Category: Miscellaneous

Equal, utterly equal

At the airport in Dhaka, Bangladesh, I’d gone through most of the official preliminaries before departure: passport and boarding pass examined, hold baggage handed over. Next came security. The line at the security desk was long. But I’m British, so I queued patiently.

And then I saw the security officer wave. It was one of those times you wonder ‘Who’s he waving at?’ Then I heard him shout, ‘Sir, sir, come to the desk’. He was talking to me.

So I squeezed past the twenty or more Bangladeshis ahead of me, wondering what I’d done or was carrying that a security officer was summoning me. He asked for my documents and then he smiled. Then and only then, I realised I was being given priority. If I’d been flying business class, I’d have been at a different desk, so that wasn’t the explanation. Was the officer hoping for a ‘gift’ from me? That had happened in several countries, but not this time. I’d been promoted up the queue simply because I was a white westerner. For a moment I thought of protesting and retreating back down the line. But I couldn’t. For one thing the officer had my documents and was well through processing them. For another, I’d likely have offended or embarrassed the officer. So, a minute later, I thanked him and moved on to the departure lounge, feeling ten per cent grateful for avoiding a long wait and ninety per cent guilty for being privileged.

In colonial times deference was demanded for white people. It became normative, and lasted for a while even after independence. Now it’s mostly gone, though not at Dhaka airport when I passed through. I wish preference based on skin colour or background was entirely gone. I no more deserve honour because of my colour than someone else deserves dishonour because of their colour. We’re equal, utterly equal.

That’s how I was brought up, though I admit my youngest years may have been innocent of colour prejudice because our town had hardly any non-white people. A small place near the east coast of Scotland wasn’t a destination for immigrants from the West Indies or anywhere. I still have class photos from my earliest school years and every face is white. About once a year a black family would attend our church while they were visiting relatives. They had two children, and I played with them just like any other children. No-one ever suggested I shouldn’t.

When I was 18 I worked in Glasgow for seven months, and I rented a room in the west end of the city. The population mix could not have been  more different from my small-town. I was surrounded by Pakistanis. Not all spoke English, and occasionally I couldn’t make out what was being said by those who could, because the accent was so different. I felt guilty about that, but, there again, I had the same problem with native-born Glaswegians. I loved being there: the brightness of the ladies’ clothes; the smells of food from shops and cafés; the cheerful greetings I was given. But, sadly, I soon learned others didn’t share my positive views. The usual resentments and prejudices about immigrants were freely shared on buses and underground.

I was reminded of my Glasgow experience about 25 years later when I was guest preacher at a church in the north of England. The area where the church had met for a century was now Muslim-majority. After the service there was a lunch in the church hall, and I sat talking with some of the older members. In fact there were almost no younger members; membership had declined a long way. So, casually, I asked, ‘What’s been the biggest problem you’ve faced over the years?’ The answer was immediate. ‘The Pakistanis. They’re the problem’. Politely, I challenged that answer. But talking about the ‘new neighbours’ as an opportunity and not a problem didn’t get me far. Everything was different from how it used to be – too different for their comfort – and that was ‘the problem’.

I’m no scholar when it comes to racism, and especially in a blog piece I could neither explain nor solve such a difficult problem. But I’ll share three things I’ve thought about often.

Racism is not new    The last few chapters of the book of Genesis in the Old Testament tell the story of Joseph being sold by his brothers to traders, made a slave in Egypt, but soon becoming Pharaoh’s right-hand man and governor of the whole land. Eventually his whole family are brought to Egypt to save them from famine. They’re welcomed and given the best land on which to settle. Sadly, it didn’t last. The opening of Exodus describes how new rulers came to power in Egypt, conspiracy theories were spread about the Israelites, and they were made slaves and given hard labour. Why pick on the Israelites? First, they weren’t Egyptians. Second, their culture wasn’t the same. Third, they had another religion. In other words, they were from another race and lived differently. So they were oppressed.

That was a very long time ago, but racism existed before then, and has continued down through every century since.

The caste system – primarily a feature of cultures related to the Indian sub-continent – is not the same as racism. (For example, different castes can exist within one racial group.) But race and caste issues both involve prejudice and discrimination. The origins of the system are ancient, but formalised later and then incorporated by the British Raj from the 1860s into their form of administration. In Pakistan I had tea in a café where the low-caste customers were forced to use cups different from those used by higher-caste people. Christians in rural areas debated whether all castes could sit together when lunch was served after the church service. Some would, some wouldn’t. In south east India, I visited aid projects set up after the devastating 2004 tsunami. Many of the lowest-caste people, the Dalits, had suffered badly because they lived close to the sea. My colleagues and I spent time with them, and one evening invited their leaders to eat with us in a hotel restaurant. We were all seated when the management asked the Dalits to leave. They’d had complaints from other guests. We protested, but our Dalit friends immediately asked us to stop and let them leave. We did, realising that we wouldn’t suffer later but they might.

In Thailand I was puzzled to see that labourers repairing roads were wearing balaclava masks (ski-type masks), even though they were working in the blazing sun. I asked a local ‘Why do they wear them? They must be unbearably hot’. I was told they wanted to stop their skin darkening, because the blacker their skin the lower their status. In north west Africa I came across the same prejudice. One darker-skinned tribe were treated as slaves by those with lighter skin.

Racism is centuries and even millennia old, and exists across almost the whole world. That’s no comfort as we seek solutions in our own cultures. We could think the cause hopeless, but it’s only hopeless if we give up. Racism may be old but it doesn’t have to live forever.

Racism is not a black/white colour prejudice   In the western world we tend to see it that way, but often it has nothing to do with skin colour. In the 1840s, Ireland experienced deadly famine. Two million Irish emigrated to America, but were met with prejudice and sometimes violence for being foreigners and, especially, for being Catholics. They looked much the same as the large numbers of Germans also arriving in the US, but their treatment was very different. Every now and again in the UK, I hear strong invective against immigrants from Eastern Europe. There’s no colour difference. Just difference.

There are several reasons why people fear immigrants. The one that makes me grimace but want to smile is that ‘immigrants will change our culture’. I’d like to ask, ‘When did the UK have just one culture?’ Don’t the ‘nations’ have very distinctive cultures? Even within England, aren’t the Geordies of the north east very culturally different from the Cornish of the south west, and both very different from the Cockneys of London? We’re not all the same, and never have been. Nor has the UK been surrounded by a 50 metre high wall for centuries so we couldn’t leave and others couldn’t enter. People have come and gone, settled and left, for ever.

Just above I described prejudice against Irish immigrants arriving in the USA 150 years ago. Now their descendants are a celebrated part of the ‘melting pot’ that makes up the nation. In fact many people told me ‘I’m Irish’ or ‘I’m Swedish’ or ‘I’m Italian’, and I’d have offended them if I’d said, ‘No you’re not, you’re American’. They’re proud, very proud, of their ethnic background, now all together in a new land. There is, of course, resistance to new waves of immigrants, the old pattern repeating, so it’s not a nation singing in perfect harmony, but, for many, diversity is their strength.

No-one is born racist    I wrote earlier that through all my childhood I never encountered racism. It just wasn’t part of my world.

Not everyone has so privileged a background except this part: no-one comes into this world prejudiced against others. There isn’t a racist neuron in the brain that gets switched on as we’re born.

So, where does racism come from? I believe it’s either taught or caught. It’s taught when a parent, or a friend, or a teacher, or a political leader, spouts racist views, and a young mind adopts their prejudices. Racism can be caught when, without words, actions and attitudes convey the message: black neighbours are shunned, violence against non-whites is accepted, support is given for policies that discriminate. What young people see around them as normal and acceptable becomes part of their thinking from early years, long before their intellects are mature enough to question what’s going on.

I’m aware of the view that a fear reflex is hard-wired in our brains, a protective reaction against the unknown or different, because what we don’t yet know to be safe may be unsafe. It could harm us, so we reject it. I’m no geneticist, but I can’t see why a fear reflex would be racist. ‘Difference’ isn’t only about nationality or colour. I’m not suspicious of people who are tall or short, thin or fat, nor do I care about social status, or accent, or educational attainment, no matter how different any of those are from me. My fear reflex doesn’t shun them. So why would I shun someone because he’s a different colour or from a different culture?

I’m also familiar with the ‘nature or nurture’ debate about childhood behaviour. Two kids from the same background may turn out very different, and likely their unique genetic mix and young experiences both contributed. But no baby was born racist. It’s not a ‘given’ at birth. Racism may come later, but it’s never inevitable.

Well, forgive me please if anything I’ve written this time is insensitive or simplistic. I wrote about racism because I hear it expressed, see terrible examples on the news, and because I think it’s one of the worst sins people can commit. As usual, if you find any wisdom, that’s great. If you don’t, move on and be at peace.

Lastly, thank you for patience while I had a major study project to complete before an immovable deadline. I didn’t finish with a lot of time to spare, but it was done. Now I need two things. One, to catch up on missed sleep. Two, for my assignment markers to be having such a good day they’re incredibly generous!

Narrow focus

I was twelve when I camped for the first time with the Boy Scouts. I’d never slept under canvas before, never slept on the ground before, never cooked food over a camp fire before, and never used a hole in the ground as a toilet before.

And I’d never walked through woods in the dark before.

The scout master announced a late evening hike so I grabbed my torch. A flashlight would be essential to avoid holes on the path, or low-hanging branches, or a tiger stalking us. (Okay, no tigers but I had a vivid imagination.)

Off we set, my torch trained on the path as we entered the forest. I needed to be sure where I was putting each foot. But less than five minutes into the walk, the scout master ordered: ‘Switch off your torches. You’re spoiling everyone’s night vision, including your own.’

So all the lights went off, and now I’d no idea where to put my feet. Until, that is, my eyes adjusted. Gradually I began to see bushes and branches, the route of our path, and even my compass as light from the moon pierced through the trees. To my amazement I could see more now than when I was using my torch.

Of course what had happened was obvious. My torch beam superbly lit up what was right in front of me, but had diminished vision of anything outside its beam. Once the torch was off, and my eyes got used to moonlight, I could see the shape of everything.

What I’d been experiencing initially was a form of ‘tunnel vision’. My dictionary defines tunnel vision as ‘a tendency to think only about one thing and to ignore everything else’.

There are situations when that’s good, such as when racehorses wear ‘blinkers’ so they’re not distracted by cheering crowds.

But a narrow focus is more usually a hindrance, perhaps even a danger. Two statements help us understand why.

Looking only one way means not looking other ways

My torch beam lit up only about 30 degrees of the 360 degree circle around me, so I was seeing less than ten per cent of my surroundings. What about other trails I could have followed, or a pond that I might slip into sideways from my path? There were opportunities and dangers, but my narrow vision never picked them up.

Not seeing the big picture has sometimes allowed great evils.

In 2007 many events marked the bicentenary of when the ‘Act to Abolish the Transatlantic Slave Trade’ was passed in Parliament. It didn’t end slavery, but banned British ships transporting slaves from Africa to the New World.

I researched the background to that 1807 Act. I asked myself, ‘Why did it not get passed earlier?’ People like William Wilberforce had campaigned for years. The opponents of change knew what slavery involved – taking people captive, transporting them across the ocean in appalling and dangerous conditions, selling them into bondage to work on plantations. But they didn’t ‘look’ at that. They were focused on other interests. Wealthy and powerful plantation owners knew their huge profits would disappear without slaves. Affluent citizens knew their fine clothes would cost more if slaves didn’t pick cotton. In their ‘beam’ was only what they gained from slavery, and they kept its immorality and cruelty in the shadows.

I spoke at one of the 2007 bicentenary events, and challenged the audience this way: ‘If those people were blind to injustices so they could keep their comfortable lifestyles, what inconvenient evils are we blind to today?’ I read out a news story of women in Bangladesh earning three pence for each shirt they made for an elite western brand. And I described clothes for sale in my local supermarket: jeans for £3; women’s suits for £12 & £7; a sweater for £5. At those prices, how much – how little – did those who slaved over sewing machines making the garments get paid?

A hard truth is that we don’t see what we’d prefer not to see. We focus on what we want, and leave the inconvenient consequences of our ‘wants’ in the shadows. It’s what the affluent did in the 1800s and it seems not a lot is different now.

Things we can’t see or don’t want to see won’t change

If I don’t see my (imagined) tiger lurking in the shadows, I’m unprepared if it pounces. If I don’t see a friend lying injured under a bush, I can’t help him. If I don’t spot increasingly large pools of water on either side of my path, I may walk into a swamp. In short, we’ll do nothing about what we don’t see.

Here are three times when nothing changes because we can’t or won’t see what’s outside our narrow vision.

When there’s no will to change    Tony was a good friend while we lived in America. He’d had rough times with his health and become long-term unemployed. But, despite his troubles, Tony’s mind was always active. Which is probably why he scoured the internet for right-wing conspiracy stories, the more outrageous the better, and sent them to us and all his other friends. The subject line of his emails was usually ‘We need to know this!’ These were important news stories for Tony. Well, we searched online for the background to them. Invariably they were either rumours or malicious tales. So we alerted Tony, assuming he’d stop circulating these narratives. But they didn’t stop. ‘After all, they might be true,’ he told us.

Tony’s gaze was focused only where he directed it, in line with his political perspective. He didn’t want to look elsewhere. He didn’t want evidence that contradicted what he already believed, so on he went circulating stories.

It’s easy to criticise Tony for doing that, yet there’s plenty evidence most of us pay most attention to news that confirms the views we hold already – a version of ‘confirmation bias’. We also miss what we don’t want to see, and because what we don’t see doesn’t affect us, we’re not motivated to change anything we think or do.

When we see no way we can make change happen    If we’re sure there’s nothing we can achieve, we don’t try. That point is obvious. Jack can’t swim – he sees someone drowning in a pond, only a metre or two out from the edge – he wades in, grabs the man’s arm and pulls him to safety. Jack knew he’d never be out of his depth, so he acted. Next day Jack is walking by the edge of the pond again – sees someone drowning right out in the middle where the water is at least ten metres deep – because he can’t swim he calls for help but does nothing else because he can’t. The man in the pond drowns.

Now we’ll excuse Jack because he really couldn’t save the drowning man. There was nothing he could do to rescue him.

But what’s our excuse? Sometimes we give up, not because there’s nothing we can do but because we don’t believe we can do enough. Because our efforts won’t make much difference we don’t try. For years I’ve heard reasons/excuses like that for doing little for the eighty per cent of the world that’s poor. Or for doing nothing to cut back on energy consumption in response to climate change.

If William Wilberforce had thought like that there would never have been an 1807 ‘Act to Abolish the Transatlantic Slave Trade’. If William Knibb, a leader among the following generation of abolitionists, had thought like that there would never have been the ‘Slavery Abolition Act’ of 1833 (put into effect in 1834 and slightly later in some territories), which finally set slaves free in British colonies. History is littered with stories of people who faced impossible odds, but went forward anyway and change happened. What history doesn’t record is how many could have made some contribution to change, but they didn’t try. They knew something in the shadows wasn’t right, but made no effort to change it because that seemed too hard. Their legacy is that they did nothing.

When we see what needs to be done but don’t care    I chaired a meeting of about 60 people discussing why people didn’t give enough support for overseas mission and aid. Lots of ideas were put forward: ‘The economy isn’t strong at present’; ‘People are worried about how to support their retirement’; ‘We need to communicate our message better’, and so on. Then a man got to his feet, not someone who normally said very much. But that day his words were powerful: ‘I believe the main reason why support is poor is because people simply don’t care. We – those of us here – don’t care enough to give until it hurts. It’s not surprising then that others, who know much less about the need, don’t care enough either.’ He spoke like that for two minutes. When he sat down there was silence. His words pierced every heart, and there was nothing else to say.

Caring for others is a comfortable concept in our heads, but if care only exists in our thoughts no-one benefits. It has to infuse and energise our hearts and our hands before it does anyone any good. What we see in the shadows never changes if we don’t do anything about it.

Strictly speaking then, sometimes we do see outside our narrow focus. But only dimly; it’s  dark enough we justify leaving the problems in the shadows where they won’t discomfort the lives we enjoy. That’s sad, very sad.

There are times when it’s good to be focused. That’s true. But a narrow focus will always run the danger of becoming tunnel vision. We won’t give attention to all the other things that matter and need our help. Look around, see a world of need and opportunity, care about it, and use everything God has given you to make it a better place.

Necessary endings

I’ve not always been grateful when people told me that I should really read such-and-such a book. Too often what gripped their interest didn’t grip mine.

So, when my friend Steve recommended Necessary Endings, I thanked him but never got round to buying a copy. Then the book arrived through the post, a gift from Steve. ‘He must really want me to read it!’ I thought. I’m so glad I did. I’d put Necessary Endings high up in the top ten of important books I’ve read in recent years. Much of it is directed to business professionals, yet the insights relate to ordinary life for ordinary people.

Henry Cloud is the author, a clinical psychologist who also wrote Boundaries which is subtitled ‘When to say yes; how to say no’. I needed to read that book 30 years earlier.

Necessary Endings* conveyed a message to me I needed to hear later on.

Cloud sets out his main ideas in the opening pages. Here are some brief quotes:

‘Today may be the enemy of your tomorrow.’

‘In your business and perhaps your life, the tomorrow that you desire and envision may never come to pass if you do not end some things you are doing today.’

‘…you will see that endings are a natural part of the universe, and your life and business must face them, stagnate, or die.’

The principle is simple: To get to the good that’s right for you, you must let go of what you have already.

That immediately reminded me of a critical scene in the 1975 film, The Eiger Sanction, which stars Clint Eastwood. (I won’t give away the story line or ending but will describe a critical scene. Those who think they might still watch the film may prefer to skip beyond this paragraph.) Near the end, the main character, Hemlock, leads the descent of the north face of the Eiger, heading for a tunnel in the mountain. Others fall to their deaths, but Hemlock survives, though left hanging from a rope over a 4000 foot drop. He’s only a few metres from the tunnel ‘window’ and rescuers standing in the tunnel throw Hemlock a rope which he catches. But he’s already held by his own rope. It’s saving him from falling to certain death. Yet he can’t be pulled to safety unless he cuts his rope, the rope which has literally been his lifeline. That’s a huge risk. What will he do?

I’m not answering that question! But the analogy to Cloud’s point is clear. There are moments when the only way to the next good thing is by cutting free from what holds you now.

Cloud develops his theme masterfully through his book. But, for this blog, the comments which follow are mine, because I’m sharing only what I’ve seen or experienced to be true.

What you have will usually feel safer than anything you don’t yet have. We are secure with the present, because we know it. What might happen in the future is unknown, uncertain and therefore unwelcome. But what we have isn’t better just because we have it! Or just because we understand it. I may know exactly why I’ve got a headache, but that doesn’t mean I want to keep it!

Familiarity doesn’t just breed contempt, it breeds complacency. Our self-preservation instincts bias us to stick with what feels safe. Hence, the person considering leaving secure employment to become self-employed will often choose to stay in the job with the regular salary. The ‘run your own business’ dream is at war with the ‘stay safe at all times’ instinct, especially when there’s a mortgage to pay and a family to feed.

But safer isn’t necessarily better. Some years ago a radio programme interviewed women who’d given up lucrative careers to be stay-at-home mums. They were abandoning professional ambitions and a second income in order to spend time with the family. The loss of income forced their families into more modest lifestyles. But the women reported that the overall quality of family life had increased hugely. Everyone was happier, more relaxed, more content. They’d no regrets about the change. The safe choice would have been status quo; but they ended what they had in order to gain something better for themselves and their families.

(By the way, I don’t know why the husbands weren’t those who let go of their careers! Perhaps another programme covered that.)

For others, the decision those women made might have been entirely wrong. My point, though, is that there are criteria other than ‘safeness’ to be considered when deciding between ‘change’ and ‘no change’.

The choice may not be between a ‘bad’ present and a ‘good’ future. Sometimes the present is good and the future looks good, but of course you can only have one. You must decide which.

That’s far from easy. Alison and I faced that situation choosing whether or not to have more children after we already had two. Two was great, a boy and then a girl, the exact family unit described in old-fashioned books. Yet we’d always thought we’d have a third. Hmm…? Inconveniently there’s no middle ground. You can’t have two and a half children, nor ‘return baby to store’ within two weeks if everything doesn’t work out well. A third would be a decision for life. Our family was wonderful with two, but having another would also be wonderful.  We chose to have number three, and we have no regrets. Nor did we regret it when we chose to have number four!

In some of the most practical decisions of life – having children, moving home, changing jobs, buying another car – there are necessary endings. You have to let go of what’s great to gain something else that’s also great. When new opportunities are possible, we have to choose. And that, after all, is a great privilege.

Failing to recognise the time for an ending can be disastrous. We lived in the north of the USA, right alongside Lake Michigan, one of the Great Lakes. Those lakes are massive, almost seas. But there are smaller lakes all over the northern part of America, and in the far north they offer the opportunity for ice fishing.

There’s a Wikipedia page headed Ice Fishing. Here are the opening two sentences:

Ice fishing is the practice of catching fish with lines and fish hooks or spears through an opening in the ice on a frozen body of water. Ice fishers may fish in the open or in heated enclosures, some with bunks and amenities.

That description nicely sums up the sport, but almost underplays it. Use a search engine related to ice fishing, and you’ll find a myriad of special tools for sale: snowmobiles to get far out on the ice; augers to cut the hole in the ice; shelters to keep comfortable while fishing and overnight; super-warm clothing; books that will explain how to do ‘jigging with a spring bobber’. And much, much more.

That wouldn’t be my kind of sport, but if it was, there’s one thing I wouldn’t want to do. I would not want to be camped in the middle of a frozen lake as spring warms the air and melts the ice. The goal of the sport is to fish, not to have the ice beneath your feet collapse consigning you to certain death in super cold water.

There’s a time when something feels exactly right, and a time when the same thing has become seriously wrong. Knowing when an ending has come is essential. My friend wanted just a few more years to build up his business. He knew his health wasn’t great, but he’d stop soon. But his ‘soon’ never came. He died suddenly from a massive heart attack. What had been so right for him had become so wrong. There’s a time to end what we’re doing, and nothing good comes from ignoring that.

Sometimes there’s an ending which is not our decision. Elite sports stars may have to retire years earlier than they expected because of injury. Or firms merge and people are made redundant, perhaps with little chance of employment again in their field. Or someone is fired, deservedly or not. Or a relationship, perhaps a marriage, is ended by the other person’s choice, not ours. Or a talent someone believed would take them to the top proves not quite good enough, and the dream dies.

These situations are all very different. What they have in common are disappointment, sadness, confusion, anxiety, loss of self-esteem, and perhaps false guilt.

There’s a saying that if someone goes through life with no failures, then they didn’t try hard enough. There’s some truth in that. Ambitious people push boundaries, but not all boundaries yield. And not everyone wants to cooperate with our plans. So there will be an ending, with all the grief that brings.

Three short paragraphs of advice.

As best you can, end well. Our instinct is to get angry, and let everyone know how cheated or hurt we feel. But that usually only inflicts damage, much of it damage to ourselves.

Lean on others. The temptation is to keep our hurt secret, a private agony we don’t share. That’s not wise. There are times we need strength beyond our own, our burden shared, but others can’t help if they don’t know. Let them in, and they can listen to our anger or disappointment, reassure us of our worth, and give hope for the future.

There’s a saying that ‘when God closes a door he opens a window’. I’m not a fan of trite sayings. Yet, every ending is a new beginning. There have been things in my life which had to end so God could give me the even better future he had planned for me. When something ends and we let it go, we’re not left with empty hands. God gives us new dreams, new skills, new friends, new ways to be useful and fulfilled. There are good beginnings beyond even the worst endings.

I’m grateful to Henry Cloud for his book, and to my friend Steve for giving me a copy. The simple thesis – that there are ‘necessary endings’ – has become an important truth for me, and hopefully also now for you.

* Dr Henry Cloud, Necessary Endings, 2010, Harper Collins Publishers. It’s easily found online, but be careful not to confuse it with a book with the same title by another author.  Cloud also has his own website: www.drcloud.com

The art of the good apology

I should have a degree in apologising. Perhaps MA could stand for Master of Apology. My qualifications for such a degree? Only that I have decades of experience. I have needed to apologise many, many times over the years.

Big apologies were needed, for example, when I was late for a speaking engagement. That only happened twice, but it’s a bad thing to do. As the clock ticks down, the people waiting for your arrival start to panic that you’re not coming at all.

One time my lateness was because of an accident on the motorway resulting in a two mile go-nowhere-fast traffic jam. I arrived 20 minutes after the church service started at which I was to speak. I was ushered straight to the front to join the pastor. ‘Good to see you,’ he whispered. ‘I was just beginning to feel anxious.’ ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, and said it afterwards at least another ten times.

My other late arrival was because the city of Halifax in Yorkshire was temporarily removed from the planet. Well, not actually removed, but for me it had vanished. I just couldn’t find it. My crime had been overconfidence. I was so sure I would get to a city of 88,000 population easily I never really plotted my route. Eventually I stumbled across Halifax, and reached my destination half an hour after the church service had begun. By then there were less than five minutes before the sermon should begin. I took a deep breath, and started with… an apology.

So, is there such a thing as the art of the good apology? By that I don’t mean putting on a performance, but apology best practices. I’ve noted down five.

  • Recognise the need to apologise

Apologising is almost automatic for me. The words, ‘I’m so sorry…’ come out of my mouth easily. In the days when we handed over cash (do you remember cash?) in shops or restaurants, I’d apologise if I didn’t have close to the right money, as if the time and effort to give me change was my fault. Our dogs have a habit of lying on the floor in our dark hallway, and occasionally I’ll accidentally nudge one of them with my foot. I immediately bend down and apologise. The dog doesn’t understand a word, but I say sorry anyway.

But not everyone is wired to apologise. Perhaps that’s for one of two reasons: a) they never see themselves as being at fault; or b) they can’t admit to being at fault. Maybe I should feel sorry for people like that, but actually it’s hard not to be angry with them. Are people really unable to recognise they’ve done wrong? Or are they just super-arrogant, thinking they’re perfect in all they do? And maybe a psychologist can explain to me why some are unable to say the word ‘sorry’ and just apologise for what they’ve done.

Whatever the reasons, many don’t see any need to apologise. In which case, of course, they’re likely not reading this blog post.

  • Be utterly sincere with your apology

We’re all familiar with the scene: teacher stops two children squabbling – who’s at fault isn’t obvious – both children are told ‘apologise or you’re in serious trouble’ – grudging children squeeze out the words ‘I apologise’ through gritted teeth. Are they sorry? Not in the slightest. The word ‘apology’ is there, but sincerity isn’t.

Adults are also far from blameless. There’s a tendency to be more sorry for being caught than for being guilty. Such as the driver stopped by police for going through a red light, who says: ‘I’m so sorry officer. I didn’t see it had gone to red.’ What’s true in that statement? Well, it’s hard to know whether or not the driver saw the red light. Of course, he should have seen it. What is not true, I suspect, is that the driver is sorry. The offender isn’t appalled for doing something dangerous but hopes an apology will lessen the penalty. It’s a plea for leniency, not a confession of guilt.

Perhaps an instinctual apologiser is so conscious of doing wrong, their apologies come over with obvious sincerity. Therefore they’re readily accepted. Sincerity has its rewards.

  • Our apology mustn’t suggest we’re not the one at fault

I often hear weasel-wording in a supposed-apology: ‘I’m sorry if you misunderstood me’; ‘I’m sorry if you found my humour offensive’; ‘I’m sorry if my offer isn’t acceptable to you’; ‘I’m sorry if you felt bullied’.

The implication is the other person is the one with the problem: for misunderstanding, for not having a sense of humour, for not finding the offer acceptable, for feeling bullied. Statements like those are accusations, not apologies.

A real apology never blames someone else. It’s an unqualified acceptance of fault with sincere sorrow for what’s been said or done.

  • If possible, ask for forgiveness

Asking for forgiveness – assuming it’s done sincerely – is the ultimate confession of having been in the wrong. And being forgiven is a major step towards righting a broken relationship.

So, asking for forgiveness is a good thing? It is, but sometimes it can be done only at the right time and in the right circumstances, because a wronged person may not be able to give instant forgiveness. Imagine you made a big promise to a friend – perhaps of money, or support, or practical help – and your friend’s whole future depended on you. But you got distracted, and did nothing for her. All she had planned and hoped for was lost, her life changed forever. But, casually, you say, ‘Sorry about that. I had something else to do. But you’ll forgive me won’t you?’ Ruin a life and just ask forgiveness? Not reasonable. It’s no better than the old caricature: commit a sin – buy an indulgence – move on. I don’t believe forgiveness has to be earned. But I am saying something has to occur in the life of the offender and something has to occur in the life of the one offended before forgiveness may be possible.

  • Learn from your mistakes

The old saying ‘the one thing we learn from history is that no-one learns from history’ is an uncomfortable truth. We make the same mistakes more than once. But constantly repeated mistakes undermine apologies. Some people are always late for meetings, and they always apologise. After the first few times, who takes their apologies seriously? Those who aren’t making a serious effort to do better lose respect, no matter how fine their apologies.

One final point. When I was a freshly-minted pastor, a more experienced pastor friend, Alex, told me: ‘Alistair, if you love your people, they’ll forgive you anything’. He didn’t mean you could murder half your church members and get away with it. Rather, Alex was trying to say, ‘You’ll make mistakes. You’ll say something you shouldn’t, you’ll let someone down, you’ll insist on a plan that doesn’t work, you’ll preach some really boring sermons. But if your people know you love them – really love and care for them – they’ll forgive these things.’ I did care for my people, and Alex was right. They forgave me many things. But I’m sure my apologies helped!

And this blog is posted a couple of days late. I apologise.

Misplaced certainties

From about the age of ten I loved photography. My parents’ Kodak Box Brownie camera was as simple as a camera could be, but occasionally I got to push the shutter button, always excited to see (eventually) the photo I’d taken.

But I didn’t have a camera of my own. And I desperately wanted one.

Then, a magazine ran a competition with ten prizes of cameras. All you had to do was answer simple questions and write a slogan for a firm’s product. I begged my mum to let me enter, and together we worked out the answers to the questions. The slogan, which would be the tie-breaker between entrants, was more difficult. You were only allowed about 12 words, but I wrote something like: ‘Tasty Coffee gets you going and keeps you going through the day’. Clearly, my future wouldn’t be in advertising, but mum said the slogan was good, so my entry was posted.

The entry details had said winners would be notified by post soon after the competition closed. My answers were right, and my slogan was brilliant. So I waited for the letter. Mum pointed out that thousands would have entered, so it was unlikely I would have won. But obviously she was wrong. Even if winning was unlikely, it was possible. Within a couple of weeks possible had become probable in my thinking. After two more weeks, probable had become certain. I knew I was a winner, but where was the letter? I hurried home from school every day, and asked my mum: ‘Has the letter come?’ She’d shake her head, and my shoulders would slump. Every day for a month that happened. ‘Any letter?’ – ‘Sorry, no.’ Then my mother took pity on me, and contacted the company who’d run the competition. As gently as she could, she told me I was not one of the winners. I was devastated. I had believed so strongly that I must have won, it had become a certainty.

I had convinced myself something was true which wasn’t. My certainty was misplaced. Not unusual for a child. But it doesn’t happen only with children.

Unjustified certainties can occur at any age and at any time when we let our wishful thinking become more than wishful.

Here are other examples of misplaced certainties.

Prejudice    I went to live in the USA in September 2008, and Barack Obama won the US presidential election eight weeks later. (I don’t claim a connection between my presence and his victory!) The following January Obama was inaugurated as President. His appointment to the highest office in the land was a major conversation item.

I had that conversation with a friend, Sally. Now, Sally was one of the godliest people I’ve ever known, a gracious Christian lady who seemed to love and want to help everyone she knew. But she didn’t seem to have much love for her new President. I asked her if that was simply a difference in politics?

Sally hesitated, looked embarrassed, and then said, ‘I just can’t trust a black man.’

Wow! I hadn’t seen that coming. Perhaps I would if I’d been raised in certain parts of the US. Sally knew her distrust was a contradiction of her Christian principles, but it was a deeply embedded idea with which she’d grown up and which still controlled her thinking.

Prejudice is wrong and often downright shocking. But it’s so innate we may not recognise its existence or find it hard to shake off. It’s one of the worst kinds of misplaced certainty.

Over-rating our own abilities    Have you ever tried to tell someone they’re a bad driver? How did that conversation go? Or, have you ever had a bad boss who knew they were a bad boss? Do you know many preachers or other public speakers who’d admit they’re boring?

  • Most drivers think they’re great drivers; it’s everyone else on the road who make their life difficult.
  • Most bosses think they’re great bosses; they just can’t get equally great staff.
  • Most preachers think they’re great speakers; if only the congregation would stay awake and pay attention.

Some of that may be an exaggeration, but you get my point.

In his 1786 poem To a Louse, the Scottish poet Robert Burns wrote:

O wad some Pow’r the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
An’ foolish notion

Very roughly ‘translated’ it’s a wish for the gift to see ourselves the way others see us, freeing us from blunders and foolish notions.

But we don’t see ourselves as others do. And wishful thinking all too easily gives us a misplaced certainty about how gifted we are.

Over-confidence about our decisions    I hear many news stories about people tricked into parting with their money. Scammers persuade them to invest by promising fantastic returns from bonds or shares. People empty their low interest bank accounts to hand over all their cash. And then it’s gone. At best the investment opportunity was a super-risky venture. At worst, there never was a legitimate investment, just a scheme to give cash to criminals. When those stories are reported, the last question the interviewer asks those who’ve lost their money is: ‘Why didn’t you get an opinion from family or a responsible financial advisor?’ Typically the answer is: ‘I didn’t want anyone to talk me out of the investment. I was so sure this was a wonderful chance, and I didn’t want to miss out.’

‘I was so sure… I didn’t want to miss out.’ Reckless over-confidence about a decision, a misplaced certainty with dire financial consequences.

By no means have I exhausted all forms of misplaced certainty to which any of us might succumb. It’s a weakness we don’t know we have until it’s too late.

Are there avoidance tactics we can use, or ways to diminish the danger? Yes there are. Here are four.

Stop and think.    Rationality can’t be the sole guide for every decision, but mustn’t be excluded from every decision. Our minds are not enemies. Using them is not a failure of faith. Jesus commanded us to love God with ‘all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind’. (Matthew 22:37) We are meant to think.

Here’s a true but sad story. Four friends felt convinced they should buy a flat. They didn’t have enough money, but were sure the money would come in time. In their gut they felt it right to go ahead. So, in faith, they submitted a binding offer to buy. The money never came, and they couldn’t pay the seller. The flat had to be rushed onto the market for as much as they could get to diminish the large debt they’d incurred.

Impulses and intuitions are both friend and foe. They can serve us well, but they can also tempt us into seriously unwise actions. We need to look (to think) before we leap.

Talk to a real friend.    There are times when protecting your private ideas is just stupid. You can be sure the four friends who went ahead without money to buy a flat wished they’d got good financial advice from an expert or wise friend.

Share your big ideas with someone who knows your abilities, your impulses, your dreams. The temptation is to ask someone guaranteed to agree with you. Avoid them. Ask someone who’ll be ruthlessly honest. A superficial friend will tell you what you want to hear, but a real friend will care enough to tell you what you don’t want to hear.

Slow down.    We live in a fast-paced world, and it seems everything must be decided immediately. Yes, there’s a danger of delay, but also a danger of rushing ahead irresponsibly.

As a youngster I dragged my sledge to the top of a super-steep hill, took one glance, felt the adrenalin, and launched myself on the ride of my life. It was a ride that could have ended my life. What I hadn’t considered was the road at the bottom of the hill. My sledge propelled me down that hill so fast it didn’t stop until I was right in the middle of that road. I scampered out of the way of an oncoming car just in time.

It’s dangerously easy to allow heightened emotions and desires to launch us down hills towards disaster if we go too fast. When we ask someone ‘Are you having second thoughts?’ it seems there’s an implied criticism. There shouldn’t be. There are decisions so consequential that we ought to slow down and have second thoughts.

Be ruthlessly honest.    The more we want something, the more we find arguments to have it. Inconvenient arguments we push aside. That’s the weakness behind a lot of misplaced certainties.

Ruthless honesty is possible because it’s a choice – a choice based on willingness to accept either the conclusion we want or the conclusion we don’t want. In other words, a willingness to accept whichever conclusion is best.

My friend George was minister of a large and growing church which appointed an associate pastor to support George’s work. Some months later George realised his preaching wasn’t going over well with the predominantly student-age congregation who came to evening services. He made the associate the principal preacher for those services. Here’s how George described the outcome to me: ‘It’s wonderful to have my associate preaching at evening services because he’s much better than me and numbers attending are going up’. I was impressed by what George told me; impressed that he’d given his young associate the chance, and impressed he was thrilled about the result. I’m not sure I would have made his decision or reacted so generously at the outcome. But George was a ruthlessly honest man, and he wanted the best for his people whatever that meant.

In the New Testament, the apostle Paul wrote this: I say to everyone among you not to think of yourself more highly than you ought to think, but to think with sober judgment  (Romans 12:3)

There’s wisdom there: don’t over-rate yourself, and always think with sober judgment. That’s hard, but not impossible.

We’re all prone to misplaced certainty. Our ego wants to believe we excel when we don’t; our will leans towards believing we should have whatever we desire; our hearts are drawn to every opportunity that attracts. So we convince ourselves things are right that aren’t right.

But what’s not right for us is also what’s not good for us. Knowing that – really knowing that – will save us from a lot of foolishness.