Dreading Holiday Arguments About Religion and Politics? Here’s Some Advice

I always travel home for the holidays. No matter what the challenges — overbooked trains, cross-country road trips through winter snowstorms, a carpool with strangers from college, or crowded airports with angsty TSA agents — I always find a way.

I make this journey because, growing up, these autumnal gatherings were always a source of great joy. I was fortunate to grow up in a home whose greatest holiday struggles were finding enough chairs to seat every beloved guest and sliding in the finicky table extensions to accommodate the full spread of food. We played games, watched football, took long naps, and awoke to the miracle of more food.

For myself and others, these rituals continue today, but the holidays have evolved into an increasingly tense time. In a cultural moment marked by deep, seemingly irreconcilable divisions, even the Thanksgiving table cannot evade the infection of conspiracy theories and extremist rhetoric. Add in a contentious presidential election and every house on the block becomes a bomb ready to detonate at the first mention of “the illegals,” Israel’s war in Palestine, or “that felon” who is now president-elect.

Looking around at my peers, I see them traveling home for the holidays less and less. There are a multitude of reasons for this: some can’t afford to take off work, others can’t purchase exorbitantly overpriced plane tickets. Some do not have a home to return to in the wake of global devastation: wars, climate catastrophes, and pandemics.

For many, though, the decision not to travel home is tied to an intentional effort to preserve their mental health and refrain from reentering spaces of harm. The social chasm and cultural polarization of our nation are undoubtedly familiar to anyone who has tried to strike up a conversation with their neighbor or spent more than five seconds on social media. Yet a unique and intimate pain is produced when these phenomena impact family holidays. When relatives begin to mention QAnon conspiracies or place MAGA signs in their yard, there is a sense of betrayal. Places that were once safe havens for us become the sites of the ideas, policies, and beliefs that degrade, marginalize, and antagonize us.

Even though I am dealing with some of the above in my own life, I will still make the journey to Northeast Wisconsin this fall for the holidays. I don’t expect these gatherings to be perfect. Arguments and debates will undoubtedly be stirred up in this liminal space between the election and inauguration. However, in my experience of traveling home every year over the past decade, I have found a few helpful paths for navigating holiday gatherings.

1. I don’t treat conversation as an argument to win.

There is a temptation to interpret any political talk as an invitation to fight. While some comments — particularly racist and dehumanizing ones — should not go unchecked, it is helpful to distinguish between a conversation about politics and a political debate. A conversation has no audience to impress; a debate has winners and losers. A conversation can respond to a provocative remark with a question; a debate must respond with a counterargument.

I often find that conversations are far more effective than debates in revealing empty gestures and unsubstantiated arguments. This is because conspiracy theories and political extremism are great tools for shouting matches, but they crumble under the pressure of a good question. We witnessed this over the past several months as politicians evaded questions about accepting election results or whether the United States was actively participating in the genocide of Palestinians. On the debate stage, it is normal to ignore or twist a question so that you can “win” the argument in your allotted time; but at the kitchen table, there is no timer or moderators to move on to the next topic of discussion.

2. Before entering these gatherings, I also take time to identify my first principles.

Everyone has “that uncle” who will throw out an absurd claim in the middle of a meal just to get a reaction. It is a debate tactic akin to a boxer throwing a haymaker in the first minute of a match: the goal isn’t necessarily to land the punch but to see how the opponent reacts. A good thinker — like a seasoned boxer — should anticipate this punch.

First principles are those foundational beliefs and ideas that ground and direct our words and actions. They are the unshakable commitments we hold through the fire and the storm. They’re the swift feet of a fighter who can move out of harm’s way without losing her balance. When we name our first principles, we can identify an absurd claim for what it truly is: folly.

For example, when a relative blames everything from the increasing cost of car insurance to the limited supply of bananas at their local store on the “illegals,” identifying my first principles shifts how I engage this claim. Knowing that this is a shock tactic, my response is not to argue over the feeble substance of their claim but to ask a question: Do you really believe that’s true?

3. As a Christian, one of my first principles is love.

The more our politics rely on racist tropes, name-calling, and extremist conspiracies, the more the practice of love stands as a radical act of defiance. The refusal to hate others may seem simple enough, but it is terribly difficult in practice. To return hate with hate, violence with violence, and stereotype with stereotype feels satisfying, but a firm conviction to love is what bears witness to Christ. This is not a passive, sit-on-your-hands response. Love can be loud and fierce. It can rebuke evil words. It can speak truth to falsities. But, at its core, love roots these actions in the desire to see the good — a true and lasting good — in another.

Love as a first principle grounds us in a commitment to the mutual flourishing of ourselves and our neighbors. This decisively shifts how we engage in political conversation and debates. We don’t argue with family to make them feel bad or think less of themselves. The goal is not to evoke a sense of shame or diminish a person’s self-worth. Instead of offering a closed fist, we can extend an open hand, inviting people into a better way of being in and moving through this cultural moment.

Acting on these principles does not erase the harm and abuse perpetuated by the American Empire. Neither do they remove our relatives’ complicity or outright endorsement of policies and politicians who actively work towards the dehumanization and marginalization of others — especially minoritized and vulnerable communities. Entering into conversation and grounding oneself in the virtue of love does not give a free pass to those working toward (and voting for) these ends.

But at its best, a shared table with friends and relatives alike can be an incredible, humanizing reminder that those we vehemently disagree with hold their own fears, vulnerabilities, and concerns for our nation’s future. The table represents a shared need: food. We gather as a community eager to feast on a shared meal, not one another. We join together in gratitude for one another not hatred for a political party. We break bread and hold hands. We raise our glasses in toasts and sing hymns. When I go home for the holidays, I will hold to this hopeful vision as I approach the table with humility, kindness, a desire to engage, and a commitment to love.