A Time To Scoot And A Time To Stand

I was walking by an open house in my neighborhood recently. The hostess was one whom I'd greeted in passing before, but that was all. It seemed that half the neighborhood was in there, and so I stepped in.

When I crossed the threshold, I found that the house was filled with a very diverse group of folks, all sharing one common thread -- they were all from my neighborhood. Some knew eachother, some didn't, but everyone was welcome.

Our hostess had held the open house with an agenda in mind -- that was not a secret. She wanted to have the neighborhood discuss an issue of code that had proved divisive in the past. I wondered why we would discuss it, since it is completely beyond our control; we can decide whatever we want, but our consenses would not have any bearing on the outcome because our Homeowner's Association is not a democracy.

To my delight, the discussion was very polite. People were disagreeing, but everyone was humble in their opinions so as not to indict others who may have felt otherwise. Opposing opinions were presented in a way that caused others to think, but not resent. It seemed like a cordial time was being had by all.

But then our hostess stepped out to pick up some more ice at the store and we were left to ourselves. Shortly after she drove away, a woman from the next block stopped in and changed the tone of the party completely. She had a gentleman with her, and together they got the attention of the room to announce how terribly wrong we, who disagreed with her, were about the code issue. Her male friend was even more outrageous. He stood atop the coffee table and started shouting at us sarcastically, scoffing at our opinions, condemning and resenting us for our ignorance on the more intricate details of engineering.

The strange woman from the next block took the argument beyond opinion and proclaimed that all who disagreed with her judgment of what should be done, would be held accountable. She decided that while the Association would still allow us to own our homes, we would lose some important privileges until we came around to her way of thinking. However, she did not have any authority to impose such a sentence, and in speaking on the Association's behalf, she presented its members in a strange, harsh light. And my Dad was the President.

This was a difficult moment for me. What should I do? Is this a moment to turn the other cheek? Would I be best to scoot along the wall and get out? Shall I keep my mouth closed and pretend to be at peace with her? Would it be meddling to try to set the record straight? Peter stood up and spoke in Acts 2; he didn't leave the crowd to feed on the idea that the Christians at Pentacost were drunk. My dad doesn't need my defense, but I felt compelled to make it nonetheless.

Everyone else at the open house fell strangely silent. I wondered what it meant? Were people afraid of her? Of him? Were people just being timid? Were their opinions being swayed? Was there anyone there who didn't know my Dad and might think this representation of him was true? I just knew I had to speak.

And so I did. I tried to be factual. I tried to be polite. I tried to ask more questions than make sweeping statements of defense. In the end, I was frank -- though not emotional. The other woman's stand required no uncertain terms.

When the hostess came home, she called us both contentious and kicked us both out. I thought that wasn't very hospitable considering she was the one who set the agenda, but failed to moderate the discussion. I think I won't go back to her house again. I only hope that no one at the party left with a completely wrong impression about my Dad. I love my Dad. He has done so much for me.

The above story is fictional, though the characters and situations are based on fact. It is an allegory. It happened to me this week in the blogosphere, and it made me a little sad.