Everybody’s Normal… Part II
April 14th, 2012
I’ve already begun summarizing John Ortberg’s “Everybody’s Normal Till You Get to Know Them” – you can find my summary of and thoughts on Part I here. If you’ve already read my Part I summary, you’ll know that I’m summarizing mostly for my own benefit. I will omit parts I don’t find helpful or interesting and include comments and further thoughts of my own, making no claim whatsoever to completeness or accuracy. My goal is to support my memory, and if you, dear reader, benefit in the process, so much the better.
In Part II Ortberg talks about how to get close to others without getting hurt. We’re all in various stages of this dance in each of our relationships, though it’s not a given that our partner is at the same stage. Perhaps we’re asking someone to dance who’s persistently ignoring us, or we’re missing the cues that someone is hoping for a few steps with us; perhaps we’re stepping on toes unawares, or trying to embrace someone salsa-style who’s wearing a hoop skirt and expecting a waltz. Unfortunately, it’s harder to tell than in an actual dance hall, which is why Ortberg can write a few chapters on it.
One point he makes is that in each relationship, the disclosure of who we are happens in a cautious progression, because of our “awareness that there are parts of us that are not too attractive.” This, Ortberg says, is a consequence of the Fall. We are no longer normal, we know it, and reveal it only to those we trust. This progressive revelation is to be respected, Ortberg writes: “[N]o one – not even [God] himself – can get another person to be in a relationship by brute force. (…) [I]n authentic community, people are never coerced or manipulated into self-disclosure.” This respect is a form of grace, an echo of how God treats us.
Ortberg makes a point to distinguish this hiding of our unattractive parts from solitude. Hiding is a sign of our weakness: it results from the Fall. “The capacity for solitude,” Ortberg says, “is an indication of strength,” and predates the Fall.
Having established the progression of disclosure in our relationships, Ortberg proposes three stages of openness on the way to community. The first stage is guarded communication. Expressing every thought and feeling, according to Ortberg, is “[n]either wise [n]or biblical. (…) Scripture writers caution people to use wisdom about what they reveal. In particular, don’t do deep disclosure with an untrustworthy person. You can get badly hurt. There is a place for guarded communication. But that’s not where true community lies.”
The second stage Ortberg identifies is everyday authenticity. Everyday authenticity is the opposite of image management. Ortberg uses the example of makeup, which covers up blemishes and underscores strengths in an effort to present a prettier face. (Unfortunately, I read this section just before boarding a plane with an old logo on it. It flew just fine, but I can attest that sometimes makeup does powerfully influence my trust level.) But makeup is trivial; we use more sophisticated methods of image management (which Ortberg calls veils): “Some people hide behind their humor. (…) Some people use their intelligence as a veil. Others use ignorance. Some veil themselves in busyness, in their work, in their vast competence and success. Some people have high-tech veils with remote controls or mouse pads. Ironically, many people in the church veil themselves in spirituality. They quote Bible verses or speak of ‘having deep peace’ or speak of ‘God being in control.’ They may say things that sound impossible to argue with, but their words are moats of protection, not bridges of relationship. (…) What’s your veil?” he concludes. “If you’re not sure, the people closest to you can tell you.” Marriage comes in handy here: Janet observes me daily and had a few pointers. Their general thrust (not surprising for a guy) is that I tend to project superior competence or knowledge, for instance by passing an absolute judgment that isn’t open for discussion (“the composition of his photo could be better,” “that was a lousy parking job”) or by claiming certainty that my mistake won’t matter in the long run (“You bumped the other car!” “Ehh, no biggie. Just a Boston kiss.”).
If you’ve observed children, it’s obvious that these veils or masks are a learned behavior. School is great at teaching it, for what is school but a great game of guessing and fulfilling expectations? And after playing that game for years, it’s hardly a surprise it remains a habit, even though nobody wants it: not friends, not employers, not our church. “The irony of the masks is that although we wear them to make other people think well of us, they are drawn to us only when we take them off.” A corollary of that statement is that the best way to deepen a relationship is to make yourself vulnerable first.
The third stage, deep disclosure with a few trusted friends, Ortberg defines as “telling another human being those aspects of our lives that make us most vulnerable. At this level we dare to unveil areas of failure or embarrassment that are quite intimate. This kind of disclosure should not be entered into lightly.” But “[y]ou cannot be loved if you are not fully known. (…) Sin causes us to seek hiddenness and separation, which in turn destroy community. In confession, we enter back into community. We come out of hiding. (…) One of the greatest steps you can take toward living in community is this: Move toward having someone in your life who knows all about you.” Ortberg mentions warning signs not to disclose deeply, such as inappropriate use of humor, judgmental statements or premature advice, and violating a confidence – but no matter how aware we are, “[r]isk is an indispensable aspect of authentic self-disclosure.” In other words, self-disclosure should always be a mite scary. If it isn’t, you’re probably disclosing trivialities.
Ortberg stops to make sure readers understand that disclosure isn’t the be-all end-all. “We don’t just need disclosure. We need forgiveness, healing, and grace.” We need the cross.
We can foster disclosure, Ortberg says, by practicing acceptance on our part. “Every word we speak has the power either to give a little life to people or to destroy a little bit of their spirit and vitality.” How often have I carelessly spoken and carelessly quenched someone’s spirit? Ortberg illustrates the principle with the story of the adulteress caught red-handed, which includes Jesus’ oft-quoted words: “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.” He argues that we all carry our sins of the spirit as figurative stones – judgmental thoughts, superior attitudes, impatient words, bitter resentments, lovelessness. “What is so insidious about the sins of the spirit is that the carriers don’t have a clue.” But, Ortberg says, “[t]here is no room in Jesus’ community for throwing stones. We are all too broken.” We come in “two (…) categories: sinners who admit, and sinners who deny.”
Note: Acceptance isn’t lazy indulgence or toleration. The story ends with Jesus telling the adulteress to “go, and sin no more.”
An integral part of acceptance is empathy, and Ortberg devotes the next chapter to this skill, in particular to non-verbal communication essential to reading others. “One dangerous aspect of this skill,” Ortberg writes, “is that generally people who don’t read others well aren’t aware that they don’t. (…) The good news is that relational intelligence can be learned.” That’s a pretty sneaky way to make sure everyone feels obliged to read on. Here are some bits that stuck out.
“When we practice [Proverbs 10:19, i.e. we curtail our talking], we begin to learn amazing things. We can live without getting the last word. We can live without trying to make sure we control how other people are thinking about us. We can live without winning every argument, without powering up over every decision, without always drawing attention to ourselves.”
“When we stop talking, we also have the opportunity to engage in the most important intimacy-building skill in the world: listening. (…) It is ironic that we try to impress people by saying clever or funny things, yet nothing binds one human being to another more than the sense that they have been deeply, carefully listened to.” Deep, careful listening includes asking questions, too – questions designed to draw out the other and learn more about him, without stopping the flow of his account.
“[O]ne of the hardest things in the world is to be right and not hurt anybody with it.” Otherwise we end up “winning disagreements and losing friends.” In addition, “[b]eing fully right rarely brings as much life to people as simply being human. (…) ‘Seeing someone you admire do something stupid or clumsy will make you like him more.’” This challenges me especially as a father, where I have the tendency to think my greatest asset is being right and knowing what the kids ought to do.
“Without proper attention, relationships tend to drift.” But attention doesn’t equal attention: the emotions of those interacting play a great role. “Emotions are more contagious than the flu” and exchanged like a relational economy. “Relationally intelligent people ask, ‘Who are the biggest contributors to our emotional economy?’” I need not become dramatically expressive to be a contributor. I need only to build up the vitality of those around me.
“You are a guardian of the human spirit. You have the power to manipulate and coerce if you want to. You can avoid and ignore if you choose. But you can also ennoble and inspire. You can lift up and appeal to all that is good and honorable and holy. You can remind fallible and finite people around you that they hold their lives and calling as a sacred trust, that their best efforts matter, that their worst failures will one day be redeemed.”
Ortberg ends Part II with a chapter on conflict, because “community is worth fighting for.” Ortberg uses Matthew 18:15 as a guideline, which could use a little more examination for the cases in which the second party doesn’t respond well at any of the stages. Personally, I found his discussion of anger helpful. He likens anger to a smoke detector: it’s a useful indicator, but it needs to be understood as such and only go off when warranted. “Anger exists so you will be motivated to make it go away. However, taking wise action while you are angry is exceedingly difficult. As the arousal level goes up, you suffer from what therapists sometimes call ‘cognitive incapacitation.’” Ortberg suggests stopping and asking “two key questions. (…) The first key question is, ‘Why am I angry?’ The second question to ask is, ‘What do I want?’ What would I like the outcome of this situation to be? (…) When we get angry, we start thinking about what we can say that will win the argument or inflict pain. (…) [A]nger makes us feel that we are absolutely in the right and are justified to do anything to hurt the other person. So a very good thing for people with anger issues to say is, ‘I could be wrong.’” It need not even be an urge to hurt and would – I much more frequently see my anger leading to defensive justification. And justifying myself doesn’t encourage the other person to open up to me.
“The litmus test of spirituality is not the absence of conflict; conflict will not disappear until we die. The litmus test is how we handle it.” “[I]f you’re going to involve a third party, you should do it with the goal of finding reconciliation.” “[The] need for sensitivity is one of the most important – and often misunderstood – aspects of healthy anger management. (…) Three major reviews, covering dozens of studies over several decades, did not find a single study that demonstrates that catharsis – letting anger fly – is an effective way to manage anger. It just creates more anger.”
One point Ortberg makes is the difficulty of “saying the hardest but most important truth. We fail to say the last 10 percent. We get vague and fuzzy precisely when clarity is most needed by the other person. Instead of saying, ‘You talked too much at the meeting,’ I might say, ‘It was hard to have a good conversation.’” Ortberg puts this down to fear and pain avoidance, which may be partly true. What he doesn’t mention is the risk taken at this juncture. Confronting someone with something that hurt me makes me vulnerable to further hurt if the other party denies wrongdoing, especially when the offense isn’t directly provable. His framework offers a good illustration.
“Here is a general framework for the last 10 percent:
a. Describe clearly what you observed: ‘You weren’t really listening to me.’
b. Explain how it hurt you: ‘I found myself feeling that I don’t matter to you.’
c. Tell what the consequences have been: ‘This could cause distance in our relationship, and I don’t want that.’
d. Ask for the change you would like: ‘I want to connect when we’re together.’”
Now what if the other party answered after the first statement, and said: “No, I was listening.”? Regardless of how clearly you formulated your observation, your reality has been denied, the other party has declared his reality superior to yours, and there are now no more grounds for you to feel hurt. Not only are you still hurt because he didn’t listen, but you are now also rejected and implicitly told to feel guilty for your feelings of hurt. Ortberg fails to address what to do when the other party is unresponsive, which I find is a weakness in this section.
The main point is Ortberg’s last: “Aim at reconciliation. (…) If you’re not ready to do this, you’re probably not ready for the first six. Direct confrontation doesn’t always do good. Sometimes it escalates the conflict. Sometimes it leads to violence. Confrontation can do tremendous damage. (…) Sometimes we get deep scars and wounds from people. Then we need something more than anger management. We need a miracle.”
The miracle, Ortberg writes, is forgiveness – but that’s Part III.