Fishing with Friends
A few months ago, I sat with a parishioner who shared a clever and insightful anecdote that I have thought about many times since. We were discussing what it is like to work and socialize with people whose political leanings are different from our own. We both lamented the ways in which it seems harder to maintain friendships across those differences of opinion. Then, he told me about one of his friends with whom he likes to go fishing.
The parishioner described how, when it comes to electoral politics, the two of them disagree about almost everything. Over the years, they have learned how to avoid those topics that only lead only to fruitless arguments. On occasion, however, they will talk about difficult issues, but, when they do, they recognize that it is better for them to explore impassioned opinions openly rather than to attempt to persuade the other to agree with them. What would be particularly tragic, the parishioner admitted, was if their friendship dissolved because of their disagreements. “If we can’t go fishing with our friends because we don’t agree on everything,” he told me, “we’re in big trouble.”
I think he is right. I think we are supposed to be able to maintain meaningful friendships with people who disagree with us on fundamental issues, but I also believe that there are good reasons to terminate a friendship over issues that feel particularly threatening to us or to the people we love. But how do we know which is the right thing to do? Finding the balance between our willingness to tolerate discomfort and our need to protect the vulnerable requires intention, reflection, honesty, and determination, and I think finding that balance is particularly important for those of us who claim to be Christians.
Sometimes following Jesus requires us to give up on relationships that matter to us. In Matthew 11:37, Jesus teaches his disciples, “Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me, and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me.” Although I struggle to imagine a situation in which I would be forced to choose between my love of my family and my love of Jesus, during the first few centuries of the church’s history, that choice was disturbingly common. Because allegiance to the Way of Jesus conflicted with allegiance to the empire, sometimes individuals were forced to make the unthinkable choice of renouncing their faith in Jesus or risk being handed over to the authorities by non-Christian members of their family.
Although some Christians living under authoritarian regimes may still be forced to confront that terrible choice, I am thankful that I have the luxury of loving my family and Jesus without needing to prioritize publicly who comes first. But that perceived privilege quickly evaporates when I start to consider more seriously the ways in which my decision to value friends and family above my radical and total allegiance to Jesus impacts other vulnerable people I care about.
Back when I lived in Decatur, Alabama, I went to a barber shop down the street from the church. It was close enough to walk; there was never any wait; it was cheap; and the haircut was good. Unfortunately, the atmosphere was problematic. There was a poster on the wall that featured mugshots of celebrities, all of whom were Black. I was concerned, but the words at the top of the poster left open the possibility that the proprietor was offering his own commentary on the brokenness of the justice system. After a few visits, however, he dropped the N-word in casual conversation, and I knew my relationship with him was over. Looking back, I wish I had confronted him about it, but at the time I convinced myself that simply choosing a different barber was enough.
That barber and I were not friends. We never broke bread together—in church or at the dinner table. There was never any possibility of us going fishing together. But, after his unguarded racist remark, I determined that I could no longer support his business. Sometimes, I think people see my clerical collar and say something or do something shocking just to see whether a priest will push back. Usually, I fold under the pressure, choosing the path of avoidance rather than confrontation. Yet occasionally even avoidance is difficult.
What do you do when you regularly play golf with a member of your church who repeatedly uses the N-word? How do you respond when a coworker speaks about women or members of the LGBTQ+ community as less than fully human? Do you speak up when, at the Thanksgiving table, a relative starts belittling members of a religious group, disparaging anyone and everyone who belongs to their tradition? When are you being challenged as a follower of Jesus, and when are you just stuck at the table with a backward-thinking uncle? When is your silence a failure to honor what Jesus said in Matthew 11:37, and when is keeping the peace in the best interest of everyone involved?
Sometimes, for the sake of others and for the sake of the gospel, we are supposed to cut ties with other people. But not every difficult encounter is a Matthew 11:37 test of our faith. Sometimes the right thing to do is take a deep breath and find a way to stay in relationship despite our frustration. But that is not easy. When someone takes a stand that represents the opposite of what we think, we can be tempted to recast what could be the start of an honest, reasonable, philosophical disagreement as a clash of uncompromisable moral positions.
“If you think welfare needs reforming, you must hate poor people,” we declare to ourselves, convinced that anyone who disagrees with us on an important social issue must be the embodiment of our opposite. If we think of ourselves as caring, loving, and faithful people, we conclude that people on the other side of an issue must be heartless, selfish, and evil. But that is neither fair nor helpful nor faithful.
We can believe that there is a Christian moral imperative to support people in need without also concluding that those who disagree with us on the political realities of the welfare system are anti-Christian. Remember back when we could disagree with our neighbors, colleagues, friends, and family about complex political issues without resorting to demonization? There must be a way for us to belong to the Body of Christ without compromising our commitment to Jesus or our desire to remain in relationship with others.
Yesterday I spoke to a colleague of mine who was reflecting on a meeting he shared with a newcomer to his church. This potential parishioner wanted to know whether my colleague’s congregation would provide the sort of welcome he was looking for. My friend acknowledged to me that, in litmus-test encounters like that, it can be hard to know which side of the political spectrum a newcomer is seeking. Instead of trying to get it just right, my friend simply told the person, “We are a John 13:35 church. Everything you need to know about this congregation is right there.” I like the thought of being “a John 13:35 church.”
In John 13:35, Jesus gives a different sort of test for his followers: “By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” Whenever I am tempted to get it just right—to imagine that there is a singular way for a congregation like ours to be faithful in its engagement with the wider world—I remember this verse. Jesus does not tell his followers that they will be known because of the stand they take against the powers of this world. He does not tell his disciples to expel anyone whose politics do not fit the standard set by a particular denomination, a particular congregation, or a particular minister. He reminds them that, in the eyes of the world, they will be defined by their Christ-like love for one another.
That love does not yield or bend or break when someone in the community is under attack from the forces of evil. Neither does it fade when someone in the community votes for the other candidate or supports the other party. Jesus loved outcasts and sinners, but he also ate with the Pharisees. He was not willing to remain neutral on issues related to the welfare of vulnerable people, and neither should we. I do not pretend that I always get it right—far from it. But seeking to be a church full of people who are committed to loving one another as Christ loves us is a pretty good place to start.
Yours faithfully,
Evan D. Garner
