[1] http://darkwing.uoregon.edu/~rbear/berkeley.html

In the twenty-second section of his 1710 essay A Treatise Concerning the Principles of Human Knowledge, Irish Bishop George Berkeley (1685-1753—pronounced “BAR-klee” despite the spelling) begins,

I am afraid I have given cause to think I am needlessly prolix in handling this subject. For, to what purpose is it to dilate on that which may be demonstrated with the utmost evidence in a line or two, to any one that is capable of the least reflexion?

This, friends, is a wonderful thing that I may echo to you all from this online journal. I have been accused of being “needlessly prolix” myself, usually phrased in such a way as to say I am “long-winded” but acceptably benign in my general demeanor; and so, after a fashion, worth hearing every once in a while.

You see, I’ve been thinking for several weeks now about certain things I was going to write about. They all seem to focus around a central theme, though; and so, however much I may be tempted to write about them separately for the gratuity of greater self-expression, I’ll explain here, and as briefly as possible.

What friendship looks like, §1

I was in Clemson a few weeks ago with some of my old, dear friends, and as we were sitting there in this [2] pizza place, we were discussing all sorts of things. It ended up, as I was sitting there partaking of a nice cigar, having just finished a few slices of Sicilian pie, that [3] one of my friends and I were discussing ethics and, among other things, whether pornography is art, or whether art could be classified as pornographic, and so on.

As the discussion continued on, it struck me that there was something so warm and inviting about this conversation, about this atmosphere, and it had nothing to do with the food. It only occurred to me later in the weekend (this was a Friday) what the specific element was here: it really felt like I had something to add to the discussion.

Now, Walter, being the good ENFP that he is, is a charmer through and through. He’s socially intelligent, and he knows how to sell you on yourself: he’ll put ideas in your head and make you think you thought of them. That’s okay, because he uses his powers for good (and I like to think I do, too!;)). But this didn’t feel like one of those times. Though we disagreed, there was a respect here between Walter and myself; there was a genuineness that begged for the other person to speak their mind. This, in turn, cultivated the reciprocal, which is that when the other wanted to speak, we really, truly wanted to listen. [Incidentally, this was the note that I promised to expound on in my post “[4] I’m Wardriving.”]

Let us leave that scene for a moment, then, but hold that in your mind.

What friendship looks like, §2

I met up with another few friends a couple of weeks after the aforementioned Clemson outing. Among them was a friend I’d known since we were both somewhere around twelve or thirteen years of age. He’s one of those people who is a master in much more than his chosen field. We were talking that night about all sorts of things: he’d been offered a job in Idaho, which is bittersweet; I was dealing with things going on down in Columbia, which is also bittersweet; and so on. But hereagain, there was this sense as I was talking with him that he genuinely wanted to know what I had to say, about all sorts of things. And, indeed, vice-versa.

We very quickly reached a point like Walter and I had a few weeks before, as we always do. I told him I admired his ability to so converse as to make the person feel so at-ease, so interesting.

“You can do it, too,” he said; “You just have to suspend disbelief.” It struck me, that’s a part of it. He and I have different worldviews about many varied and sundry things; and while it is true that we’ve always connected as friends in profound ways (e.g., when we were freshmen in high school, we found and read parts of Beowulf from my mother’s college English literature class—fellow geeks through and through!), he and I have had lively discussions about all sorts of things. And that’s it: when we talk, we both (I, to my shame, much less successfully so in latter times) suspend disbelief at what the other has to say.

I used to be such a nice guy

Mulling all this over for several weeks, having “stored these things up in [my] heart,” as it were, I realize what sorry habits I’ve been cultivating. I have gotten carried away in discussions that have turned into debates. You may partially investigate the evidence at the [5] Forums, in fact.

I have described myself on various “networking” sites as an “avocational Christian apologist,” and that I am. But I think in sharpening the blades of reason in my own mind and in training for mental rigor, I have neglected the grace of “suspending disbelief,” and have thus lost some of that simple friendship with some people, I believe, because not all are as patient as Daniel with such choleric, “Type A” rational combatants.

Like hugging a Shrike

[6] To borrow an illustration from Dan Simmons’ [7] Hyperion, nobody really wants to hug a Shrike. (Throughout the series, of which Hyperion is the first novel, there is a kind of daemon of war that is feared above all else, a being composed of razor-sharp blades, &c. [Now now, suspend disbelief for a moment!] He is masterful at killing, quickly and expediently; but not at much else.)

The central tenet of Christianity is love exemplified, faith lived from love and toward love; not hewing asunder all logical fallacies committed against the Word so as to stand above all one’s intellectual adversaries. Sometimes I have forgotten this, and have become like a Shrike in some of my friendships, bemoaning the fact that no one will listen to me, or if they do, that they will not extend the hand of kindness.

This is my own doing! David was a warrior, aye, but he was also a sensitive man, not given to glorying in his victories or committing the vice of excess reveling in victories. I would do well to take heed of his example, and I am just coming to realize this.

Quid pro quo: Being heard follows listening

Maybe Berkeley was so wrong it was ridiculous; maybe his contemporaries couldn’t stand how long winded he was; but he deserved to have someone suspend disbelief. He asked patience above all else with his readers, patience just to hear him out.

That’s what I’ve been looking for in my relationships, and what I’ve been slowly losing over the past couple of years to a growing spirit of competition. Here’s to regaining that meekness and grace that I’ve been missing out on, with which I’ve been pushing away friends, girlfriends, parents, and perhaps even you, gentle readers.

Even now, you may think me prolix in my exposition. But I ask of you patience to read this blog, if you wish, and with the spirit of knowing that I, too, am listening.

[8] http://darkwing.uoregon.edu/~rbear/berkeley.html

In the twenty-second section of his 1710 essay A Treatise Concerning the Principles of Human Knowledge, Irish Bishop George Berkeley (1685-1753—pronounced “BAR-klee” despite the spelling) begins,

I am afraid I have given cause to think I am needlessly prolix in handling this subject. For, to what purpose is it to dilate on that which may be demonstrated with the utmost evidence in a line or two, to any one that is capable of the least reflexion?

This, friends, is a wonderful thing that I may echo to you all from this online journal. I have been accused of being “needlessly prolix” myself, usually phrased in such a way as to say I am “long-winded” but acceptably benign in my general demeanor; and so, after a fashion, worth hearing every once in a while.

You see, I’ve been thinking for several weeks now about certain things I was going to write about. They all seem to focus around a central theme, though; and so, however much I may be tempted to write about them separately for the gratuity of greater self-expression, I’ll explain here, and as briefly as possible.

What friendship looks like, §1

I was in Clemson a few weeks ago with some of my old, dear friends, and as we were sitting there in this [9] pizza place, we were discussing all sorts of things. It ended up, as I was sitting there partaking of a nice cigar, having just finished a few slices of Sicilian pie, that [10] one of my friends and I were discussing ethics and, among other things, whether pornography is art, or whether art could be classified as pornographic, and so on.

As the discussion continued on, it struck me that there was something so warm and inviting about this conversation, about this atmosphere, and it had nothing to do with the food. It only occurred to me later in the weekend (this was a Friday) what the specific element was here: it really felt like I had something to add to the discussion.

Now, Walter, being the good ENFP that he is, is a charmer through and through. He’s socially intelligent, and he knows how to sell you on yourself: he’ll put ideas in your head and make you think you thought of them. That’s okay, because he uses his powers for good (and I like to think I do, too!;)). But this didn’t feel like one of those times. Though we disagreed, there was a respect here between Walter and myself; there was a genuineness that begged for the other person to speak their mind. This, in turn, cultivated the reciprocal, which is that when the other wanted to speak, we really, truly wanted to listen. [Incidentally, this was the note that I promised to expound on in my post “[11] I’m Wardriving.”]

Let us leave that scene for a moment, then, but hold that in your mind.

What friendship looks like, §2

I met up with another few friends a couple of weeks after the aforementioned Clemson outing. Among them was a friend I’d known since we were both somewhere around twelve or thirteen years of age. He’s one of those people who is a master in much more than his chosen field. We were talking that night about all sorts of things: he’d been offered a job in Idaho, which is bittersweet; I was dealing with things going on down in Columbia, which is also bittersweet; and so on. But hereagain, there was this sense as I was talking with him that he genuinely wanted to know what I had to say, about all sorts of things. And, indeed, vice-versa.

We very quickly reached a point like Walter and I had a few weeks before, as we always do. I told him I admired his ability to so converse as to make the person feel so at-ease, so interesting.

“You can do it, too,” he said; “You just have to suspend disbelief.” It struck me, that’s a part of it. He and I have different worldviews about many varied and sundry things; and while it is true that we’ve always connected as friends in profound ways (e.g., when we were freshmen in high school, we found and read parts of Beowulf from my mother’s college English literature class—fellow geeks through and through!), he and I have had lively discussions about all sorts of things. And that’s it: when we talk, we both (I, to my shame, much less successfully so in latter times) suspend disbelief at what the other has to say.

I used to be such a nice guy

Mulling all this over for several weeks, having “stored these things up in [my] heart,” as it were, I realize what sorry habits I’ve been cultivating. I have gotten carried away in discussions that have turned into debates. You may partially investigate the evidence at the [12] Forums, in fact.

I have described myself on various “networking” sites as an “avocational Christian apologist,” and that I am. But I think in sharpening the blades of reason in my own mind and in training for mental rigor, I have neglected the grace of “suspending disbelief,” and have thus lost some of that simple friendship with some people, I believe, because not all are as patient as Daniel with such choleric, “Type A” rational combatants.

Like hugging a Shrike

[13] To borrow an illustration from Dan Simmons’ [14] Hyperion, nobody really wants to hug a Shrike. (Throughout the series, of which Hyperion is the first novel, there is a kind of daemon of war that is feared above all else, a being composed of razor-sharp blades, &c. [Now now, suspend disbelief for a moment!] He is masterful at killing, quickly and expediently; but not at much else.)

The central tenet of Christianity is love exemplified, faith lived from love and toward love; not hewing asunder all logical fallacies committed against the Word so as to stand above all one’s intellectual adversaries. Sometimes I have forgotten this, and have become like a Shrike in some of my friendships, bemoaning the fact that no one will listen to me, or if they do, that they will not extend the hand of kindness.

This is my own doing! David was a warrior, aye, but he was also a sensitive man, not given to glorying in his victories or committing the vice of excess reveling in victories. I would do well to take heed of his example, and I am just coming to realize this.

Quid pro quo: Being heard follows listening

Maybe Berkeley was so wrong it was ridiculous; maybe his contemporaries couldn’t stand how long winded he was; but he deserved to have someone suspend disbelief. He asked patience above all else with his readers, patience just to hear him out.

That’s what I’ve been looking for in my relationships, and what I’ve been slowly losing over the past couple of years to a growing spirit of competition. Here’s to regaining that meekness and grace that I’ve been missing out on, with which I’ve been pushing away friends, girlfriends, parents, and perhaps even you, gentle readers.

Even now, you may think me prolix in my exposition. But I ask of you patience to read this blog, if you wish, and with the spirit of knowing that I, too, am listening.