Carl called me aside at the end of a committee meeting. I knew from his face that he found it hard to speak.
“You haven’t seen Pete around much lately, have you?” he asked. Before I had a chance to respond, he hurried on. “I thought you ought to know. Apparently you offended him by something you said.”
I had noticed that Peter had not been regular the past several weeks. I had also noticed that he was not particularly friendly when he did come.
“Offended him?” I asked, wondering what I could have done.
“One Sunday after the service he was trying to get into the church office and the door was locked. You came by and said something like, ‘Hey, Pete, it’s the first time I’ve ever seen you trying to get inside the church. Usually you’re one of those trying to get out.’ ”
I vaguely recalled the incident. I remembered that Pete had laughed and had made some humorous retort as I unlocked the door for him. In fact, as I replayed the whole scene in my mind, the first part of it became clear. He had actually started the lightness by saying something like, “Some people can’t wait to get home for dinner. They lock the doors as soon as you say the last amen.”
“Why, Carl, I was only kidding him.”
“I know. That’s the way Pete is. He’s touchy. He can hand out the banter and even hurt people himself. But you’re on pretty thin ice when you turn around and kid with him.”
“How did you find out?”
“He told his brother-in-law, who told Bill Rosen, and Bill told me.”
I nodded my head. Typical story. Someone gets offended in the church and by the time the information gets to me, it has been filtered through three or more other people.
“Thanks, Carl,” I said.
The conversation bothered me. First, of course, I had hurt someone, though unintentionally. I reviewed the conversation over and over in my mind. It just didn’t seem to me that anyone would have misconstrued it. Yet Pete had.
“Then he ought to come to me!” I remember telling the Lord as I drove home. “Jesus said that if your brother offends you, you go to him!”
And I could hear the words echo back, “He ought to.…”
“Lord, I’m tired of this. Innocent remarks get twisted around and misinterpreted, feelings get hurt, and I’m always supposed to be the reconciler. People don’t seem very disturbed when they hurt my feelings!”
For the five minutes that it took me to drive home, I railed against Pete in particular, church people in general, and the inequity of being a pastor. I didn’t feel a lot better when I reached the house. “It’s still his responsibility to tell me!” I said as I slammed the front door. I wanted to dismiss the matter. It was Pete’s move.
But I knew I couldn’t leave it at that. I had gotten the message. And while I felt I had done nothing wrong, the fact remained: Pete was hurt.
Forty-five minutes later I rang Pete’s doorbell, reminding myself of Jesus’ words, “Blessed are the peacemakers.”
I straightened it out.
That incident and several others that have happened since then have made me do some serious thinking. The fact that I had had to hear the information through the grapevine method made me angry. It also forced me to examine myself and realize that I had played the game, too. Perhaps not in the touchy way of Pete, but my guilt had to be dealt with.
Like the time Bert complained about the youth leader. “He’s just not doing his job with those teen-agers. I’m not going to allow my boys back in the youth activities until he’s there when he should be. There’s no proper supervision, no leadership from him half the time when he is there.”
And what did I say to all that? “Bert, I’m sorry you feel that way.” From there I began working with Bert on his feelings. Later I talked with the youth director about his leadership and control. Bert’s name was never mentioned.
I know what I should have done: I should have made Bert face up to his feelings and then talk them over with the youth director.
My chance came recently. Patsy complained about the kindergarten program. “It’s absolute bedlam! I don’t want my twins in there with that confusion! I send them to learn how to live like Christians. They’re learning to behave like devils!”
“Patsy, have you ever told Gloria that? Since she’s the department head, she ought to know how you feel.”
“Oh, I couldn’t tell her. I wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings.”
“But you want me to tell her so I can hurt her feelings.”
Patsy blushed slightly and said, “Well, that’s not what I mean. You can do it so much nicer and—”
“Wait a minute, Patsy. If you were the head of the department, wouldn’t you want a parent to tell you if she or he were unhappy?”
“Sure. But … it’s kind of hard to tell someone that.”
“I know.”
She fidgeted for a few seconds before I spoke again. “One more question, Patsy. Do you care—I mean, really care—about the kindergarten program? Or are you just upset over the lack of control? If you care about the program and about the children, then you’ll face Gloria and tell her. Perhaps you could volunteer to help keep order.”
Patsy never talked to Gloria. I wish she had.
Patsy acted the way a lot of people do. We pass the buck when we’re upset. But if we care about what happens and about the people involved, then we can’t let matters slide or pass the complaint on.
Caring means being honest with people, confronting them when necessary. I’m learning to encourage people to do that. Dealing honestly with one another is a vital step in our maturity as Christians. It used to be that when conversations like these came to me, I kept the names confidential. When I had to confront a third person, I’d skirt the issue by saying, “Someone told me that …” or “I’ve heard that.…”
“Who told you?”
That’s a reasonable question. And I’m tired of dodging it. I can help the situation most by urging the offended to face the offender.
In fact, we have actually twisted it all around from the principle Jesus gave. He said, “If your brother sins against you, go and tell him his fault, between you and him alone. If he listens to you, you have gained your brother” (Matt. 18:15). But in practice, it often is handled differently, as in a situation that happened to me last week.
Fran cornered me after the evening service. “Go see Rita this week.”
“I’d be glad to,” I said. “Any particular reason?”
“Well, she’s hurt.”
I took a deep breath. “What did I do wrong?” I asked as evenly as possible.
“You didn’t ask about her father. She was gone all last week. She had told you he was very sick, and you had prayer for him. Now she’s back and you didn’t ask about him.”
“Fran, I’m sorry. Frankly, I forgot. But if she was concerned to let me know, why didn’t she tell me herself?”
Fran shrugged.
“I’ll see her this week. But you can help me if this kind of thing comes up gain. Urge the person to speak to me directly.”
“Rita would be embarrassed and say it’s such a small thing—”
“But not too small for her to get her feelings hurt.”
Fran flashed a smile at me. “You’re right, Cec. I’ll try next time.”
That’s how the twist operates. The one who did the wrong may be unaware of the effect created. Nonetheless the offended person waits for the offender to smooth it all out.
Perhaps that’s the way the wisdom of this world works, but it’s not the way Jesus instructed his followers to deal with hurts. If I’m hurt, then I have a moral obligation to tell the person who offended me.
I said something like this recently to Mark, who had been angered by something his teacher said to him in class.
“He knew he rubbed me the wrong way. I’m not going to him. He’s the one who said the things. Not me.”
“You mean you’d rather sulk about it, lose your peace of mind, keep yourself stirred up inside while you wait for him to come around? First of all, he may not even be aware that you feel this way. Second, you really ought to think about Jesus’ words in Matthew 18:15. And third, what’s more important: putting the blame on him or getting differences reconciled?”
Mark is a very open young man. He talked to his teacher. I don’t know what happened. But I did notice Sunday morning that when they walked out of the classroom together, the teacher had his arm around Mark’s shoulder. And they were smiling as they talked.
As a pastor and as a Christian, have I allowed people to shirk their responsibility to one another? Perhaps even encouraged it by being the man in the middle? The Apostle Paul writes about speaking the truth in love. A lot of us need to read that verse—Ephesians 4:15—often.
So I made a promise to myself. I’ll no longer bear the second-hand messages. I’m going to urge people to confront one another. I intend to care enough to help them be honest and faithful.
I don’t enjoy saying hard things to people; I’m as uncomfortable about it as the next person. But Jesus spoke the truth in love. So did the Apostle Paul. I know I can do it, too, if I really care about the people involved.—CECIL B. MURPHEY, pastor, Riverdale Presbyterian Church, River dale, Georgia.
