My first inclination was to refute her statement outright, but as anyone could reason out for themselves, that would effectively prove the words instead, so I fought off that impulse and kept quiet.

I wonder if there is anything harder than keeping quiet when one feels a need to clear the air.  Well—maybe not so much a need as a drive.

We want to be accepted.

In whatever group we function, we want to be accepted.  I know I do.  And, to a great extent, I craft my conversations and writing to fit the norm in my tribe, my support group.  Seldom (at least in recent years) do I venture out and express a contrarian opinion.  Because I want to be accepted.

We want our opinions to be agreed with.  We want to be respected when we offer a viewpoint.

We have a maxim in the English language—vaguely humorous, implicitly serious—that has been used since the 1400s to express these feelings.

Love me, love my dog.

The logic extends to all I care for.

Love me, love my truck.

Love me, love my wife.

Love me, love my writing.

Love me, love my music.

The reader will have his or her own objects or activities to insert.  Regardless of who we are, we have a need, a drive, to be accepted or agreed with.

We choose our companions—our tribe—accordingly.

And, instead of being contrarian to our tribe, we are typically contrarian to the rest of the world.  Strangely enough, we argue against the current trend in our world for what we call “cancel culture”, yet we do exactly that.

As I age, I have attempted, without complete success, to become less combative.  I believe there has been improvement, but still, I am not satisfied.

At least, I wouldn’t start an argument with a fencepost, as the red-headed lady who raised me used to accuse.  And yet, just last week, I was shown just how apt I am still to argue and defend myself at the drop of a hat.

The Lord allowed me to post a silly photo and accompanying text to a group online that I believed was part of my tribe.  They describe themselves as dull men.  I thought the description might apply to me, too.

I said the Lord allowed me to do all this.  I believe we are allowed to experience things that show us our need for repentance and redemption from sinful patterns.  (See quote from James 1, below.)

The silly post I made in the group was quite popular, topping out at 36,000 responses in a week.  It was the worst thing to happen to me in a while.

Really.  The worst thing.

These folks are not really my tribe.  While most responses were complimentary, many others were not.  They disparaged my knowledge (or lack thereof) of tree nomenclature and my usage of the English language.  They even picked out an unrelated item in the photo and railed on that.  Over and over, the criticism rolled in.

Initially, I  answered every one of them.  I was kind and patient at first, then abrasive and cynical as the comments continued.

I knew something was wrong.  I just couldn’t put my finger on what it was.  And then it hit me.  These folks—while not my tribe—are still the neighbors I am called to love, to respect, to care for.  They’re not my neighbors because they agree with me; they’re my neighbors because I’ve been given the opportunity to interact with them.

I quit replying and began to let the criticism roll off without comment.  I even stopped reading comments to ensure I would not respond in kind. 

I may be dull, but I can learn.

“If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.”
(Romans 12:18)

Tweedledee and Tweedledum (another quote below) in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland fought each other over a broken rattle.  A broken rattle!

Somehow, the things we find to argue about—on the Internet and in person—seem to me to be almost as important as that rattle.

I told you my friend was wrong when she wrote that I was “sometimes a contrarian”.  I meant she was wrong that it was only sometimes.

I’d like it to be never.  I want to speak the truth in love.  I want it never to be argumentative. 

I may never achieve it.

But, I’d like to die trying.

“Convince a man against his will,
He’s of the same opinion still.”
(Mary Wollstonecraft, in 1792)