There is a time for action, a time for “commitment,” but never for total involvement in the intricacies of a movement. There is a moment of innocence and kairos, when action makes a great deal of sense. There is [also] a time to listen, in the active life as everywhere else, and the better part of action is waiting, not knowing what is next, and not having a glib answer. Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander
Minutes after my freshman composition class had dismissed, I pushed open the door to my father’s university office where he was scribbling notes in the margin of a text. I barged in without knocking because I had a real crisis. I was going to have to change my college major, and my father was my advisor (academically and familially). I don’t know what I was thinking, I gasped. I can’t possibly be an English major any more. I dropped into the straight-back chair he kept for visitors and put my head in my hands.
I remember that my father closed his book and used his teacher voice: So, do you want to explain why you believe that you can’t major in English? Tears filled my eyes as I started in: Well, a guy in my class read his essay aloud today, and there were words–so many words–that I didn’t even understand. It was like his mom read the dictionary to him when he was in the womb! So you see, I have to change my major because I don’t use words like that, and his essay sounded so incredibly articulate.
After what seemed like an interminable amount of time, my father asked, Did you understand his essay? Incredulous, I said, Well, no, of course not. I mean, he’s obviously so intelligent that someone like me couldn’t possibly understand. My father just shook his head and said, Did you ever consider that this young man may be saying nothing, that he may be just putting makeup on a pig?
Of course I hadn’t considered this at all. At 18, I believed that there simply must be valuable ideas to support all his fancy language. Surely, he had something worthwhile to say, and because of my own limitations, I’d failed to discover it. Although I didn’t know it at the time, I’d just looked squarely into the face of glibness, a pig with lacquered lips and painted eyes. At the time, glib was a word I didn’t really understand or use, but all too soon, I’d come to know it well.
Today, political debates are glorious arenas for the glib. The political gladiators line up, shielded by their individual podiums, prepared for battle. We suit them up and send them to slaughter, shouting: May the glibbest man or woman win! It matters little–or at all–if they don’t respond to a moderator’s question or a competitor’s statement. Armed with polished words and manufactured statements, the glib march into battle, fearless and proud. For they know that, in the end, glib wins the day where the victors rest on their silver-tongued laurels.
Trappist monk and writer Thomas Merton cautions that the better part of action is waiting. He even argues that not knowing what is next is better than offering a glib answer. For there are, indeed, times for action and times for waiting, times for speaking and times for listening. In my dreams, I have conjured up politicians (or teachers, physicians, attorneys, etc.) who pause for more than a few seconds and then stun their audiences by stating: Honestly, I don’t know the best answer to that question right now. I want you to know that I’ve been thinking about this, though, and I’ll continue to think about it until I can give you my best response. Be still my heart! What courage, what authenticity, what firm refusal to capitulate to glibness! But mind you, this is all in my dreams.
In the cold, hard light of reality, however, I understand that such a candid and thoughtful response is not a glib one. Falling short of any true measure of glibness, it would generally condemn its speaker or writer to oblivion. Because today, refusing to answer, refusing to offer up the expected politically, economically, and socially-charged buzzwords of the day is simply suicide, and those poor glibless souls are surely destined for burial in unmarked graves.
I admit to having fallen prey to the glib-trap. Standing in front of a classroom, faced with a challenging student question, I’ve glibly pushed on with words intended to, at the very least, fill the dead space. When I should’ve waited, when I should’ve refrained from offering such a glib answer, I blathered on–and on. For many of us, the allure of glibness can be all too real. Even when we know better, we may give into temptation and push our loquacious selves forward.
Some of this is not entirely our fault, though. We live in a world where appearance matters greatly, and quick-response times are expected. Sadly, many of my public speaking students delivered canned speeches whose content was glibly puffed up and then memorized. They believed that if they were to speak more naturally and to even pause occasionally, this would be certain and instant death. Faced with audiences who often smirked–or yawned–when speakers bobbled and wavered, they glibly pressed on. For ultimately, they’d come to accept that their delivery was far more important than their content.
Although I don’t dispute much of the research on reading fluency, I do object to the over-emphasis on fluency as a reading assessment. I’ve known too many children who could read fluently but failed to understand anything they were reading. Early in their school experience, they’d learned to compete for words-per-minute scores that topped the classroom leaderboards. Even in the world of reading, glibness often trumps understanding.
Styles, preferences, and expectations do change, though. What’s in today may be out tomorrow. I’m really hoping that this will be true of glibness without substance. I’m hoping that earnest, thoughtful speech will come in vogue. It goes without saying, though, that this isn’t entirely up to speakers and writers. Listeners and readers must also be willing to change their habits and preferences; they must be much more patient and much more invested in what is being said than how it is being said. In this brave new world, the glib will take a back seat to the truly articulate, and the best speech will grow consciously and carefully from the best thinking.
