Not Towers, But Tables: Connecting with Love in a Divided World

“Whenever you are confronted with an opponent, conquer them with love.” — Mahatma Gandhi

It happened at our simple and popular community dinner Thursday night. The Seventh Day Adventists served their signature vegetarian “haystacks.”

Usually it’s an easy-going, if a little rowdy, environment. That’s how these things often begin—not in lecture halls or debates, but at long tables where people come carrying their fully human selves.

John had sat down with a young woman and her two young boys; they had joined us before at the community meal. We had known her since she was a child. She spoke thoughtfully, not with the sharp edges of someone trying to win an argument, but with the steadiness of someone who had found something that felt like ground beneath her feet. (Some of the details of this story have been modified to protect anonymity.)

“I’ve started going to a new church,” she said. “It’s Christian nationalist. Sunday the guest speaker talked about globalism and compared it to the fall of the Tower of Babel. Globalism and unity is something we’re supposed to resist… it’s biblical.” She paused.

“And, at my new church, they really empower men. I like that.”

Later, when John told me about what she said, I felt that familiar inner stir. The part of me that wants to first scream, and then gather my arguments to set things and people in their proper place.

But then another knowing rose up, quieter and more important.

I knew her story.

I knew that her marriage had been hard. That the man who should have been steady had not been. That she had carried more than her share, held things together when they were falling apart, and lived with the ache of not being able to rely on the person who was supposed to stand beside her.

So when she said, “they empower men,” I didn’t hear true ideology.

I heard longing.

I heard a woman who wanted strength—not the loud kind, not the controlling kind, but the kind that shows up. The kind that stays. The kind that carries responsibility without being asked twice.

And suddenly, my heart and mind rearranged themselves.

Because so often, what we are tempted to argue against is not really the thing we need to understand.

We live in a time when many people feel something slipping. Traditions thinning. Certainty eroding. Roles changing. The world growing larger and less predictable.

And when that happens, we reach—almost instinctively—for something that feels solid.

Christian nationalism offers that solidity. It tells a story of clarity, identity, order. It draws clean lines and says, “This is who we are.” It even reaches back into scripture and stories and says, “See? This is biblical.”

And for someone who has lived through instability in her most intimate relationships, that promise can feel especially compelling.

But the question beneath the question is this:

What kind of strength actually leads to the good life?

Because not all strength is the same.

There is a version of strength built on control—on hierarchy, on power that flows in one direction. It can feel reassuring at first, especially to those who have known chaos. It looks decisive. Certain. Strong.

But often, underneath, it is shaped by fear and a desire to dominate others.

And then there is another kind of strength.

Quieter, but no less powerful.

The strength to be reliable. To take responsibility. To listen. To be steady without needing to dominate. To hold one’s place without diminishing someone else. It’s the power of love.

It is, in many ways, the strength she—and so many others—are actually longing for.

I found myself thinking again about the story she mentioned. The Tower of Babel. The story goes that people gathered, built something vast, tried to secure themselves, tried to reach to the heavens, to be big, to define who they were and how the world should be ordered.

It’s often told as a warning about people coming together too much, becoming too global. If you’ve never heard the story or heard it interpreted that way, it may sound strange.

I don’t interpret the story that way, as a warning against globalism. I hear it differently… as a warning about something else.

For me, it’s a story about what happens when we try to control everything, "to make a name for ourselves." When we get prideful. When we build systems to dominate others.

And there’s another biblical story about a bunch of people coming together that goes very differently.

Pentecost.

Another gathering. Another moment where people from many places come together.

But this time, no one is forced into one way of being. No one is made the same. Instead, each person hears in their own language. Difference remains, but understanding grows.

Connection happens without control.

It is a completely different vision of strength.

Not towers reaching upward, but bridges reaching outward. Or in our case...tables.

Not sameness, but shared understanding.

Not fear, but openness.

And I wonder if that is the deeper thread running through it all—not a command to resist connection, but an invitation to hold connection differently.

At the community meal, this is already happening in small, almost invisible ways.

A person with strong opinions sits next to someone who sees the world differently, and they share a table. A moment of tension arises—a dog that frightens others—and instead of shutting someone out, a more creative, more compassionate way is found. Eventually.

No one names it as anything grand.

But something important is being practiced.

A kind of love with its many close relatives—curiosity, understanding, patience, humility, wisdom.

A way of being together that does not depend on control.

A way of holding difference without fear.

A way of embodying strength that is steady rather than loud.

And...yet...love does not mean silence. When we journey together in love, we share our thoughts and feelings. Still...

There is a quiet tension many of us feel in moments like these. We want to preserve the relationships we have so carefully built. We do not want to embarrass, alienate, or fracture connection.

But if we say nothing at all, something else can happen just as quietly: people may assume we agree.

And that, too, shapes the space.

So the question becomes not whether to speak, but how.

What if we could make clear where we stand without burning the bridge we are standing on?

What if truth could be spoken in a way that still leaves the door open?

It might sound like this:

“I see that a little differently.”

Or,

“I care a lot about people being able to belong, even when they believe different things.”

Or even,

“I’ve found that the strongest people I know are the ones who combine that strength with kindness and mutual respect.”

Not a speech.

Just a sentence.

Clear enough to be honest. Gentle enough to preserve relationship.

This is the quiet courage of love.

Not withdrawing.

Not overpowering.

But staying present, telling the truth as we understand it, and refusing to let disagreement become disconnection.

I imagine what it might look like, the next time a conversation like that unfolds, to respond not with argument, but with curiosity.

“It makes sense that you’d value strong, reliable men,” we might say. “I think we all need that.”

And then, gently,

“I’ve also found that the strongest people I know are the ones who combine that strength with kindness—where no one has to carry everything alone.”

Not a correction.

An invitation.

Because in the end, the way we ultimately “conquer” anything that narrows the world is not by meeting it with more force.

It is by offering a shift to something stronger. Think of it as a little aikido move if it helps.

A way where faith does not need power to be meaningful. Where strength does not require domination. Where connection does not erase difference.

A way where people, sitting around a common table, begin to experience something they may not yet have words for.

Safety.

Belonging.

Dignity.

And perhaps that is what Mahatma Gandhi was pointing toward.

Not a sentimental love.

But a steady, courageous one—expressed through curiosity, through understanding, through the willingness to stay in relationship.

The kind of love that does not shrink in the face of difference,

but also does not hide what is true.

The kind of love that widens the circle,

without losing its voice.

And because this kind of love is not always easy in the moment, it helps to have a few simple ways to recognize when we are slipping out of it—and how to return.

There are signs, if we learn to notice them. I know them very well. I’m trying to heed them.

Your body tightens—your jaw clenches, your shoulders rise. You feel urgency—“I need to say something right now.” You start building your case instead of listening. The other person becomes simplified—“They’re just wrong.” You feel heat—anger, fear, or that quiet sense of righteousness.

These are not failures.

They are signals.

And in that moment, you can make a small but powerful shift.

Pause your body first. Take one slow breath. Let your shoulders drop. Name it silently: “I’m getting activated.” Ask yourself, gently, “What am I feeling? What am I trying to protect?” Remind yourself: “This is a person, not a position.”

That small turning—back toward presence—is often all it takes.

From there, you can choose a different way forward.

You can lead with curiosity: “What about that speaks to you?” “Tell me more about how you see that.”

You can affirm what is good underneath: “I hear that you care about strong families… about things being stable and good.”

You can share your own view simply: “I care about that too and I see how we go about it a little differently.” “I’ve come to value…”

You can offer a reframe instead of a rebuttal: “I’ve wondered if it might also be…”

You can slow the pace. Let silence help.

And you can stay relational—warm tone, steady presence, a willingness to remain.

When you feel pulled toward winning, you might quietly remind yourself:

“I don’t have to win this moment. I’m here to widen it.”

Because in the end, for us at the community meals, we are shaping a space.

A space where people can experience strength and conviction without domination, difference without fear, truth without the loss of relationship.

And over time, that space does something arguments alone rarely can.

It changes people.

It softens what is rigid. It opens what is closed. It reveals another way of being human together.

A stronger way.

And so perhaps the real question is not,

“How do I defeat what I disagree with?”

But,

How do we journey together—and help build something—where love, and its close companions of curiosity and understanding, are strong enough to hold us all as we move together to The Good Life?

By the way, John handled this conversation beautifully. And it was easy for him because he really does love well.  He named the church, “Oh, I am curious to hear more about what you are saying about this church because I’ve heard some very disturbing things about it.  And empowering men?  I hope it’s not coming at the expense of women, is it? He said the conversation went quite well.  His curiosity was genuine. She did not get upset by John's comments and questions. Hugs all around when the meal was finished. Love won that night. Understanding broadened, curiosity deepened. Trust lifted us all up.