One of our family scrapbooks contains a note written many years ago by our daughter's best friend, Cindy. It was written when the girls were both 8 years old and inseparable. They walked to school together every morning, enjoyed frequent sleepovers, and consulted one another on homework assignments each night.
Then one day a tiny incident stressed their friendship. Our daughter, becoming impatient when Cindy would not walk fast enough on the way to school, called her a slowpoke.
It was impulsive, a bad choice of words. One can only guess what it may have meant to Cindy. At any rate there was instant enmity between the girls. That evening there was no collaboration on homework. An upcoming sleepover was canceled. And the following morning the girls walked to school by different routes.
A day later a note, the one in our scrapbook, came in the mail. Addressed to our daughter, it read: "You called me a slowpoke, and I am angry at you. Your no longer friend, Cindy." Could Cindy have been more specific? The issue, her feelings, the altered status of the relationship: all clearly defined in two sentences.
The separation lasted, at most, one more day. When both girls realized how much they missed each other, they offered mutual "sorrys" (one for walking too slow, the other for using the epithet slowpoke) and resumed their friendship. Soon, it was as if nothing had come between them.
Yet something had happened; something had been learned. One girl had become aware of the importance of guarding her tongue lest an errant word hurt another's feelings. And the other learned not to overreact in a heated moment. Valuable lessons. If remembered, the "learnings" might save both of them in many of the inevitable quarrels they would experience in the future.
I recall wishing at the time that it would be nice if some of the adults in our church could deal with their prickly issues as clearly, as quickly, and as completely as the two girls had done. And what I wished for my congregation, I also wished for myself. In the field of human conflict, I was far from a genius.
A conflict avoider
I hated conflict as a child. When it occurred between my parents, I often felt a sense of responsibility to try and reconcile them. But I never succeeded because I was incapable of understanding the complexity of the underlying problems that so frequently separated them.
When there was conflict between my parents and myself, I felt fear, humiliation, and a sense of insignificance because it never seemed (at least to me) that anyone cared to listen to my side of the story or to offer me the benefit of the doubt. No matter the issue, when adults were involved, I always seemed to come out the loser.
Thus, my preferred way of handling conflict in my younger years became the strategy of avoidance. How? By being super-nice and convivial, by taking care to say nothing that might offend or create controversy, by quickly backing down when opposed. If conflict was inescapable, I usually capitulated as soon as I could and opted for peace at any price. Additionally, I tried to stay away or to run from any relationship where I sensed the possibility of contentiousness.
I convinced myself that this was the Christian way, and that followers of Jesus should always seek peace and be loving. Thus it was, for the most part, that no one ever knew when I had strong feelings about this issue or that one. And no one knew, when they took advantage of my non-combative strategy, that I was inwardly hurt or angry, that I felt diminished. Unable to discern this, they simply assumed I was easy to get along with.
I envied people who seemed to say exactly what they thought with little concern for the results. I wished I could express my feelings and defend my opinions as strongly as they did. But unable to do this, I—best as I was able—kept most of my opinions and feelings to myself.
When I became an adult, I began to see that this policy of conflict-avoidance could no longer be sustained if I desired a healthy marriage or if I aspired to some form of leadership. I was in danger of becoming permanently shallow and superficial, a person who seemed to stand for nothing of significance. This is the curse on someone who fears disagreement.
Facing into conflict
Two experiences in particular forced me to face this deficiency in my life.
The first occurred when I met my wife-to-be, Gail. I was drawn to her because she was strong in spirit and mind. I enjoyed her company because she possessed points of view from which I could draw wisdom. I loved her because she affirmed my dreams and because she wanted to add to them. I desired to share life with her because we had complimentary visions about how that life should be lived.
But here was my problem. You can't come close to a person of Gail's quality and develop connections such as I've just described if you want to avoid conflict all your life. Clashes of perspective and priority are simply part of the deal if you want to merge futures with a person of intellectual and spiritual vitality.
While I greatly desired what Gail might bring to our marriage, I came to see that some of it would come through criticism, through the clash of adverse opinions and judgments, through the realization that in more than a few cases, she might actually be smarter and wiser than I was. That meant that I would have to occasionally embrace her ways while surrendering mine.
A mutual friend, sensing that I was struggling with this matter, advised me just before our wedding, "God has given you a remarkable woman to marry. He means to teach you many things through her. Listen to her!" In order to make his point he repeated himself. "Listen to her! Even when she says things you find difficult to hear." This was new information to a man somewhat naïve in his understanding of conflict.
The kind of listening of which my friend spoke meant that I could no longer run away, no longer cover my ears and hide my eyes. Listening meant embracing the possibility that I might be wrong or misinformed. Listening meant discovering that others—like Gail, for example—often had better ideas than mine.
Of course, there was another side to this. Building a good marriage meant that I also had to speak my mind and heart with respectful clarity. I had to assert my convictions and concerns. How does one do this if he's previously chosen the agreeable anything-you-say approach?
The second incident involved a ministry colleague. An issue (not worth mentioning, not even well-remembered) arose between us, and I felt more strongly about it than he did. Yet I could not bring myself to state my case and get the justice I felt I deserved. The moment called for sincere confrontation, but I could not make it happen. Those fears first generated in my childhood years blocked all attempts I wished to make to bring the issue to light and to deal with it.
The result? I became silent, sullen, withdrawn in our working relationship. Inside, I seethed and allowed a bitterness to take root in my soul. Soon I was under the influence of a hateful spirit.
A problem that could have been resolved in an hour of frank conversation became an interior, uncontrolled brushfire, and it affected me for months. Only when I became disgusted with myself did I find the power to both repent of my attitude and forgive what I thought was the offense of the other person.
I found this experience so distasteful that I vowed that I would never again allow feelings of that sort to infest my spirit. And for these many years, I have been reasonably successful in keeping my vow.
My fledging marriage taught me that conflict is unavoidable but there's an artful way to engage in it. My ministry experience taught me that conflict, left smoldering, will take on a life of its own, with destructive effect.
It was not easy to pull out the old wiring deep within me when it came to dealing with disagreeable situations. Whether it was my need to listen to the truth or my need to speak the truth to someone else, all the old tapes of my childhood played loudly in my mind. I had to reappraise my entire relationship to conflict. My ministry, maybe even my marriage, was on the line.
Redeeming conflict's raw materials
Little by little I learned what can happen (and what should happen) when conflict arises.
Conflict may be unavoidable, but there is an artful way to engage in it.
Searching the Scriptures for a better understanding of conflict, I was startled by the number of occasions where good (and not so good) people fell into situations similar to the one our daughter and her best friend had experienced.
Adam blamed Eve for his problems, thinking he could wiggle out of conflict. Abraham and Lot split their joint venture because of growing contentiousness among their servants. Brothers Jacob and Esau reached a point of resentment so great that one of them simply skipped town. Joseph had a legitimate case against his brothers but chose to end it in forgiveness. The Israelites constantly drained the spirit of Moses with their complaining. They may have left Egypt, but Egypt never left them.
There is Saul angrily chasing David through the wilderness, Ahab expressing antipathy toward the prophet Micaiah, Nehemiah fending off the efforts of saboteurs.
In the New Testament there is frequent squabbling among the disciples, the debates among the early Christians, and the messiness of life in the divisive church in Corinth. Each of these conflicts was different. Many ended badly (David and Absalom). Others ended with great grace, none better than the morning when Jesus made breakfast for the failed disciples and offers them another shot at being on the point of his mission to the world.
When I catalog the Bible's accounts of people at loggerheads, I gain courage in realizing that I am not alone in my struggle to do well when conflict arises.
I searched out mentors to learn how to be a man of greater candor. To know how to confront the associate who was under my organizational authority. To learn how to rebuke the person who needed firm pastoral influence. To master the ability to speak my heart to my young wife in a way that would not hurt her or tear at her self-confidence.
At the same time I wanted to appreciate the ways in which I could trim my emotions and my tendency to resist those who needed to be honest with me. If I was going to be the spiritual leader of a congregation, I would have to acquire a coolness of spirit so that I could engage in challenging conversation.
A breakfast with the chairman of our church board sharpened these intentions. I was a very young pastor, prone to making novice-level mistakes. The chairman often met with me to help me see these and evaluate different ways of doing things. On this particular day the conversation became difficult, and the chairman said some things I didn't want to hear. I revealed my feelings of hurt and frustration in a less than mature way. I'll never forget how he slapped his hand on the breakfast table to get my attention and said: "Pastor, you have a serious problem. You are too sensitive to criticism. You take too many things too personally. If you cannot hear the truth and deal with it, you'll not last long in your work. Get used to difficult conversations. You'll never be without them."
Steps to resolving a conflict
So I learned that the way of the leader, the way of a good friend, the way of one who wants to be a good husband or wife is the way of processing and managing conflict so that it reaps a positive benefit and not destructive. I had to learn how to resolve conflict in much the same way our daughter and her friend Cindy learned to do it.
Acts 15 shows that no relationship is exempt from destruction when conflict is mismanaged.
1. Accept that conflict—the collision of two or more perspectives—is a necessary ingredient of any human relationship. If we knew each other's hearts as well as did the first man or woman before the Fall ("the two were naked and unashamed"), we might reduce conflict. But, like an iceberg, there is too much of each of us beneath the perceptible level that is unknown and only comes out in the expressive moment. Blame it on sin, perhaps: we are always playing catch-up when it comes to understanding each other. Thus conflict comes.
2. Recognize that each of us brings "baggage" from past experiences into present dealings. Past fears or hurts or humiliations are likely to influence present circumstances. So when I feel irritable or angry at someone, I try searching my memory: are any issues from my past injecting themselves into my present?
3. Conflict need not be—and should not be—about winning or losing. I have met more than a few people who need to win every dispute, dominate every conversation. I've often wondered if St. Paul wasn't a bit like that. Did he always have to be right?
I discovered that healthy conflict should be about the energetic search for a better idea … or for personal insight … or for a more effective way of achieving something. It means that in critique or disagreement or misunderstanding, we give the other person the so-called charitable assumption that they too are seeking something that will mutually benefit us all.
The conflict over the allocation of funds for the relief of widows that threatened the early church is a remarkable case study in constructive conflict. One group of Christians (the Hellenists) contended that the Judean Christians were discriminating against them. Rather than trying to defend themselves, the Judeans were wise enough to consult and come up with a plan that was agreeable to everyone. The result? Leadership was redefined and reconfigured. Everyone regained mutual respect for one another, and the church resumed growing.
Among the more difficult things I learned about conflict was the assumption that there was probably a kernel of truth in the opinions and positions of those who, while in conflict, might seem for the moment to be my worst enemy.
Through the years I came to realize that some of the most important insights I gained about myself came not from my friends but from my critics who, while playing rough, nevertheless alerted me to blind spots and inadequacies no one else had the courage to tell me about.
4. Disagreements of any kind must be limited to the issue. I find it tempting, if my position is weak, to attack the ways and means of the other person: question motives, complain about the way I feel treated, to re-balance the issue in my favor by bringing up other issues.
5. Conflict needs to reach a terminal point where adult versions of the "sorrys" are said and solutions found. Sometimes that means bending and compromising. Other times it means recognizing that another was "righter" and I was "wronger." And—after all of this—there are even times when I might be right but that it is appropriate, because of great love, to simply surrender my rights and to do it their way.
Yet, having said all this, there remains one more thing unsaid. Conflict carries within it an inherent danger: that the spiritual enemy (of whom the Bible says he seeks whom he may devour) loves to fan the flames of conflict so as to divide good people and shatter their ability to accomplish great things.
I have always felt saddened when read in Acts 15 of the dissension that arose between Paul and Barnabas regarding second opportunities for young John Mark. Barnabas represented the case for a second chance; Paul, the case for disqualification. Unable to resolve these differences, the men parted company, and Barnabas disappeared from the pages of history. How could two men who had been so close in both friendship and apostolic passion permit their partnership be dissolved? It is an urgent reminder to me that no relationship is exempt from destruction when conflict is improperly managed.
For many years my wife and I enjoyed a friendship with Dr. Paul and Edith Rees who lived well into their nineties before going on to Jesus. Dr Rees was best known for being a great pastor in Minneapolis for more than 30 years and for traveling the world on behalf of World Vision.
Sometime during their ninetieth year, the two of them spent a day with Gail and me. I asked Dr. Rees, "Do you and Edith ever fight? After all, you've been married more than 60 years."
"Oh, sure we do," Dr. Rees responded. "Yesterday morning was a case in point. Edith and I were in our car, and she was driving. She failed to stop at a stop sign, and it scared me half to death."
"So what did you do?" I asked.
"Well, I've loved Edith for all these years, and I have learned how to say hard things to her. But I must be careful because when Edith was a little girl, her father always spoke to her harshly. And today when she hears a manly voice speak in anger—even my voice—she is deeply, deeply hurt."
"But Paul," I said, "Edith is 90 years old. Are you telling me that she still remembers a harsh voice that many years ago?"
"She remembers that voice more than ever," Rees said.
"So how did you handle the situation yesterday?"
"Ah, I simply said, 'Edith, darling, after we've had our nap this afternoon, I want to discuss a thought I have for you. And when our nap was over, I did. I was calm; she was ready to listen, and we solved our little problem."
These are the words of a man who has learned that conflict is necessary, can be productive, but must be managed with wisdom and grace. By the time I reach 90, I hope to be just like him. Why, by then, I may become as good at managing conflict as I once saw our daughter and her friend Cindy manage it.
Gordon MacDonald is editor at large of Leadership.
Copyright © 2011 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal.Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.
