I've been in Seattle this week on business, my first visit to this fair city. It is as pretty as you may have heard. The sun burns off the clouds by noon; and between the sunshine on the hills and water, Mt. Ranier hovering in the distance, and the salty tang in the air, I'm wowed.

New Age philosophies and (oh, let's just call a spade a spade) devotional practices are very common in these parts. I came face to face with one during an opening exercise for the first group meeting of my new organization. One of the members, who is 1/4 Native American, led us in an activity which included identifying whichever particular one of an assortment of stones and rocks "called to us", finding out about that rock's spiritual characteristics, and sharing what we felt about why that rock was right for us.

In my opinion, it's difficult enough relating to the human beings in my life with empathy and sensitivity without developing a relationship with a rock. I did what I could to relate to the exercise in the context of my faith in Christ and enjoyed calling to mind what Jesus said about the importance of building on a Rock instead of on a foundation of sand. But at the point the facilitator stated that the rocks would have actual powers to bring about good in our lives I threw in the towel, unable to participate. I was tactful and subtle, mind you, but that stone went back onto the table.

What amazes me is that no one in the room would have considered it a religious exercise. The presenter was careful to include such a disclaimer at the beginning. But it baffles me that people can deny that God's fullness dwelt in a Man and is made present to us in the sacraments, yet believe that power for good dwells in a stone.

I mean, who would you rather have on your side -- the loving almighty Father who would go to any length (and has) for your good, or piece of feldspar?

Family culture is a funny thing. Some families are quietly fond and mannerly. Some are barbed and hostile. Some sweep everything possible under the nearest rug.

As best as I can tell from the inside, I was raised in a family that, besides being loving, was characterized by quick thought and quick wit. I was privileged to be brought up by a father who taught me by example about incisive thinking and constructive verbal engagement. If you weren't prepared to discuss the question, whatever the question happened to be, you didn't have much conversational fun. It wasn't hostile -- it was exploratory. It honed minds and tongues.

I was reminded of this when I read John Leo's recent piece titled Let's Keep Arguing. Leo suggests that what passes for discussion these days is actually partisan shouting to an audience of those who already agree with us.

This cheats us of one of the main benefits of living in a democracy. Raising the level of discourse includes Courtesy as the price of entry. But after that, points go to well-considered, well-articulated argument. More ideas, rather than fewer, are a good thing. (One would hope that colleges and universities would know and espouse this, but evidence suggests the opposite.)

In addition to enriching the thought life of the listener, argument serves the speaker as well. "When a friend launches an argument and your rebuttal starts to sound tinny to your own ears, it shouldn't be that hard to figure out that something's wrong -- usually that you don't really agree with the words coming out of your own mouth. Arguing can rescue us from our own half-formed opinions."

Let's go to it, America.

A delightful young woman named Ambra Nykola writes with great wit and talent on Nykola.com. Her latest post titled Spanking: The Best Way to Save Tax Dollars is a good example of her ability to think and speak for herself. Some lines beg to be quoted:

My name is Ambra, and my parents beat my butt. The preferable term here is "spanking", but within a cultural context, there are many who know the word "beat" is merely an idom and not literal. I come from a long line of corporal punishers. The fact that I say this with so much pride is a bit disturbing. I am still proud to say I am a product of spanking.

I wasn't a bad kid, but I was definitely a smart-mouth (some things never change). If you attempted to reason with me, you would have to enter into a full-out, head-on debate. This was something my mother refused to do and thus she employed other methods to "help" me to obey. Generally speaking, this form of "help" didn't feel good.

One guest on [a talk] show outlined the "steps" she used to discipline her children:
Step 1: You get a warning
Step 2: You get a time-out
Step 3: Privileges are taken away
When I was growing up, we had no steps. It went like this:
Step 1: You do it.
End of story.

My children felt the sting of hand or paddle from time to time. They seem to remember it to have been more frequent than it actually was, which is evidence of a beneficial unintended effect of the occasional application of flat object to round bottom -- the very presence of a credible threat serves to reduce outbreaks of unacceptable behavior.

Hmmm. Sometimes I sound a lot like Ronald Reagan.