, ‘Hi, I’m Jim. Wanna get married?’” He was invited to try a more gradual approach, in line with prevailing theory. “I’m Jim. Nice day, ain’t it? Wanna get married?”
I’ve always loved how Major Ian Thomas, whom I so deeply admire, tells the story of Jacob. As is well known, Jacob was a manipulator — his name in Hebrew means “twisted” — and in the culture of his day, names indicated a person’s actual or desired character. So when he met Rachel, he was smitten but didn’t want to say, “Hi, beautiful! I’m Twisted!” So, the text says, he described himself as a distant relative and avoided the subject. Indeed, as the story unfolds and his life gets increasingly difficult (his brother wanted to kill him, which is considered by most psychologists to be evidence of chronic family dysfunction), he finds himself alone with God at the ford of the Jabbok, and when he finally cries out in desperation for God’s blessing, God asks him, “What is your name?” Well, God knew what it was. And Jacob knew what it was — all too well. But healing required that Jacob say what both of them already knew, because we have to call things by their right names. And when he admitted it — “I’m Twisted” — the liberating word came in reply, “Not any more!” (in a dynamic equivalence translation). “From now on you will be Victorious” — indeed, an overcomer, for faith is the victory that overcomes the world.
It’s hard for all of us, but perhaps especially for introverted men, to open up. “I like that you’re the strong silent type, but do you have to put so much duct tape over your mouth, baby?” “Mmgffh!” But when we do, the miracle of connection occurs, and we find that we can be loved and accepted for who we are, and can become better than we thought possible, because we are no longer alone. “Only connect”, said E. M. Forster, is the prescription for many (not all) human ills; and I am saddened when I observe the epidemic of loneliness and isolation that stalks the land these days, especially among the young, whose best friend is often a chatbot. “I love you, but you can adjust the algorithmic parameters if you’re looking for a different motivation!”
As I recover from grief, and move toward a new life with a new love, I am increasingly convinced that Forster was right in many ways. We need God most of all, but we also need other people who care about us and about whom we care. We are built together into a holy temple, never in isolation. So I am grateful that community and connection are possible, though not without risk and not without cost. It’s worth the price, and of the three things that remain in a world of transience, the greatest of these is love.
One of the trips I co-led to the Holy Land was attended by a husband and wife of the most opposite spiritual persuasion. She was a committed Christian and he defined himself a “scientist”. I personally think he was more of a man who simply required something tangible, as do 75% of the population in order to ascribe belief. Scripture served as a reference, however, since only a few geographically referenced places were certain, almost all in the Old Testament times, he was very challenged to accept Christ, other than historically. Then on one of our last days, we visited I high hill overlooking the plains where the final days are to occur…Armageddon. One can see many miles in every direction. There he saw truth. “I get it now,” he repeated over and over.
My husband wasn’t a Christian and he didn’t believe in God. He was curious though and even agreed to do an Alpha course . The love from the people there touched him but he found he couldn’t talk to them on an intellectual level. I once said to him that the most important thing in life is love. He didn’t comment. He was a scientist ,he taught physics. He died in 2022 on April 15 th. Nearly there date wise. One of his last messages to me was in a text, “you know darling ,you are right. The most important thing is love” I really hope he met the greatest love of all.