Bows, Arrows, and Emails

I found my daughter crying the other night under the iridescent glow of our computer. She had been on line chatting and apparently, a friend said something to her in a series of three-word sentences and abbreviations that hurt her; she then proceeded to hurt her friend. It was painful for them both. I have seen the girls together before and it seemed as though they were on the path to friendship. Of course, they were in each other’s company. It’s startling what we are capable of saying from the virtually infinite distance of cyber space.


Years ago I took a class called War and Morality. The class offered great content, riveting discussion, and a passionate professor; it marked me. One day we discussed the impact of the bow and arrow on early warfare. We learned that the development of projectile weapon technology made the killing of another human more palatable; that shooting a man from a distance with an arrow was more psychologically acceptable than looking him in the eye, impaling him with a sword, and watching him die. Who would have thought?

The reasoning was simple:

• The greater the distance from someone, the less we experience those things that make them human (their voice, facial expressions, and emotions).
  
• The less human another person becomes, the easier it is for us to harm them.

So, as weapons were developed, technology was employed to not only do greater damage, but also to increase the distance between the warrior and those targeted. Today, we can fire missiles from continents away, drop bombs from miles above, and fly drone bombing missions as though playing video games. By design, the warrior of today may never have to see the face or consider the humanity of his enemy as he destroys him.

Bows and arrows, and emails are frighteningly similar in that they both can be used as weapons fired from a distance.

This has been a concern of mine since I first received an email account in the workplace thirteen years ago. In concept, we are closer than ever (an email to the next cubicle takes as much time to send as one to the other side of the world) but the reality is our potential for psychological distance is unprecedented.

As I write this, it is quite possible for me to close the door to my office and not have one face-to-face conversation with my coworkers or friends today. In an average day I receive and respond to 40 or 60 emails, 20 -30 text and instant messages, I may receive a letter or a hand-written note. I estimate that over 80% of the unique communication events I make in a given day will be non-verbal, written text on electronic paper. Your percentage might even be higher.

While the pure quantity of communication in my life has increased my connectedness to others, it has not increased my community with others.

I have learned that distance and community can be the fiercest of enemies.

As communication battles rage, it has become easy for me to shield myself behind the screen of my laptop and let fly terse and insensitive emails like arrows from a watchtower. I do not have to confront the humanity of the person who must read them or see them ripped open as those sharp words fall. Sometime my words hit their mark with great accuracy. And though victorious at the end of the battle, I am left feeling more the coward than the valiant.

My concern is not only that we can hurt each other as a result of distance, but also that we are driving to extinction the art of conversation. In my experience, written words often cannot and do not say enough. The other day, some friends and I were discussing a scene from a movie we all liked. We laughed as we imagined what it would be like to receive the following as an email:

“Are you talking to me? You talking to me? You talking to me? ...”

These words written on paper or electronically are innocuous. But if you watch and listen to De Niro deliver those exact same words in front of a mirror in the film, “Taxi Driver” they are powerful and insidious. The gap between how communication is read and how it is heard can be wide. Today’s communication methods allows us to read virtually everything that is said but eliminate almost everything required to understand what is truly meant.

The other day at church I asked a friend going through a difficult time, “So, how are you doing?”

“I am doing fine,” she replied.

This was a lie. Her eyes told me that, the timbre of her voice, the ever-so-slight pause between the words doing and fine, her forced smile before she looked down to sip her coffee. I could not have detected her lie unless I had been in her physical presence. I could not have been able to be her friend had I not been there – I would never have known.

As I attempt to communicate with others in the sometimes frenzied melee of Church leadership, I am continually trying to force myself to put down the bow and arrow and head into the battle on the ground – face to face. Sure it’s messier, more time consuming, and tiring, but I think in the end, there will be fewer casualties on both sides.