Preaching to the choir

My friends and I were sussing out a minor dilemma: Which protest would we be attending? 

It was a foregone conclusion; not an “if” but “where“ and a “when.“

During a flurry of texts, we discussed schedules and timing and the philosophical calculations of where we’d see the best return on our investment.  

For various reasons … perhaps the drumbeat of opinion-page observations ... we found ourselves in this predicament, where somehow, beliefs based on norms and facts are as valid as those based on conspiracy theory and bias ...

And it was on us to change hearts and minds with posterboard and paint.

It’s all in the tone… or the humor.

Perhaps it also explains why we cling to the idea that we shouldn’t be preaching to the choir. 

That, it seems, is all about pitch.

Our group triangulated. We consulted the interwebs and learned the possibilities of platforms and places to protest were near endless. We could head to Albany and mingle with thousands of kindred, sign-waving souls.  Or we could pick a venue closer to home. Wake up late and meander over to a sleepy little town, where the same dozen people gather near the four-way stop to complain about the government (part time).  

We could wear a Resist shirt at the Pride Parade, or a Rainbow on Flag Day. We could donate to any number of charity causes. We didn't even have to stay together. We could venture out on our own.

Truly, no small part of me wanted to simply walk through my little corner of the community and embody resistance by wearing my usual weekend garb and a happy face. 

My closely held beliefs would be easily recognizable from all the anxious pacing and the home brewed coffee I tote around in my favorite mug. 

But I didn’t want to be alone any more than I wanted to be among rivals.

I was reminded of the time I opened my door and just listened to what two young Jehovah’s Witnesses, who were trying to fulfill their mission of proselytizing, had to say. 

I had no feasible plan to convert them to my particular denomination of secular humanism, but I was committed to blunting my edge of the cold, cruel world the folks who sent them knew they'd face the minute they started ringing the doorbells of the heathens. No one likes being told their going to hell.

I offered them coffee and conversation instead.

One fewer door slammed in their face.

Of course, all this was on my mind as I carried my sign to the edge of the road, and squeezed between a few folks whose slogans were way more clever than mine.

It turned out to be a pleasant afternoon … surrounded by like minds –  a closely woven community knit wider.  Setting ourselves free from our silos by seeing our numbers rise.

On the occasion when the angry world passed by, squealing their tires and yelling taunts, I felt protected by the crowd.

We don’t need to make the heathens answer our cold call, but we may need to remind the choir they aren’t singing into a void.

We don’t need to fight every battle. But we do need to hold onto our beliefs and exercise a little faith in shared humanity. We need to stick together.