This year, after my 42nd silent retreat at Demontreville, I found myself reflecting over a different kind of lesson — one not from the retreat master, but from a conversation with my daughter.
My daughter Chris and I could hardly be further apart politically. I lean toward policies that support immigrants, the poor, minorities, and the sick. She supports Trump and the Republican agenda, which I believe diminishes those very groups. Our conversation was brief, but it revealed something that I have been mulling over ever since.
When it comes to personal interactions, my daughter is tactful, gracious, and considerate. She knows how to get along with people, soften conflict, and maintain civility. I, by contrast, am often blunt and confrontational. When I disagree, I rarely hide it. I leave enemies in my wake since I have little tolerance for greed and immoral people. She accuses me of being harsh, even inhumane, in my manner.
And yet, when I step back, I see an irony. My brusque words are often in service of a vision of justice for the many. Her gentle tone exists alongside a commitment to policies that, in practice, withdraw support from those most in need. In fact, the Trumpian policies she supports will result in starvation, disease and death for millions.
This tension raises a deeper question: what does it mean to be a true humanist?
Is it the ability to show kindness in the moment, face-to-face, even if one’s broader commitments bring harm to many unseen lives? Or is it the willingness to fight for systemic justice, even if the style of delivery offends, unsettles, or disturbs?
I think of Christ, who could be gentle with the broken and the poor, yet fierce with the powerful and the hypocritical. He healed with a touch, but he also overturned tables. His humanity was both intimate and systemic.
Perhaps that is the lesson I am being given now. Humanism is not one thing. It asks us to be kind in the small circle of our relationships but also bold in the larger circle of society. Without the first, justice grows cold. Without the second, kindness becomes complicity.
I wonder if my daughter and I — so different in politics, so different in style — are each holding half of a larger truth.
Aging Capriciously 