The first time I was asked to speak in front of a large group was at my college graduation. I’d spent two years as the editor of the campus newspaper, so the organizing committee thought I’d be a good candidate to address my class. With much fear, I accepted their invitation, and prepared my seven-minute monologue on notecards as I had been taught.

The speech itself was as forgettable as any average commencement blathering. I don’t remember much of what I said; I think I talked about baseball, doing your own thing, and taking the lessons learned at the alma mater into life. Yadda, yadda. It likely concluded with some sort of clichéd variant of the “putting your mind to it and doing anything” line I once heard in Back to the Future. 

When I finished, there was a boisterous ovation that I found confusing and embarrassing. Stepping away from the podium, the college president greeted me with a shoulder-dislocating handshake and a big smile. 

“Oh!” he said, shouting over the people, “I had no idea what you were going to say.” He let out a deep breath, and trembled as he continued, “I’m so relieved. That was perfect.” 

Apparently, he had been worried about my tone. The voice I used at the newspaper on the editorial pages could sometimes be critical of the practices of the institution. And because of that, he seemed to think that I had it out for him.

As the president walked me back to my seat, I got the feeling that I may have missed a chance to do more good with my voice. And, as he patted me on the back while the names of my graduating classmates were read, I wondered if I could have done more to help the students and school grow. Because, even though he and I spent a lot of time orbiting in the same space during those two years, we didn’t really understand one another. I had no idea how personally he took the criticism, and he had no idea how much love I held for the school.

I know that, as a person of faith, I have a responsibility to speak the truth to power. But I also have a responsibility to lead with grace and to listen.

In Isaiah 40:1-11, the prophet speaks to the powers that be about transformation. But before talking about turning everything upside down, blowing it up, making room for mercy and justice to reign, the prophet begins with compassion. On behalf of God, the prophet takes a forgiving tone before laying out the way forward. For this message to be heard, those first addressed also had a role to play: to avoid being triggered and suffering an emotional shutdown, the hearers needed to be introspective.

We are all on edge these days — worried about emerging violence, eroding influence, and an evolving pandemic — so I don’t know if the pairing of compassion and introspection would help us deal with each other where the wounds are the deepest. 

Yet, such grace should still have power between those of us who share faith in Christ Jesus. By grace, we are given a new chance with God, and by that same grace, we are refreshed in our relationships with one another. With ears attuned to grace, we will hear one another better. And with hearts aligned to the same, we will know where our true love resides.

—Pastor Matthew Johnson