I Disagree
“Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: Love your neighbor as yourself.”
~ Matthew 22:37-38 ~
The gentlemen behind me at this restaurant are talking quite loudly. That happens often in New York City, so I’ve found.
“Man, I want to go back to the ‘80s!” one gestured. “Back then there weren’t any stupid bikes or scooters on the street.”
The other cackled and nodded in agreement, encouraging his companion to continue.
“I mean, listen: If you want to ride a bike go to Virginia. I mean, we’re not f****** Europe!”
I looked out the window, saw a man dripping with sweat toting a large Door Dash container as he dodged traffic of all sorts—pedestrians, trucks, scooters, horns, other bikes. He looked experienced yet exhausted, just trying to make a living riding a bike and delivering food.
“I disagree,” I mumbled.
When I teach, I end a lot of my classes the same way. I check my phone, notice we’re two minutes over, and then hurriedly announce, “Alright, we’ll talk about that next time. I love you guys, see you on [fill in the next day of class].” The rustle of papers and zippers ripple throughout the room. Packing my materials as well, I suddenly add an addendum to my earlier announcement, “Oh, and don’t forget,” I smile, “You’re allowed to disagree with me and get an ‘A’.”
And I mean it. Believe it. Am committed to it. I believe all good, formational education should be as well, biblical or otherwise.
Too often, to our detriment, we envision education as merely dissemination of information. The passing of wisdom from the sage on the stage to the passive observer. Lectures delivered; notes taken; tests proctored to measure one’s ability to regurgitate the master’s opinion. But that’s not education. Probably something more akin to oppression.
The two men behind me are now openly and loudly making fun of a woman riding a scooter, mocking her bright socks, long braids, and the stickers peppering her helmet. I glanced back, unable to resist the temptation to see what I can’t help but hear. They’re red with delight, growing louder with each breath.
The one closest to me hit the table and, once again, pronounced his disdain, “I mean, come on! If you wanna ride a scooter,” he repeated, “go ta Virginia go ta a Carolina go ta Europe. I mean f***! They’re takin’ over the city!”
Although that last line came out with the same laughter and vitriol as his others, I sensed a tinge of fear. Uncertainty compelled by the unknown or the unfamiliar or, at the very least, the unlike-my-childhood.
In academia, some fear the rise of Artificial Intelligence—ChatGPT or otherwise. Sure, there’s the apocalyptic lot terrified at the prospect of robots ruling the world, but most worry about consequences much closer to home, like losing their jobs. I mean, if any question can be asked of a computer that sifts all available information on the internet for a decisive answer, are classrooms still needed? Diplomas still valuable? Professors still necessary?
The problem isn’t A.I., though, but an artificial definition of education. One passed on from generation to generation by student and professor alike. Education, so the story goes, is a system of transmitting knowledge for payment, disclosing secrets of a trade for remuneration. The problem, then, is quite clear: Artificial Intelligence accomplishes this more efficiently, expansively, and economically.
Insert fear.
But what if education was more than merely buying and selling information? What if it was a journey? Wholistic? Targeting the heart, soul, mind, and strength of the student? What if education was something more akin to a testimony; an exploration; a mutual pursuit of truth inhabited and enfleshed, not just memorized and parroted?
This is why learning to disagree is essential. Why I encourage my students to disagree with me. With each other. With respect. With dignity. In pursuit of something greater than just an answer to a question. In pursuit of something more expansive than any of us can fully apprehend, even though, by God’s grace, we can hold at least a portion of it, however small our hands.
No. Disagreement is not the goal of education, but it’s an essential component too often missing or unwelcome. It isn’t honored in lectures or encouraged in assigned readings or valued in research papers or invited into conversations after class. Its absence in education is telling; its absence in society damning.
No, it isn’t hard to find a dissenting opinion in a society hungry for “hot takes,” a world craving the viral. But educational disagreement isn’t measured by differences but by the willingness to be disagreed with. The courage to have someone say, “I don’t agree with you.”
Courage is, indeed, the right word. Courting disagreement doesn’t feel safe. We labor without end to be right, to appear as an expert on any and every issue our newsfeed opines. But the goal of education is not to be right but to expand. To grow. To transform.
In the coming years, I’m convinced the churches that grow will be those that know the power of disagreement, those courageous enough to invite differences, those who know how to disagree and still stay united in Christ. Nothing would shock a fractured and frantic world divided by even the smallest disagreement more than a community committed to learning through conversation. A community rooted in unity and not conformity. A community that perceives disagreement as not a battleground but an opportunity to humanize the other, to learn from the other, to see the other as not other at all.
The two men behind me, once again, roared with laughter, the volume of their voices and the number of complaints increasing with each cackle. Everyone was a target. Everyone except themselves, that is. The common theme was: everything’s going to be a disaster; nothing’s like it used to be; and [fill in the blank] is to blame.
I almost lost my patience when one guy, spewing his half-chewed lunch with each syllable, blurted loudly, “You know, I don't give a f*** about Ukraine. I hope the Russians win!”
Sitting right next to each other, we were worlds apart. I mean, it’s one thing to court disagreement, but it’s quite another when someone espouses an opposing position that could potentially hurt another person. This is beyond boorish and a borderline bigoted outburst.
Disgusted, I gathered my things and stood up to leave. I pushed in my chair and searched for the exit, only to realize my path required me to pass them. Both of them. The crony and the loud one whose seat was rudely blocking the aisle. So, after an eyeroll, I approached his seat as more critiques spewed, filling the entire area with vitriol and angst.
And then I saw it. A complication to debate. A test to measure my commitment to respectfully express, “I disagree.”
His wallet sat orphaned in the aisle beside his table. Identification and old-fashioned cash exposed for all to see.
My lips tightened, annoyed at the Spirit. I hesitated contemplating the meaning of justice but was interrupted by the mantra I recite to my kids quite often, “Doing what’s right is more important than doing what we want.”
“Sir,” I tapped him on the shoulder.
No acknowledgement.
“Sir,” I poked again.
He swung around annoyed and ready to pounce.
“I think you dropped your wallet,” I gestured to the floor.
He flailed in exasperation, rocking his head side to side searching for his treasure, and then swooped down to retrieve his precious collection of cards. And then, without warning, he began to grovel with gratitude. Over and over and over and over, “Thank you! Oh thank you! Thank you so much! Oh! Thank you!”
The same mouth filled with food and hateful comments now filled with gratitude.
“Thank you! Oh man, geez, thank you! My wife woulda killed me! Oh, just killed me! She woulda shot me dead! Thank you! Seriously, my wife woulda killed me!”
I smiled. Shrugged. “Mine too, probably.” And walked away.
Then an intrusive thought crossed my mind, “Hmmm. I guess we’re not that different after all.” Or so the Spirit seemed to say.
We live in a world of tension. Gravity is the first that comes to mind, and without it, there would be chaos. The construction industry has all kinds of "conflict" from hammering nails to screwing in screws to objects that resist, be they wood or metal. But it's that same resistance that holds objects together.
Conflict, or disagreement, is the tension of community. But it does not need to be destructive. Like gravity, it can provide the means for understanding, clarity, commune-ity.
I also believe we would all be better off if we put as much energy into Authentic Interaction (A.I.) as we do Artificial Intelligence (A.I.).
I always like having a chuckle while my heart is being stabbed. Thank you😃