I have a family member who doesn’t obey the laws of the jungle, specifically the law that counsels never to corner an animal. In conflict with her, word by word, squaring of shoulder by shifting of foot, she slowly edges me both physically and mentally into a corner. It is suffocating. Yet even in this moment of gasping-for-air discomfort, I admire her ability to enter so easily into conflict, to move so freely in its grip, because conflict is an unavoidable part of our time on earth. We would do well to get as comfortable with it as we can. Conflict and disagreement are not the same thing. Disagreements can be resolved or at least better understood through conversation. Conflict is an escalation of disagreement when our emotions become entangled in ways that are difficult to unravel. It is this thorny place that terrifies me. The fear of heated argumentation is one of the limiting side effects of having grown up in a largely conflict-free home. When my mom had complaints, my dad would glance up from his newspaper and respond, “Whatever you say, my dear.” While there was something frustratingly reductive in his words, there was also an immediate surrender of his will, a regular practice of abandoning his side of the argument that prevented unnecessary tension in their marriage. This has served me well in my own marriage, but I have very few models for how to manage when whatever you say will not suffice. Like most people, I want everyone to like me and agree with me all the time. In confession, I told my priest about a conflict I was having with someone. I looked everywhere but at him when I admitted, “I’m talking about them in uncharitable ways.” And then with no small amount of hurt in my voice, I continued, “And they’re talking about me. I can love them, but I don’t want to be anywhere near them.” Father leaned forward, exhaled, and shook his head. I assumed he was disappointed in my behavior, but his disapproval had more to do with my expectations than my behavior, which admittedly still needed some work. “The expectation to agree 100 percent always is unrealistic on this earth,” he said. He went on to say that everyone seems to think we are all supposed to get along all time, but this is not possible. “Getting along,” he continued, “is possible even when we disagree, but it requires the effort of both parties, and we personally have no direct agency on how the other party will interact with us.” On a visit to St. Vincent Monastery in Latrobe, Pennsylvania, I watched an interaction between a monk and one of his brothers. From across the basilica, I witnessed their exchange, amiable enough at first, but their faces as they parted made me laugh as the distaste for each other and the bad flavor of conflict was so evident. Clearly, even in a place so devoted to God, conflict was present. I asked Brother Bosco, whose face was still unsettled from the exchange, how the monks handled the realities of conflict in community life. “I was told once that the monastery is a lot like a rock tumbler,” he said. “We all enter the rock tumbler with various impurities. It is only when we are in the rock tumbler, when we hit against one another, that our impurities are broken off.” Bosco scanned the crowd of his robed brothers, his fellow rocks, as he continued. “The idea is once we are taken out of the tumbler at our death, we are all smoothed out and ready to meet Jesus.” I was thinking of all these things – my family member who engages so readily in confrontation, my confessor’s assertion that disagreement is unavoidable, and Brother Bosco’s understanding of how conflict functions in community life – as I sat in the middle of a heated discussion recently. The conversation toggled back and forth between disagreement and conflict, the salve of understanding often competing with the hurts of those moments when emotions ran high. The feeling of suffocation, of trying to keep my head above the water, was overpowering. I didn’t know how to navigate it, and I wished I had something to protect myself from the discomfort of it. But perhaps it’s not supposed to be comfortable. Maybe instead it’s looking across a basilica of holy men and recognizing that even a monastery is a place of brokenness where we are not yet ready to meet Christ. I don’t have to like it, but I can accept the promise in the great discomfort of being cornered. I can accept that the collision with others will grind me down, my protruding flaws crumbling away bit by painful bit. I’m not sure knowing this will make conflict more comfortable, but there is solace in knowing it has a larger purpose. And I can choose to step out of the corners when the polishing becomes a bit too intense. It doesn’t have to happen all at once. The post The Holy Purpose of Conflict appeared first on Today's Catholic. ...read more read less