The Gospel According to Snoopy

Today, I would like to talk to you about religion.

*CLICK*

Did you hear that?  That was the sound of all my readers (both of them), navigating to other pages. 

Nobody likes to talk about religion. 

No, that’s not true.  Really, most people don't mind talking about religion.  It’s just that nobody wants to hear someone else talk about it.

You know the feeling.  There you are, poking at your in-flight meal with a plastic hybrid utensil, trapped in your window seat by a stranger on a plane.  Or maybe you’re talking over lunch with a co-worker.  Suddenly, the subject turns to God.  Your conversation partner becomes animated and enthusiastic, speaking with authority and conviction.  They might be Mormon or Methodist, Assembly of God or Atheist, Jewish or Jehovah’s Witness, Scientologist or…some other belief that starts with “S” that I can’t be bothered to think of right now.  It doesn’t matter.  They are certain that you agree with them, or if you don’t, that you will agree with them by the time the conversation is over.

And you are too polite to interrupt.  Your eyes start to glaze over.  You find yourself nodding and saying “Hmmmm!” and “Really!” while your mind is racing for an exit strategy (I wonder if I can break out the passenger window with this spork?) or ways to change the subject (“My goodness!  I believe I’m choking to death on my falafel! That reminds me of a time when…”)

On the internet, it’s simpler.  If someone posts a remark about religion that you disagree with, you can anonymously "dislike" their comment and then say he or she has the intelligence of %#&* and that everyone who agrees with them, including the poster’s mother, is a *#&@$@.   Then you can chastise them for their intolerance.  At least that's how it works on "Yahoo!"

The problem is that, when it comes to matters of faith, we all believe that we are right.  The corollary is that this makes everyone else wrong, although most of us are too civil to actually come out and say that.  Even when we, in the spirit of tolerance, listen to an opposing viewpoint and say things like “I respect all beliefs” or even “all ways really lead to the same place,” there is another voice deep in our psyche that is whispering “what a chowderhead!” and quietly snickering.

However, in this time in history, we need to be able to talk about faith.  The world is much smaller than it was even ten years ago, and we are being constantly confronted with differing viewpoints.  Avoiding the conversation abandons it to the extremists--the self-righteous Koran-defilers and the puerile amateur movie-makers and the Kalishnikov-toting embassy assailants.  The absence of your voice and mine leads to misunderstanding and demonization and hate, and ultimately, as we have seen too often this last week, to violence and death.  Glazed eyes or insulting jabs are no longer an option.

In one Charles Schulz strip, Snoopy sits atop his doghouse, clicking away on his typewriter.  “I hear you’re writing a book about theology,” says Charlie Brown. “I hope you have a good title.”  “I have the perfect title,” thinks Snoopy smugly in response, then types, “Has It Ever Occurred to You That You Might Be Wrong?”

I think Snoopy is on to something.  We are all so sure that we are right about our beliefs.  After all, that’s why we believe them.  Nobody ever thinks, “This is what I believe.  I know it’s as false as my grandmother’s teeth, but I believe it anyway.”  We believe what we believe because we think it is right, whether it was because of something we read, something a respected teacher said, something we were taught when we were small, or something we experienced that profoundly shaped us. 

But let’s be honest, can any of us really know everything about something as big and mysterious as the notion of God?  And rather than just saying everyone is right in their own way, isn’t it more likely and more honest to say that every single one of us is, at least partly, wrong?

And that includes me.  That’s where I need to start if I’m going to have a productive and respectful conversation with someone about a subject as sensitive as faith.  I’ve discovered that I need to tuck my pride into my back pocket and approach the exchange with the attitude that maybe this other person has something to teach me.  That doesn't mean I will necessarily agree with them or that I will surrender my beliefs for theirs.   It just means that we can both learn from each other if we embrace some humility and attempt to see with each others' eyes, if even for a few moments.

Sad to say, it’s not always been the case with me.  I have been that proselytizer on the airplane or in the restaurant (and if that was you that I was annoying, I now ask your forgiveness).  Conversations turned confrontational and combative, mainly because I felt a need to defend my faith and be right at all costs.

But over the last few years, I’ve had some fascinating and respectful discussions with friends and strangers of several different faiths.  Often, as I’ve offered respect to others, they have returned that respect to me.  I have come to realize that "sharing faith"  is not a one-sided affair, but a dialogue, an exchange of deeply personal convictions accomplished with "gentleness and respect", as the Apostle Peter puts it.  It bears pointing out that Pete also resists the notion that we should aggressively confront others with our ideas about faith.  He seems to be saying, "have your answer ready, but don't give it until somebody asks."*

I remember a discussion with a Muslim professor that shook the foundation of my preconceived notions about Islam.  I have had talks with dear Jewish friends, talks that have opened up breath-taking vistas of my own Christian beliefs.  I have had long conversations with atheist friends that helped me to wrestle with some of my own pig-headedness and hypocrisies.  Then there were the dialogues with a self-described "New-Age pagan" that left me yearning for the same hunger and thirst for truth that she had.  And forgive me if I brag a little bit, but not once, in any of these conversations did the word “chowderhead” even cross my mind.

Once, at a music festival, two lovely Mormon students I worked with, nervous about an imminent performance, breathlessly said to one another “We should pray!”  When I asked if I could join them, they were delighted.  In a quiet hallway, we bowed our heads.  I said nothing, savoring the simplicity and sincerity of their prayers.  It felt no different from hearing students from my own church’s youth group pray.  I knew there were irreconcilable discrepancies between my faith and that of these two young ladies...

...but at that moment, I was more struck with what we held in common.



*You can look it up in 1 Peter 3:15.