A Soft Answer (Proverbs 15:1)

“I used to be more grace-filled than I am now. While I was serving as pastor, there were many times when I had to put aside my hurt and anger with parishioners who had berated or denounced me, times when I had to make pastoral calls on church members who had been downright cruel to me. I used to be pretty good at it, but I fear I’ve become a backslider. Current events and an undercurrent of collective wrath have given rise to deep and dark anger that seems to have settled into my very bones. I hate how crusty it makes me feel.”—Rev. Robin White

Wing + Prayer

By The Reverend Robin White

“The greatest challenge of the day is: How to bring about a revolution of the heart, a revolution which has to start with each one of us.”—Dorothy Day

“Gandhi once declared that it was his wife who unwittingly taught him the effectiveness of nonviolence. Who better than women should know that battles can be won without resort to physical strength? Who better than we should know all the power that resides in noncooperation?”—Barbara Deming

“Our God teaches us that we are to be merciful to the stranger, for we were all once strangers in this land. May God grant us the strength and courage to honor the dignity of every human being, to speak the truth to one another in love and walk humbly with each other and our God for the good of all people, the good of all people in this nation and the world.”—Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde

PENDLETON South Carolina—(Hubris)—March 2025—Two days before my father died, the Hospice chaplain, a short compact man who looked like Saint Nicholas in street clothes, made a pastoral call. Dad had begun his final journey and was at the stage where he wasn’t speaking but was still alert. As St. Nick leaned over the hospital bed to greet him, I stood on the other side of the bed and held Dad’s hand.  Dad was not big on visits from religious or “churchy” folk, and I had grown accustomed to serving as his “bouncer,” especially over the course of the two months he had spent on the oncology floor of the Upstate Medical Center in Syracuse.

I thought he’d be OK with the Santa Claus guy, though, because he didn’t seem too religious or churchy, but I was still willing to intervene if necessary. Stroking Dad’s hand, I introduced the two bearded men and offered these words to Chaplain Santa, “This man here, my father, has taught me everything I know about grace.”

Dad’s eyes grew wide, and he turned his head toward me. He seemed surprised or confused by my statement. “It’s true, Dad,” I said. “People love you because you are kind and gentle and never, ever lash out in anger. You have taught me about mercy and grace, just by being you.”

My mind wandered back to a day the previous summer when he was puttering in his workshop. I knew he wasn’t feeling well, but he was trying to push through it and enjoy the beautiful June day. When I approached to inform him of the visitors who had just arrived, he looked up from his work and glanced out the shop window to see who had pulled into the driveway. He slammed his pencil and tape measurer down on the workbench and muttered, “God dammit.” The leukemia diagnosis had created anger in him that was new, and, I thought, completely justifiable.

The visitors, who were relatives of my mother, had come, unannounced and quite some distance to offer their sympathy and perhaps visit him one last time. He didn’t want any part of it, and I also knew, truth be told, that these were, by far, his least favorite kinfolk.

I struggled to come up with a way to shield him from the upcoming and uncomfortable visit, but before I could do anything, he was in the driveway greeting them and inviting them into the house. In the meantime, I rushed to the backyard to fetch my mother from her flower garden. She too, was perturbed to be interrupted from her day in the dirt and took her time making her way to greet her family. Before she had a chance to get herself up out of the weeds, I hurried back to the house, dreading the awkwardness of the situation. Inside, I found my father serving our guests Iced tea and engaged in warm conversation. I marveled at his grace.

This past week, I had a conversation with my brother about how my father treated people with charm and grace, most particularly those who had angered him. My mother would chastise him, claiming “people can shit all over him and he’ll tolerate it.” But it wasn’t so much that my father didn’t get angry, it was the way he handled himself in the midst of anger. He was known for his charisma and charm. He was known for his hospitality. He was known for his unconditional kindness towards all those he encountered. My brother and I strive to emulate that characteristic.

I used to be more grace-filled than I am now. While I was serving as pastor, there were many times when I had to put aside my hurt and anger with parishioners who had berated or denounced me, times when I had to make pastoral calls on church members who had been downright cruel to me.  I used to be pretty good at it, but I fear I’ve become a backslider. Current events and an undercurrent of collective wrath have given rise to deep and dark anger that seems to have settled into my very bones. I hate how crusty it makes me feel. I abhor the glacial shrew I feel emerging. The irritability is debilitating, and so I want, again, to be my father’s daughter. I want to reclaim grace.

Anger seems to have consumed this entire country, and I fear the worst is yet to come. It is contagious and has become an epidemic. The antidote, I believe, is simple, but not at all simple to garner. The answer, at least for me, is to embody the kind of warmth and charisma my father exuded. It’s not so much that I must ignore or deny feelings of anger but, rather, find a way to maneuver in the midst of such a formidable emotion. “A soft answer turns away wrath but a harsh word stirs up anger.” (Proverbs 15:1).

When Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde looked the 47^th president of the United States in the eye and asked earnestly for mercy on behalf of the foreigners in our land—the immigrants, the children of immigrants, and the LGBTQ community, especially the young and vulnerable—she did so with a “soft answer.” She was gentle and reverent. She proclaimed the Truth of the Gospel with grace and respect. She embodied that Proverb, and yet the response to her plea was rageful and harsh.

The personal attacks on her by 47 and many of his minions were vicious and abhorrent. I watched as The Right Reverend responded publicly, in an interview with Rachel Maddow. Many would agree that she had every right to defend her dignity by launching a counter attack on those who had lashed out at her, most especially the one who publicly labeled her a “so-called Bishop” with a “nasty tone” who “was not compelling or smart.” But she did not respond in kind, adopting a harsh or unkind tone; rather, she answered with kindness and mercy. The Truth she declared was expressed with gentle reverence. I marveled at her grace.

Verse 1 of Proverbs Chapter 15 is not necessarily about the response of others to the “soft word,” but more about what the one offering the “soft answer” experiences. If I, in the midst of my rage (even if it is righteous indignation), speak with a spirit of gentleness and grace, I do it for myself as much as I do it for anyone else. The way I negotiate my anger affects my own well-being (and the well-being of those around me). Speaking a harsh word stirs up my own anger; responding with “a soft answer” diffuses it.

I am convinced that the way to bolster my own spirit in the midst of anger and fear is to try my damnedest to respond softly and gently; to be kind and graceful with others and with myself. Imagine the kind of world it would be if we all made this our quest. May it be so.