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Hold That Thought : Internet Debates, Fear, and Doubt

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"Free Internet" by hobvias sudoneighm via Flickr Creative Commons

Internet debates. Yikes. The phrase alone makes me feel clammy. There’s something about the internet that gives people the chutzpah of a senior citizen parallel parking—going straight in without regard for anyone else.

One of these debates popped up in my life recently. Not directly. As a writer, I’ve learned to tune out toxic feedback. Instead, it happened to a friend. Without going in to too much detail, she had posted an opinion piece, in which the author shared insight on her current struggle with the Bible. It was beautiful. Vulnerable. Honest. The sort of piece that allows someone like me to take a sigh of relief, remembering I’m not alone.

Needless to say, that wasn’t everyone’s reaction. One person in particular rallied against the article, hard. The conversation went back and forth, and the debater grew more venomous with each comment. (Not to mention, each post exceeded the last in length, making me wonder if I had somehow been tricked into reading some person’s thesis.) It was painful to watch, but not because she was angry.

Because I could relate. I’ve been that person. 

As I watched the tension grow, I sent my mind back. I tried to relive the feelings I experienced when engaged in an internet debate. Can you guess the feelings? See, we often assume that really fierce internet debaters are confident to the point of arrogance. That isn’t the case. That sort of debate—tense debating, drenched in shaming and name calling—is actually rooted in desperation and fear.

Let’s zoom way out for a second. Consider this:

North Korea doesn’t live in isolation because Kim Jong Un is protecting his people from the world. He’s preventing them from recognizing his corruption. It’s an illusion.

The Taliban doesn’t withhold education from women because they don’t believe women can’t learn. They’re worried that educated women will threaten their ideals.

These are hyperbolic examples, of course. The point is, it’s fearful people that are overly concerned with protecting their beliefs. A secure person, on the other hand, is able to live in the tension between belief and questioning.

When I argued that way I thought I was right, of course. But I fought dirty because I was more afraid to be wrong. I didn’t need to prove my point to the other person. I needed to prove my point to myself.

This is often true in spirituality. Somewhere along the line, I was taught to believe that “having faith” meant the absence of doubt. I believed absolute certainty would be the pinnacle of my religious life. Well, folks. I have a confession to make.

I was wrong.

As it turns out, I’ve been wrong about a lot of things. I was wrong when I thought I could cut my bangs on my own. I was wrong for believing I could change someone I was dating. I’ve been wrong on theological issues. (I mean, I guess we won’t really find out for a while.) I was wrong when I cut that guy off on the road two weeks ago. I’ve been wrong on politics—specifically in denying my belief system to be effected by multiple, contrasting narratives. And I was wrong for crying in every single Nicholas Sparks movie.

I take that back. I will not apologize for those tears.

I lived a significant portion of my life believing that admitting my wrongs would make people see me as weak or dumb. Worse yet, I thought changing my opinions would make me seem unreliable. Instead I clenched onto my beliefs, often at my own expense. Gripping onto my beliefs suffocated my ability to develop. After all, growth first begins with an openness to change. The thing that brought me peace of mind was the act of unclenching my fists and walking toward my doubts. 

That doesn’t mean I’ve overcome this problem. Trust me. My blood pressure is regularly effected by the things I read on the Internet, but I’ve learned to cope differently. Instead of diving into a nasty debate, I get introspective. Why is this getting under my skin? Am I mad because this truly threatens justice, or because I’m afraid to stretch my worldview? Is the author missing something, or am I refusing to be effected by their perspective? If I choose to give their point of view consideration, how will my opinion be effected? Turning inwards first informs the way I communicate. Most the time, it helps me let go. And if I choose to engage, it’s with patience, grace, and curiosity, instead of defense or frustration.

I still find myself in that place now and again, digging my heels into the dirt, afraid to disassemble my beliefs. Afraid to let go of the veneer of certainty. But when I consider the mysterious nature of God—the side of his character that is ever billowing and expanding just beyond our reach—I’m reminded that this is the journey. The uncertainty, the mystery, the doubt is a sign of an active pursuit towards our creator. Faith finds meaning in questioning.



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