Beyond Polarization

A Third Space for the Spiritually Independent

“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right doing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.”

Jalāl al-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī

If you’ve left a fundamentalist tradition, you may know the pain of dislocation. First, there is the leaving itself—the step away from inherited beliefs, rigid systems, and communities that once gave meaning and belonging. That’s no small loss.

But in today’s United States, there’s often a second dislocation: the deep rift of polarization that divides families, neighbors, and even inner circles into progressive and conservative camps.

For those of us who are spiritually independent, it can feel like being pressed to choose sides in yet another binary system—one that eerily echoes the “us vs. them” mindset we thought we’d outgrown.

The Pull of Absolutes

Fundamentalist religion often trains us to see the world in absolutes: saved or lost, right or wrong, inside or outside. Even after leaving, those mental grooves remain. When the cultural conversation narrows to red vs. blue, progressive vs. conservative, right vs. left, it can stir up old feelings—of pressure, fear, or alienation.

It’s not that we don’t care about justice or truth. Many of us do, deeply. But we also know that something is lost when every complexity is flattened into an either/or. Spiritual independence means resisting the temptation to replace one rigid allegiance with another.

A Different Kind of Belonging

Wayne Teasdale, who wrote about the “nine elements of interspiritual maturity,” reminded us that spiritual growth requires cultivating humility, compassion, and solidarity across divides. These qualities invite us into what I might call a third space—not a physical place, but a way of being that holds empathy and nuance beyond the pull of binaries.

It’s not the middle as compromise, but the spacious place where understanding and compassion can coexist. This third space isn’t neutral or passive. It asks something courageous of us: to hold tension without collapsing into fear, to listen deeply without agreeing with everything we hear, and to keep our hearts open even when our minds are unsettled.

Living in that third space does require an evolving spiritual maturity, a strengthened moral compass. It’s tempting to don the cloak of righteousness when we feel strongly about certain issues and to push back harshly when things aren’t unfolding the way we’d wish.

I understand the challenge of resisting the draw of the poles. This has been a slice of my spiritual work for the last many years. It’s important, in part, because there are many I hold dear on opposing ends of the religious and political continuum.

My trajectory in this regard hasn’t been linear, far from it. I consistently aim for that third space but sometimes miss the mark. When I catch sight of it, however, I know it’s where I want to live.

Standing for Justice Without Losing the Third Space

But what happens when that space of nuance meets the urgent demands of justice?

Some readers may wonder: If we embrace interspirituality, does that mean we never take a stand? Not at all. There are moments when silence becomes complicity—when human dignity, civil rights, or the earth itself are at stake. Spiritual independence does not exempt us from moral responsibility.

But here is the difference: resistance, when rooted in an interspiritual heart, doesn’t mirror the hostility it confronts. We can oppose injustice without despising those who perpetuate it. We can march, vote, write, or protest with passion—while still seeking to see the humanity in our “opponents.” It isn’t easy, but it’s worth the effort.

Many traditions hold this balance. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel described marching with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. in Selma as “praying with my feet.” Buddhist monks have stood against violence while radiating Metta--loving-kindness. Catholic sisters have chained themselves to nuclear sites in protest, singing hymns as they were arrested. Each embodied a fierce “yes” to justice without collapsing into the very enmity they resisted.

This is what it means to inhabit a third space: not neutrality, not passivity, but a posture of deep conviction coupled with compassion. It’s a refusal to let polarization define us, even as we take our stand.

For those who have left binary, fundamentalist systems, this may feel like a radical new way of living—speaking truth yet not losing love. In doing so, we begin to imagine resistance as an act of healing, not only for the world but for our own souls.

Loving Our Neighbor in Times of Protest

As I write, many across the country prepare for a national nonviolent protest—one of many expressions of conscience unfolding recently. For a while now, I’ve reflected on what it means to “love our neighbor” in times like these—how to hold compassion and conviction together when the world feels so divided.

I am reminded that loving my neighbor isn’t confined to personal relationships; it also extends into the public square. There are times when love must take the form of collective resistance—when silence itself becomes a kind of consent.

For those of us seeking to live from a third space, protest can become a spiritual practice. When love takes to the streets, it becomes prayer in motion. But how do we protest without losing compassion? How do we resist injustice without creating new enemies?

We begin by remembering that we are resisting systems, not souls. Every face we encounter—whether standing beside us or across from us—is still our neighbor. Before we protest, we can center ourselves in silence or breath. As we walk, we might hold the intention, “May this action serve awakening and healing.”

If anger rises, we can place a hand on the heart, remembering that true strength is grounded in peace. And afterward, we can return to an internal quietness, releasing judgment and offering blessing to all involved—protesters, police, bystanders alike.

To love our neighbor in protest is to keep our hearts open while our voices are firm. It is to act fiercely for justice while seeing even our opponents as human. This, too, is what it means to inhabit the third space—not neutrality, but the union of conviction and compassion.

Practices for Coping and Thriving

When you find yourself caught in the crosscurrents, here are a few practices that may help:

• Ground yourself in contemplative rhythms. Periods of silence, journaling, meditation, or simple walks in nature can steady the nervous system. They help us enter charged conversations and situations with greater calm.

• Shift from debate to dialogue. Ask questions with sincere curiosity instead of preparing counterpoints. Listening itself can be a radical act.

• Anchor in perennial wisdom. Across traditions, we hear the same refrain: love, compassion, justice, humility. These are deeper than religious or political categories. Make these your aim.

• Find companions in the “in-between.” Seek community with others who resist simplistic labels. Shared stories can remind you that you’re not alone.

Living an Uncharted Path

To live in spiritual independence is not to retreat from the world’s struggles, nor is it to become captive to the latest polarization. It is to walk an uncharted path that honors complexity, cultivates compassion, and refuses to be defined by old binaries.

For those who will soon take to the streets, and for those who will hold space in quiet solidarity, may these reflections offer grounding and encouragement. My hope is that we can each, in our own way, embody a third space—one that resists harm without hatred and stands for justice without losing love.

If you’ve felt torn between sides, take heart. This discomfort may actually be a sign of growth. By standing in a third space, you embody a way of being that our fractured world desperately needs.

This is the work of spiritual independence — not withdrawal, but a deeper way of showing up. Perhaps spiritual independence, in times like these, is not exile at all—but a vantage point from which to imagine new ways of belonging.