Evidenced by the feud this week between a reporter and teenaged gun control advocate, our culture is in dire need of re-learning the art of apologies. Giving them AND accepting them.
It’s certainly a biblical concept: “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone” (Rom. 12:18). But it’s also fundamental to an effective dialogue. Apologies are vital to our ability to stay connected and in community. And they are one of the hardest things in the world to do.
When I was in grad school in a theatre program, I managed the front of house for various shows. I mostly ushered people in, shut the doors, then did my homework until it was time to open them at the end of the show. Easy peasy.
Except the time I totally screwed it up.
Making Mistakes
The department produced W;t, with one of the professors in the main role. Her character dies at the end, which is usually shown by the actor dropping her hospital gown to stand naked while she reaches toward a spotlight until the light goes out and the play ends. The professor, as soon as the light went out, walked off stage and was handed a robe, in the dark behind the seats, so she could re-robe before coming out for a bow.
BUT. The exit she used was also the main entrance into the theatre, the one I manned to let the audience out. So, knowing she’d be coming that way (naked) and not wanting to expose her (literally), I’d wait until I heard applause start, count a few seconds off (10 or 20), and THEN open the door. But during the matinee performance, my counting was off because, as I started to pull the door, she was still exiting. Bright afternoon daylight hit her just as she was turning to go behind the seats. I shoved the door shut, but it was too late.
Shock was written on her face before I shut the door, and I knew she’d be furious. I mean, I would’ve been. Furious, and embarrassed. So after the crowd left, but before the talkback started, I did the only thing I could think of.
I offered my apologies.
And it was not fun. She was furious. Her mouth was hard, and she glared at me, but I plunged ahead. “I’m so sorry. It was entirely my fault, I miscounted, I guess. But I did not mean to embarrass you, and I do apologize. I will wait even longer to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Her face eased slightly, though, I wasn’t entirely sure she forgave me. But I decided saying more wouldn’t help. I had apologized, and I couldn’t control what she did after that. I just couldn’t have her think it had been anything other than an unfortunate mistake.
Because that’s what it was. I had made a mistake. And I had no choice but to apologize. And I knew the sooner I did it, the better it would be for the both of us. That didn’t make it easy. I still remember the look in her eyes as I approached her. Still, I knew restoring the peace was worth the engagement.
Making Peace
It still is. Whether to that professor all those years ago … or right now, to my kids or my husband or a PTO friend I let down, I have to choose to apologize. And my apologies are most effective when they happen quickly. Because…
- The more time that passes, the easier it is to convince myself I don’t really need to say anything, that they’ll just know how I feel.
- The longer I take to apologize, the less urgent the pain of the moment is and the easier it is to brush it under the rug.
- When I don’t address the conflict, the one I have hurt has longer to simmer or stew or imagine all manner of (incorrect) reasons I’d have for doing what I did.
Apologies must come quickly, as soon as they can possibly be done, or we risk erecting permanent walls. Walls that then get plastered all over social media and the news, resulting in even more anger and even less peace. That’s bad enough in a theatre, but it’s utterly devastating in a family, a neighborhood, a church, or a culture. “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you,” keep the peace. Apologize.
