The Coffee Table

Passively teaching tolerance

Sometime back, I wrote about a man who frightened me at the Carroll County recycling center, which is rural enough that it’s unlikely a passer-by would notice human behavior gone awry on the premises. The man appeared to be loitering—rather than recycling—and asked if I am a Christian woman. The answer was none of his business, but my gut instinct was that any reply other than “yes” could potentially thwart my departure.

Interactions like these have made me wary around people who wear their religion on their sleeves.  Those who attend a public jam but can’t sing a song if it isn’t about their Savior. Or who don Jesus T-shirts but are aghast when faced with a shirt sporting a quote by founding father, John Adams, declaring, “ … the Government of the United States of America is not, in any sense, founded on the Christian religion…”

I’ve had bosses—in public schools—who sent emails offering to help staff find Jesus. And co-workers who were certain if they dug down deep enough in my psyche they’d discover I adhere to the same supernatural Christian beliefs they hold dear. 

Of course, I’ve also had friends of several different faiths who’ve had no beef with me for having a different mindset. But there is one particular friend who has taught me tolerance of devoutly religious folk without having any apparent agenda to impart this lesson. It’s simply a by-product of her tolerance for my point of view.

She’s an Arkansas gal, and we have known each other a long time, having met in a caregiver support group we attended religiously, so to speak, for many years, because both our mothers suffered with dementia. And we stayed in touch after both our mothers died. Now that I have moved 750 miles away, we exchange frequent emails. Sometimes more than one a day.

This woman is, indeed, a devout Christian. She attends church weekly. To the best of my knowledge, she studies the Bible daily. She never swears. In fact, I don’t know that I’ve ever even seen her angry. 

While I refrain from using profanity in her presence (in anyone’s presence, actually), I once told her I “swear like a sailor” when home alone and then expressed my apologies for making presumptions about sailors. She ran this by her husband—who has experience with sailors—and then humorously reported that I don’t owe sailors any apologies. In short, while profanity is not her cup of tea, she accepts, in good humor, that my cup sometimes runneth over.

Long ago, while we were having lunch in a Berryville eatery, I told her I was not a Christian. Maybe she was startled for a split-second, but for all practical purposes she never batted an eye. 

Since then, we’ve enjoyed many meals together and before she eats, she is compelled to pray over her food.  I don’t share this need, but it’s a ritual that’s no skin off my nose, as they say. She prays; I wait. The food is just as tasty as if we both prayed or neither prayed. And we are both satisfied.

I cherish this friendship because we can write back and forth daily, sharing the brilliance and drudgeries of our respective lives, knowing we have a completely different outlook on faith. On eternity. On the power of prayer. And neither of us feels compelled to change the other.

To me, that is the very definition of friendship – and, indeed, of love. Accepting others for whom they are – whom they choose to be – without harboring any compulsion to change them.