A Tale of the Talking Stick

In June of this year, I read an article on the Internet posted by Quaker philosopher, theologian and poet Arthur Roberts. It was entitled, “The Talking Stick”, and in it Arthur tells about crafting a stick that represents an important Native American tradition, at the request of a friend who is herself part Cherokee. Since then, he has fashioned many talking sticks and given them to people who might use them—elementary teachers, youth workers, and others who lead group meetings.

I fall under the category of “others,” and the article definitely awoke my interest. From having lived among and studied the traditions of peoples of other cultures, especially their communication styles, I understood what Arthur meant when he suggested that the talking stick might also be called a “listening stick.” In many tribal or peasant cultures, the focus of a communicational event is more on good listening than on good speaking. Among the Cherokees, the chief passes the talking stick to whoever has the right to speak, and the rest of the group assumes the concurrent right to listen carefully. It’s more than a matter of taking turns; it involves a shared responsibility and is the Cherokee manner of “doing all things decently and in order.”

In a letter that accompanied the article, Arthur invited any of us who would like a talking stick, to approach him. I thought of the class I was scheduled to teach in August and decided to experiment. Arthur let me choose from his collection, and I picked a branch with some artistic twists and knots, beautifully finished by skillful craftsmanship. I put it in my suitcase, and in early August Hal and I traveled to Asuncion, Paraguay for two weeks of seminars, including my one-week intensive on “Culture, Spirituality and Mission.”

I intended to use the stick symbolically, in part to represent the spirituality of a particular tribal culture, and in part to encourage the class to listen well to each other. I did not imagine a literal use, to aid in taking turns, feeling that more appropriate for young people. These seminars were part of a doctoral program in theology, and the ten students in my class were all leaders in their denominations; several pastored churches with over 1000 members. They came from Argentina, Brazil, Chile, Ecuador, Guatemala, Puerto Rico, Mexico and Hispanic Canada and the USA, and they represented groups as diverse as Presbyterians, Baptists, Nazarenes and Pentecostals. And here I was, a Quaker woman in the middle, trying to bring it all together.

I began the class Monday morning with a devotional, using the talking stick, describing Cherokee customs and the importance of good listening. I then reminded the class of Jesus, the Teacher in our midst. I symbolically gave the talking stick to Jesus and placed it on the table in the center of this circle of scholars and learners, among whom I felt privileged (and a little frightened) to be a member. And that was that.

Or so I thought.

Near the end of the week, on Thursday morning, we were discussing the shadow side of spirituality, wrestling with sin, Satan and the problem of evil. Coming from diverse cultural and theological backgrounds, each student brought to the table a distinct perspective. This is usually positive, but sometimes the discussions get loud and lively. This was one of those times. At one point, about five people were speaking at once, and the decibel level was rising. Of a quiet nature myself, I usually shy away from these types of encounters. Unless, of course, I’m in the role of teacher, and then I struggle to find a helpful way through. Having a soft voice does not help.

But at the precise moment I needed it, inspiration struck. I stood up, in the middle of the noise and confusion, walked to the table in the center and held up the talking stick. The room exploded into silence.

Confusion registered on the faces of some. Others seemed a bit affronted (“What’s this crazy woman trying to do?”) But slowly light began to dawn. Without a word I walked over and handed the stick to Jorge, a usually quiet-spoken man whose observations had set off this controversy. It was still his “turn.” He took the stick, paused a moment, then held it high in the air, a grin of victory on his face. Everyone laughed and seemed relieved. I still wasn’t sure how this would turn out. After all, these were not elementary school students. And the discussion was important to the subject of the course.

The next forty-five minutes were fascinating. The students themselves negotiated the passing of the talking stick, and took it most seriously, at the same time accepting a certain playfulness in the practice. The discussion continued on the same level of passion and intentionality, but with what I discerned as a new level of listening. More than trading points of view, a spirit of responsiveness to each other became evident. There was obvious relief in the sense of order, facilitated by the talking stick. By the end of the morning, while we still hadn’t definitively solved the problem of evil, we had clarified some of the important questions and received insight. Class consensus was that it had been a significant and enlightening discussion. Not to mention fun.

I didn’t expect to use the stick again, but the next day, the last day of the class, in the middle of another heated discussion, one of the students went over and picked up the talking stick. Again, laughter. And again, a willingness to let an instrument facilitate order, an order that did not stifle, but rather channeled communication.

At the end of the day, and of the class, Jorge came up to thank me, and I had another inspiration. I had previously decided that if the talking stick proved meaningful to the class, even if only symbolically, I would give it away to one of the students. I acknowledged Jorge’s gratitude and handed him the stick, asking if he would like to take it home to Ecuador with him. He asked with surprise, “You want to give this to me?” I assured him that was indeed the case, and his smile as he took it from my hands still warms me.

In addition to pastoring a church and teaching in his denominational seminary, Jorge has joined with other evangelical leaders in Ecuador who are involved in the current re-writing of the country’s constitution. Many of our students are actively seeking ways to participate in the civic and political activities of their countries. Jorge’s leadership in Ecuador is significant, especially on the level of helping evangelicals unite across denominational lines to reflect, pray and let their voice be heard. Among important topics in the constitutional re-write, such as traditional or same-sex marriage and the right-to-life or abortion, are the deeper issues of justice and human rights in a country where a large number of the population is indigenous and marginalized. It is here that Christians, with biblical values, can contribute.

Jorge’s ministry in the public arena of his country is vital and very complicated. I don’t know how or even if he will use the talking stick in his work, but I sense that his commitment to listen and to help other evangelicals to listen, as well as speak, will be key.

Thank you, Arthur, for your creativity and your craftsmanship in making available this simple tool. When we get back from our travels in early November I want to come over and replace my talking stick, if I may. Whether or not I use it again in a class, I’ve thought I would like to place it before me during times of prayer. I always seem to need a reminder to listen, even in prayer. And I love the ordinary beauty of a piece of wood, picked up in a forest, crafted and polished, to be given away.

I’m thinking now of another tool, Ken Medema’s song:
“Teach me to stop and listen,
Teach me to center down,
Teach me the use of silence,
Teach me where peace is found….
Then when it’s time for working,
Teach me that I may bring
To every day and moment
Peace from a quiet stream.”

And I think of the child Samuel and his simple response to the voice of God. May it increasingly be my response: “Speak, Lord. Thy servant is listening.”