WLSU: Until You Love Them

So the story goes that Archbishop Tutu was supposed to be giving a talk to a group of people in South Africa, that the audience was predominantly White, and that many of them were vocal opponents of his. Many hated him, had threatened him. Some had harmed friends and family of his. These were the people who wanted to uphold Apartheid, to continue the White supremacist status quo that made him and the other Black South Africans second class citizens.

It was time for him to begin his talk, and someone went to fetch him, and they found him in a back room on the ground. He was praying. They said it was time, and he said he could not get up yet, that he could not speak yet, because he still had hate in his heart, and he didn’t want to speak until he could love them. He would get up when he could see them as God sees them. Which eventually he did.

I’m not going to speak until I love them. A gracious act, and a gentle one.

Which is not to say that Tutu would hold back from telling the truth, that he would pretend that God was neutral on the issue of Apartheid. But he believed that love wins, because God is love. And he believed that the truth could not be truly spoken unless it was spoken in love.

I’m not going to speak until I love them.

I am not that gracious. Nowhere near it. I’m neither as gracious nor as gentle as I’d like to be.

Growing up, I was not tall, or athletic, or particularly handsome. But I was quick: I thought quickly and I spoke quickly. And I remember actually thinking I may not be the fastest or the strongest but I can outtalk these people. Yes I understand how arrogant that sounds. I was a bit of an arrogant kid. Or at least I was a kid who tried to appear confident and tried to find confidence wherever I could, and that ended up looking a lot like arrogance from time to time.

I remember how important a witty comeback was to me. Or how important it was to win an argument. To be right. This was how I could be strong, I thought. I could say the clever thing, the cutting thing. I could say the smart thing – which I would often confuse with saying the right thing or the good thing.

I have always been unspeakably drawn to being clever and sounding witty, even when it wasn’t kind. In my childhood home, you could get away with saying mean things if they were funny enough. And I have always wanted to be right. Once as a teenager I was arguing with my dad, because of course I was, and he said, “Philip at some point you’ll have to decide, do I want to be right or do I want to be happy?” To which I shot back, “Both. I want to be happy about being right.” Another clever comeback: It emerged from my mouth so quickly that, I realize now, I had no actual time to contemplate his point, to digest it to possibly be transformed by it.

I want to tell you that it took me a long time to learn to hold my tongue, but that would imply that I’ve learned it. It’s closer to reality to say I am still learning.

I am trying to think about not speaking unless it is gracious – trying to understand what I could say that would be more important than that.

In my family of origin we argued about politics all the time. We argued with people openly and often, and we argued with each other, even though we were mostly on the same page. We somehow still found ways to disagree, and then we pushed our points. And we weren’t gentle. We were harsh. Because we were right! And that’s what mattered!

At some point I began to lose my appetite for the arguing. There was no one moment, but there were places along the way where I realized I wanted something else. Having a gay family member whom I loved, accepted, and supported made me feel too liberal for the church of my upbringing. But then I went off to a liberal arts college in New England and majored in Theater. And I felt terribly conservative there. In both places I experienced judgment for my beliefs.

And I found myself on the other end of the witty comeback and the cutting remark. I found myself in situations where people were more interested in saying the thing that would cut me down and make them seem clever than they were in understanding me at all. It hurt. And I had hurt people the same way. And I knew it.

We have to be able to talk to each other about our differences. Seriously. We have to. This idea that we follow Jesus by ignoring whole aspects of our shared life and not talking about them has not worked for us. To paraphrase another Desmond Tutu quote, we can’t make peace only by talking with the people with whom we agree. We can only make peace by talking with the ones with whom we disagree.

So how do I do that? How do I do that as a Christian – which is what I am first and foremost. I am a Christian before I am an American or a voter, or an ideologue or an idealist.

I think it starts on the floor next to the praying bishop. God help me to see them the way you see them. God help me to love them. God help me get rid of the hate in my heart.

I know what it’s like to be clever and right and hurt people. I still do it. And it wounds me every time. It pulls me away from God. But God is gracious when I am not. God is faithful when I am impossible. And if I hold back, if I withhold the quick comment long enough, I can even hear God’s voice: Don’t speak until you love them.