Let us put our minds together and see what life we can make for our children. –Sitting Bull
When a call goes out for unity, most of us will rally–at least in theory–around the prospect of bringing people together. Some of us who are old and sentimental enough might even clasp hands and break out in Kum Bah Ya. Or perhaps we could belt out a rousing chorus of the 1971 Coca Cola theme song, remembering times when our youth fueled our idealism and certainty that if we just put our minds and hearts to it, we could live in perfect harmony:
I’d like to teach the world to sing
In perfect harmony
I’d like to hold it in my arms
And keep it company
Our grown-up, supposedly more mature selves still elect officials who promise to unite our communities, states, and nation. We continue to live under the banner of unity. We speak passionately about the life we can make for our children if we’d only put our minds together. We understand that our very survival depends upon it.
And yet, we remain–as we’ve always been to some degree–divided. Today, many would argue that we’re not just divided; we’re deeply divided, perhaps irreparably divided. We can no longer even see the other side, who live in another far-off galaxy, lightyears and principles away. In truth, there are more times than not when we prefer not to see them. Better they remain in the black hole in which they belong. Better they live among their own ignorant, misguided, hateful kind.
For most of my life, many people thought they knew me. As a college-educated daughter of a college professor, they professed to accurately identify my politics, my faith, and my principles: Democrat, spiritual but not Christian (and certainly not evangelical), and progressive. As a young college instructor, I learned this early as I overheard colleagues ridiculing a student whose narrative essay recounted her experience at summer church camp. As if this was the most significant thing she could write about, they said, as if she really believed in this crap. They spoke believing that I shared their sentiments, that I was one of them, that we were unified in our common disdain for this young woman’s provincial views and simple-minded faith. But they were wrong.
I didn’t correct their misconceptions because I was fairly certain that I, too, would be cast off and privately ridiculed. At 26 and at the beginning of my teaching career, I was genuinely afraid. And I was convicted that I should work hard to get along with everyone, regardless of what they believed or didn’t believe. I’ve lived most of my life under that same conviction, and to say that it’s cost me is an understatement, for I’ve often found myself in No Man’s Land, that lonely space between ideologically diverse factions, slogging my way forward. Moving forward has meant working hard to act compassionately towards my opposition. Moving forward has meant growing into a certainty regarding my own ideas and principles, while struggling to remain open to others. In truth, moving forward has often meant embracing the complex nature of most issues and forsaking the unity that others appear to enjoy with their like-minded friends and colleagues.
English Puritan writer John Trapp maintained that [u]nity without verity is no better than conspiracy .Herein lies the painful truth of ideological unity: it’s improbable (at best) and impossible (at worst). How does a nation ideologically unify those who believe in life at conception with those who don’t, those who believe that women should have a choice to abort or not with those who don’t? How does a nation ideologically unify those who believe in the tenets of capitalism with those who don’t? How does a nation ideologically unify those who believe the government should fund private and public schools with those who don’t? The list could go on and on. We know it all too well. When people hold ideas and principles absolutely, there isn’t any compromise they’re generally willing to make.
In short, to unify means that some group will lose something–or possibly everything they believe is good and true. And losing is something we’re not particularly good at, especially when the stakes are high and the principles we hold most dear are in jeopardy.
Romanian-French playwright Eugene Ionesco wrote that [i]deologies separate us. Dreams and anguish bring us together. We know that ideas separate us, and, for the most part, we have no common dreams now. Sadly, anguish remains as the sole factor that occasionally unites us. Mass casualities, natural disasters, and sometimes wars unite us as we offer aid and comfort to victims. For a time, our ideas and principles seem to take a back seat as our anguish reminds us of our common humanity. For a short time.
I’m not a cynic who’s ready and willing to argue that unity is the pipe-dream of Pollyannas who refuse to see the way of the world. But I do understand the painful reality of unity. As difficult as it is, we’d do better to accept the fact that there can be no ideological unity. In the court of law and in public opinion, some group and its principles will win, and the other will lose. Losers can pray for the wisdom and guidance to live out their principles in whatever ways they legally and realistically can, working devotedly to affect the kind of change that will one day change policy and public opinion. During the battle (and make no mistake, it’s always a battle), both sides can choose civility and understanding, or they can choose to inflict terrible harm with little thought to the world they leave their children.
