21. Enemies
Jesus said, “Love your enemies.” But what did he mean by that? I don’t know, he didn’t explain. I’ve listened to ministers on YouTube preach sermons about this text and I’ve come away disappointed. They’ve got platitudes but no real answers.
What I want are stories. Tell me a time when you truly loved your enemy. Why was he your enemy? How did you love him? Tell me the details. Tell me the outcome. Did he change? Is he still your enemy? Or did you get to a breakthrough?
So many of the things Jesus said, I get, but not love your enemies. Am I supposed to spend my free time hanging out with people who hate me? Am I supposed to enjoy their company? Are we supposed to become close friends? Am I supposed to shut up and go along with them when I hate what they’re doing? What if they hurt people I care about?
In Luke 6, Jesus says: “To the man who slaps you on one cheek, present the other cheek too; to the man who takes your cloak from you, do not refuse your tunic. Give to everyone who asks you and do not ask for your property back from the man who robs you.”
In other words, submit. Don’t defend yourself against theft, abuse, or injury. Be a willing victim. And if that’s what Jesus meant when he said “love your enemies,” I don’t want any part of it.
Elsewhere in his Gospel, Jesus is keen to condemn nonbelievers and those who turn against him—his enemies. He damns them instead of loving them. I take this as a sign of just how hard it is to love an enemy. Even the guy who commanded us to do so couldn’t always practice what he preached.
Of course, he might only have meant the tribal thing, that we should get along with everyone in our home tribe, even people we don’t like personally, because the group needs us to do this, but it’s still okay to hate outsiders.
Growing up under the influence of Jesus left me unprepared to deal with enemies. It took a series of disruptive events over a period of years for me to develop my own way of dealing with conflict.
In 1964, Martin Luther King, Jr., came to my small college in Ohio to deliver a talk in a packed church on campus. I don’t remember a word he said that day, but here’s what I do remember. We were an almost all-white audience, yet he didn’t guilt-trip us or put us down or make us wrong. He took us to heart.
After the closing prayer, I went out back to watch him leave. He walked to his car surrounded by bodyguards—solidly built, impeccably dressed Black men with poker faces, scanning the crowd for a threat. It was the first time I’d been in the presence of someone who was putting his life on the line to preach the gospel of love.
After he was gone, I was left with the feeling I had witnessed something that morning I didn’t yet understand.
Fast forward a decade. Connor, a psychologist, invited me to join him and Kayla, a woman from the DA’s office, in leading a therapy group for incest offenders which took place every Wednesday night in a decommissioned elementary school.
I wanted to know what made these men tick because that might help me in my work to protect children, so I agreed. Driving over there the first night, I was jazzed. But when I stood before those men and one by one they reached out to shake my hand, I didn’t want them to touch me.
The very first guy, Steven, was a mild-mannered banker and Presbyterian. My dad was a mild-mannered banker and Presbyterian. But Steven had assaulted his daughter for six years, starting from when she was six.
Only one man in the group matched the stereotypical image of an incest offender. This was Marvin, a hapless fellow with a square head and a hard-bristle crew cut. He slept on a cot in the back of the TV repair shop where he worked during the day. He reminded me of the despicable cartoon character Chester the Molester, who appeared every month in Hustler magazine joking about the assault of children.
The rest of the men were unremarkable: a wiry iron worker, a pudgy mid-level executive, a balding bartender, and, god bless us, a poet. I went home that night feeling sick to my stomach, not from their crimes, but from their ordinariness.
Two months later, there was a city election. The new district attorney fired Kayla. A week later Connor quit. That left me, an amateur, and Jenny, a college student who had just signed on as an intern. Our first night solo, twenty offenders showed up, along with six of their wives. Too many for any kind of coherent therapy. What to do?
I sent the women off to a room with Jenny. Still too many. I called out the names of the ten men who at least had admitted to their crimes and sent them off to talk on their own. That left me with the ten who were in denial. I figured they needed the most work.
The minute I closed the door, they exploded: “You can’t do this to me! I’ve been here longer than guys you put in the good group. You have no right to treat me like this! You can’t get away with this!” Their anger was the kind where spit was flying from their mouths.
I wasn’t in danger, because they didn’t dare hurt me, but I was scared anyway. Incest offenders are supposed to be wimps, but in this moment I thought about their kids, and wondered if they knew this kind of rage was in their dads.
So there I was, facing that onslaught, a nice guy who wanted everyone to like me. Even incest offenders? As they revved up and ganged up, I got more and more tense, until I burst: “You want the truth? I’ll tell you the truth. I’m glad every one of you is sentenced here for three to five years. I’m glad you’ve got that kind of time so you can work on yourselves. Because until you admit what you did to your kids, until you get to the bottom of why you did it, until you make yourself safe for kids to be around, you will never find peace in your souls.”
Pin-drop silence.
For the next hour they were subdued. At the end of the evening they left without saying a word to me.
But the next week they came back their same old BS selves. So first thing Thursday morning I called the DA’s office and said, “I’m throwing a crisis. What you’ve got here is not therapy. You don’t even know for sure if these guys have stopped abusing their children. This is not only not treatment, it’s dangerous. You’ve got two months and then I’m quitting. But don’t just recruit some other idiot to replace me. You need a real program with real accountability.”
Two months later, they transferred the program to a city mental health center which had a cadre of actual therapists. So that was something, though probably not enough, because even the guys who sincerely wanted to change could barely inch themselves forward.
Meanwhile I kept flashing back to that angry night, wondering where my outburst had come from. My back was against the wall, I didn’t even think about what I was saying, it said itself. Bailing out on those guys was not an option because I was in charge. I had to be responsible. Making nice to calm them down was not an option because I felt responsible to their children. And “soul” was not a word I used in those days, but there it was, I had used it, and that remained a puzzle.
Fast forward again. One Sunday morning at six-thirty, I took a sack of shirts and socks down to the laundry room in the garage of my building where I ran into Robbie, ordinarily a pleasant enough fellow, but this time he was fuming about “those other races.” In a flash we were talking politics, and in two minutes we were hammering away with our judgmental voices, treating each other like enemies. He was teaching me how wrong I was while I was teaching him how wrong he was.
Suddenly, I found myself listening from a distance, like an out-of-argument experience. The whole thing sounded stupid and I blurted: “Well, really, I don’t think any of this matters. We’re so screwed, there’s no way we can save this country or the world. Left, right, or middle, none of it matters.”
I was shocked to hear myself say such a freaky thing to a man already deep in distress. He caught his breath, then the dam burst and his despair spilled out. He was in a lot of pain and had a lot he needed to say, so I listened. There wasn’t one more vile statement from him. He shifted in an instant from outward attack to inward sadness, and for a few fleeting moments we had a real connection. But I didn’t understand the why of that connection.
Fast forward again. I was working as a coach for nonprofit leaders, and several of them asked me to help them deal with conflict. Oh, boy, how nuts was that? I told them I didn’t really know what to do about conflict myself. They countered, “At least you’re wrestling with the issue.”
And they really needed help. They called themselves “conflict averse.” Yet what business were they in? The conflict business. They were trying to change society. They wanted to put an end to exploitation. They were working to replace privilege with equality. Lots of people were threatened by their efforts, and some of those people were really mean.
How could I help them deal with their enemies? I didn’t know. Counterattack would just make things worse. My nice-guy strategies were failing me, so it wasn’t okay to pass them on. Then, late one evening, I was on the phone with Delia, an executive director, helping her with an emergency. Her agency was being attacked by some grade-A jerk named Carter who was running for city council.
I asked her a question I hadn’t thought of before: “What if you talk to him as a friend instead of an enemy? What if you find a way to actually advocate for him? With complete sincerity. What might happen?”
“I have no idea, but at least that would be different, really different, and anything would be better than what I’m doing now. But how does this work?”
“What would you say to Carter if you were his friend? A committed friend.”
“Easy. I’d say, ‘Stop being so mean because that’s bad for you. You might end up getting elected, but look at the people you’re trampling over on your way into office. How much do they hate you already? How much more will they hate you by the time you’re done with your campaign? How much bad karma are you piling up? And why make enemies when you could be making friends?’”
This challenge perked Delia right up. Next morning when she met with Carter, she was his friend. She was forthright in her advocacy for a better Carter. He was thrown off balance. He sputtered, he fired off a foul comment at Delia, then he was gone. Delia didn’t get him into a conversation, but Carter never attacked her again.
After Delia told me what had happened, I wrote down the phrase “advocacy stand.” I knew it was a keeper, but what did it mean?
Suddenly, I felt the presence of Dr. King from all those years ago, and now I saw what I didn’t understand back then. He had two missions going at the same time. He was fighting for the civil rights of Black people, that first. But he was also fighting for the souls of white people—his adversaries, his opponents, his enemies. He believed it’s bad for your soul to exploit others and live off their suffering. That’s why he was able to be our advocate.
Then I remembered those incest offenders. I didn’t really believe in souls but I spoke to their souls. It was my way of telling them I believe it’s bad for you to be an incest offender. Worse for your kids, but bad for you, too. I wouldn’t want anyone I cared about to be one. I mean, duh.
But if I went around talking about souls all the time wouldn’t that make me just like the annoying religious people who are so righteously intent on “saving souls”? Not really.
I called on those incest offenders to develop themselves morally. I challenged them, I gave them that gift, but then they’d have to do the work themselves. Since I now define “soul” as “the deeply personal, daily practice of moral decision-making,” that means, by my understanding, you can develop your soul through moral labor, but no one can save it for you. That would make no sense.
For people speaking tribalese, though, it does make sense. For them, “saving” means recruiting. They want you to join their tribe and swear allegiance. They want you to stop making your own decisions and do what they tell you to do. But that means if they succeed in converting you, they’re not saving your soul, they’re stealing it.
So now I needed to go back to Dr. King and revise my understanding of his message. He wasn’t really fighting for the souls of white people. He was doing something better. He was advocating for us white people to fight for our own souls. He was giving us that challenge. And it’s right and just and necessary that we do our own moral labor.
I started talking with more nonprofit leaders about the “advocacy stand,” and got to see them put it to work. Rosa converted a bully on her Board into a team player. Jamie confronted a reporter who wrote a trashy article about her organization and got him to write a positive story the following week. Denise negotiated with a group vehemently opposed to locating a community clinic in their neighborhood and got them to go neutral.
The advocacy stand is simple: You take your enemy into your heart.
So it’s both simple and very, very challenging. Scary actually. It’s the opposite of what we’re bred to do.
Once you get good at it, though, you’re able to consistently break the spell of enemy-ness, which is nothing short of revolutionary. I call this moral mutiny. Mutiny against the divisiveness of our nature.
And where do you stand when you’re practicing this subversion? On common ground. And where do you find that ground? Every single human being on this planet shares a common enemy: our operating system. I can feel for my enemy because he is suffering from the same humanness I’m suffering from.
What if I take my enemy into my heart at the same time he takes me into his? Now we can join together to fight our tribal operating system instead of fighting each other.
But let’s remember, enemies can be vicious and dangerous, so self-defense is always on the table. The advocacy stand is not about being a nice guy or turning the other cheek or submitting to evil for the sake of making peace.
Let’s go back to Dr. King one more time. I think his advocacy for white people was one reason why so many of them flocked to support him. And I think this very same advocacy is why so many white people who already hated him became even more enraged. They couldn’t stand it that a Black man dared to speak to their souls. They couldn’t stand it that this man they despised and rejected was a much better Christian than they were—that’s if you consider the message of Jesus to be one of nurturance instead of a tribal call to whiteness.
When you practice the advocacy stand, you need to be ready to protect yourself, because if you take a public position in favor of radical nurturance, enemies will show up to target you. We live in a society that runs on exploitation and attack. Nurturance is a threat to that system. So advocacy is not something to do lightly. It’s risky.
But here’s a happy paradox. Advocacy, the very thing that can put us in danger, is the source of our best self-defense.
The word “vulnerable” usually means woundable, even defenseless. But you can also use it to describe the deepest kind of strength, because the more you develop your moral core, the more that core becomes the safest, most effective place to lead your life from. And then you get to be transparent. You get to reveal yourself. You get to narrate yourself openly—even to your enemies. You get to lay all your cards on the table because your cards are so strong. Which is so much better than hiding who you are and trying to control other people with tricky stratagems. What makes you a force to reckon with in the face of an attack is your deep moral core.
I’ve never developed a thick skin, so when I get attacked I get triggered easily and I want to attack back. That’s my first impulse. I know I’ve got some pretty good attack skills. I used to lead workshops on conflict, where I’d role-play the attacker so participants could practice their self-defense on me. I found it unnerving to see how good I was. And how much I enjoyed it.
I know if I wanted to, I could counterattack bullies in the real world, and I could beat them without breaking a sweat. But I’m only talking now about amateur bullies. And my victories would be misleading, because I can’t beat what I call professional bullies on my own. I’d need help. Attack is their way of life. They practice all the time, building their skills. But those skills are not the real problem. Their big advantage is they’re so committed to destruction. I can’t match that. I can’t put my whole heart into destroying someone—though I can put it into organizing against them.
And even if, by luck, I managed to trounce an expert attacker, even if I made him slink off whimpering with a bellyful of hurt feelings, he still would have won, because he would have dragged me into his attack game. So it wouldn’t matter if I beat him on points, I’d lose morally because I’m opposed to that game.
Does this mean I have to be a saint all the time while the attackers get to have their fun? Stacey, who ran a social justice nonprofit, asked me about this: “I get so angry at the bad guys. What am I supposed to do with my anger? Stuff it?”
To respond honestly, I had to make an admission. “I get angry, too. And I don’t stuff my anger.”
“Which means what?”
“Tell me, how can you hurt your enemy the worst?
“Make him cry like a baby.”
“What’s worse than that?”
“Don’t play his game.”
“Because…”
“That takes his power away from him. And makes him feel impotent. And then he might cry like a baby.”
“And how does it feel to take away his power?”
“Well…”
“Say it.”
“No, you say it.”
“Okay, I get a mean thrill. It looks to everyone else like I’m being so noble advocating for my enemy, but privately, I’m having fun driving him crazy.”
“But then you’re not advocating for him anymore are you?”
“No, I believe I am. I’m doing a split. I’m taking delight in pulling the rug out from under his attack persona, while I’m still seriously advocating for his soul because now, and only now, does he have a chance to change his behavior. Advocacy takes the fight right to the enemy’s soul. Which is a blessing for him.”
“I guess it’s okay then?”
“I hope so, because I’ll never be any kind of saint. I need to do something with my anger. And maybe enjoying a mean thrill along the way is not particularly noble but it’s not doing my enemy any harm. Or me.”
“Could this go wrong?”
“I don’t think so, and here’s why. No matter how angry I get at the attacker, even if the only thing I can feel in the moment of confrontation is anger, the best way for me to beat him is to be the fiercest advocate for him I can possibly be. Which means I stop playing his game. I take that piece of control away from him. Then I invite him, tug him, wrestle him, surprise him out of his enemy-ness, if I can.”
“You get to have your cake and eat it too?”
“I get to be noble and nasty at the same time. Sweet and sour. What can I tell you? I’m human. And remember, I said this has nothing to do with being a nice guy. I’m totally on his side, but I’m freaking him out because the last place your enemy wants to find himself is in your heart.”
But now a caveat. Only take an enemy in when your fighting spirit is strong. If on a particular day you’re exhausted or in a submissive mood, I’d urge you to take care of yourself first and get your spirit back before dealing with enemies, if at all possible.
The advocacy stand is not a should, it’s a choice. So please only do it when you’re really feeling it. But the more you practice it, the better the odds are that advocacy will be there for you when you need it.
One night I sat among a group of sixty people in a church social hall listening as two women told us about a retreat they’d just run for twelve Palestinians and twelve Israelis who’d been flown in to spend two weeks together. At first, these participants had been tentative, then they started talking eagerly, then their anger broke loose and they shouted terrible things at each other. Finally, they broke down and cried together, surprising themselves with how vulnerable they’d become in the presence of their enemies. Friendships formed, the kind that only happen when you’ve gone through something really, really hard together.
At the end of the presentation, I was under no illusions. Just because these facilitators had success with these particular participants didn’t mean they could succeed with anyone and everyone. The people they worked with had not been drafted randomly off the street. They chose to enter into a very painful conversation. And just because two people can reach across a traumatizing division doesn’t mean two peoples can.
So many of my moments of advocacy were jerry-rigged. I was mostly winging it. But these facilitators knew what they were doing. They could get breakthrough results in small groups again and again, because they had a conscious system of advocacy.
And once you’ve turned your advocacy into a trusted system, you can turn it into your way of life. Then so what if you can’t love your enemies? If you can advocate for them, good things might happen.
What exactly does advocacy look like in actual practice? I’m going to give you a quick sense of it with a handful of dialogues.
But let me answer this question first: Is dealing with enemies anything more than a dismal slog? Thankfully, it is. The core of advocacy is serious moral labor, that’s for sure. But a spirit of adventure runs through it. The default of attack-counterattack locks us into despair. Advocacy opens up creative possibilities. It doesn’t guarantee results. But it does open possibilities.
Now let’s start with a clear-cut conflict.
Cindy: Hey, Trent, could you do me a favor?
Trent: What’s that?
Cindy: Could you stop telling lies about me and my organization?
Trent: What are you talking about?
Cindy: The grant you got from the new Forrestal Family Fund which you got by telling lies.
Trent: Oh, well, that. All’s fair in money and war.
Cindy. You think I’m going to let you slip by with a slick line?
Trent: Jeez, calm down. Don’t get your undies in a bunch. It’s just money.
Cindy: No, this is about reputation and relationship. And do you know what the consequence of your trick is?
Trent: Yes. We got the money.
Cindy: And now you’ve lost it. We took a team of six community leaders with us to meet with Mrs. Forrestal last Friday. She’s revoking her agreement with you, and the remainder of the money is coming to us. And guess who she’s pissed at?
Trent: I have no idea.
Cindy: Right.
Trent: Well at least I got some money out of the deal so why should I stop doing what I’m doing?
Cindy: For the sake of friendship.
Trent: I don’t need you guys for friends.
Cindy: Me and my staff are pretty great people, you’re missing out on something good here.
Trent: I’ll give it a pass. Let the best man win.
Cindy: Or woman. Look, I know the nonprofit sector’s not immune to competition and sometimes it gets ugly. Like what’s happening with us, here, now. And my organization does not like being competitive…
Trent: I’m counting on that.
Cindy: …except against people who try to hurt our work, and then watch out.
Trent: Oh.
Cindy: When you tell someone lies and turn them against us, do you know what we do?
Trent: What?
Cindy: The minute I hear about it, I go talk with the person you’ve lied to, like I did two weeks ago with Brenda, the new legislative aide at the City Council.
Trent: So that’s why she’s not returning my calls.
Cindy: Really? I’m glad to hear that. That’s called blowback. It’s worth paying attention to.
Trent: You like turning someone against me?
Cindy: Not at all. I’m actually more on your side than you are right now.
Trent: That can’t be true.
Cindy: It is though. If we let you walk all over us, then what? You’d feel emboldened in your lying and your dirty tricks, and you’d do more and more of it, and what kind of life would that be for you?
Trent: I’ll chance it.
Cindy: And if we suffered in silence, you’d be really mad at us.
Trent: No, I wouldn’t.
Cindy: You should be. Because if we shut up and let you get away with lies, that’s called enabling. And if we really wanted to hurt you bad, that’s what we’d do, enable the worst of your behavior. But we don’t do enabling. Not with anybody, not for any reason. That’s one of our core principles.
Trent: Now you sound like one of those righteous people.
Cindy: This isn’t righteousness, this is what’s in our hearts. If you really and truly believe in telling lies, go for it. But we don’t. We think that’s an awful way to live.
Trent: Well, it’s worked for me so far.
Cindy: Sure, this is America. Rip-off artists can be successful. We live in an exploitive culture, that’s why lying can work so well.
Trent: What’s the problem, then?
Cindy: What if you get caught? What if you develop a reputation for being a liar?
Trent: I keep that part of what I do secret.
Cindy: Does that mean you don’t feel proud of what you do?
Trent: It just works better that way.
Cindy: Except you live in a city that’s small enough that it’s hard to be anonymous. Especially when you’re tied into City funding. People talk about you.
Trent: I can’t help that.
Cindy: You can help what they say. Do you know there’s some buzz going around about you right now?
Trent: Why? Because you’ve been bad-mouthing us?
Cindy: We haven’t and we won’t. We just state the facts. You’re doing yourself in.
Trent: No way. I’m good at what I do.
Cindy: But we’re better at telling the truth than you are at telling lies. Get a grip. When you lied to Brenda, me and my deputy caught her outside her office and gave her a stack of our evaluations, plus a collection of rave reviews from people from all over town. Then we invited her to come see our program in action for herself, and she came and she was wowed.
Trent: She showed up?
Cindy: She did. And she’s coming back again.
Trent: Oh.
Cindy: Oh, indeed. Look, Trent, we didn’t build our reputation by sitting on our hands being chumps. Since we started fifteen years ago we’ve been fighting for the teens in this city and teaching them how to fight for themselves. You might be able to take a grant away from us now and then, but that doesn’t stop us, it just makes us work harder and fight harder. Did you know that? When you come after us, you’re not slowing us down, you’re revving us up.
Trent: Well, don’t do that.
Cindy: Do you know what would happen if you stopped lying about us and just did your work and raised your own money instead of trying to take our money?
Trent: No, what?
Cindy: We’d welcome you back into our circle. We’d let bygones be bygones.
Trent: No, you wouldn’t, you’d be too mad at me.
Cindy: It’s true, it would take us a while to get over being mad at you, but we’d be really happy to work with you as allies. Teens need the training program you do. And if you changed your way of doing things, well, we’re always happy to see anyone take a step forward in their life. That’s our mission. Positive change. Come on, help us out here. We don’t want to be running around putting out fires. We know how to do that. We’re really good at it. But we want to be putting our time into our work with our teens. What do you say?
Trent: I don’t know.
Cindy: Don’t do it for us, do it for yourself.
Trent: I don’t know if I could be a success that way.
Cindy: What if you ran that experiment?
Trent: Huh?
Cindy: What if you tried leading without lies to see what happens? What if that worked? What if you did better that way? What if you were able to raise more money by touting your good work instead of telling lies?
Trent: But what if it didn’t work?
Cindy: Then maybe you’d know it was time to go find another career path, because do you really want to have to be a liar to be a success? Or in your case, to just barely get by.
Trent: I’m thinking I should stick with steady as she goes.
Cindy: You can make that choice, but you know what? We’re beating you at this game. I could have just kept quiet and gone on beating you till you went down for the count. But look what I’m doing.
Trent: Giving me crap.
Cindy: No, I’m talking with you in person. I’m giving you an invitation.
Trent: To what?
Cindy: To a better life.
Trent: That’s what you think.
Cindy: Yes, and you don’t have to agree with me but that’s exactly what I think.
Trent: So you get to lay your whims on other people.
Cindy: This is anything but a whim. I’ve worked really hard over the years to develop my moral core. And that’s what you’re seeing. This is me. And it goes deep.
Trent: Well, just keep it to yourself.
Cindy: Okay, I’m sensing that I’ve pushed you into a corner. So let’s stop talking for now. But please know this, if you go on lying about us, we’re going to do everything we can to be the best advocates we can be—for you.
Trent: So that means I get to keep on lying?
Cindy: You can keep on lying and we’ll keep on following you around telling the truth.
Trent: That’s not being my advocate.
Cindy: It’s our version of advocacy. We will do everything we can to help you stop making your living by lying, because we truly believe that’s bad for you. And, again, I’ve got to ask you, is that really the life you want?
Trent: It’s the life I’ve got.
Cindy: Sounds like you’re sad about that.
Trent: Well, there are a lot of sad things in this world.
Cindy: It’s okay to hate us for being your advocates.
Trent: I don’t hate you. I don’t know what to think about you.
Cindy: Look, Trent, let me make my invitation really specific. If you ever want to talk about this sadness you feel, give me a call. Anytime. Really anytime.
Trent: I probably won’t.
Cindy: I get that. But just in case, I want you to know I’d welcome your call.
In this conversation, Cindy was not in any way dependent on Trent. If he goes on being a liar, she’s prepared to counter his lies. If he chooses to be friends, she’s prepared for that. She’s not begging him to make the decision she wants him to make. She’s leaving the decision entirely with him—while she’s advocating full-on for what she wants and believes in. And because she’s advocating, she’s upbeat. She gets to be sunshine to Trent’s dreary gray.
In this next dialogue, an executive director is ready to terminate one of her staff. A firing conversation can feel scary, so it’s no wonder that a director might put off the deed because she’s worried it could go badly. But what happens during that delay? The bad behavior continues unchecked, and the ED gets madder and madder until her feelings become explosive. Then maybe she goes off on this staff person, gets righteous and trashes him. Which might well enrage him and turn him into a committed, long-term enemy.
But what if this ED decided to practice advocacy instead? What if she decided that firing is relationship work?
First, let’s look at the problem Molly has with Frank, then at four different possible endings to their conversation.
Molly: Help me out here.
Frank: What do you mean?
Molly: We’ve got a problem and it’s really serious.
Frank: What is it?
Molly: I’ve gotten calls from the EDs of three of our sister agencies who were upset about the testimony you gave at City Hall last night.
Frank: Oh, that. Yes, I defended our position. Those developers are assholes, and the Council Members who support them are assholes, too.
Molly: And did you tell them that?
Frank: Pretty much. But I didn’t use the A-word.
Molly: So help me understand your thinking.
Frank: Well, this development proposal is really serious. It would be devastating for the community. We can’t mess around here. We’re under attack so we have to counterattack.
Molly: What about the work our Message Team did? They put a lot of hours into our strategy for this issue. And they consulted in depth with our allies.
Frank: Yes, they gave me my talking points and rehearsed with me. But in the moment, I decided I had to make an executive decision….
Now, before we get to the advocacy part, here’s a reminder of how badly things can go wrong, and just how quickly, when people get triggered and turn against each other.
Frank: …in the moment, I decided I had to make an executive decision.
Molly: Where did you get the idea that you’re allowed to make an executive decision on your own without any authorization from anybody? You’re not an executive. You’re only an organizer. What were you thinking?
Frank: I was thinking that I was the one who was there looking at those jerks, and someone had to slam them to teach them a lesson. I trust my gut feelings. They never steer me wrong.
Molly: They steered you wrong this time, Mister. You were totally out of line. You screwed up. Do you even remember the name of this organization? It’s the Community Consensus Project. You’ve got a vastly overinflated opinion of yourself.
Frank: You didn’t grow up in this community, so you don’t really know what’s going on. I get to do executive overrides whenever I decide to because this is my community.
Molly: Well, I live here now, so it’s mine, too.
Frank: Well, maybe you should move out.
Molly: Maybe you should start looking for a new job.
Now, back to advocacy. In this next conversation, Molly knows where she stands, but doesn’t know how things will turn out because that depends on the quality of the decisions Frank makes.
Frank: …in the moment, I decided I had to make an executive decision.
Molly: I appreciate how forthright you are in answering my question. You’re not dodging.
Frank: Oh, well. Thanks. Yes, directness is something I believe in.
Molly: That’s something I respect about you…and we can’t ever have an incident like this again. I can’t ever get calls like this again from our allies. Not ever. Really not ever.
Frank: So what does that mean?
Molly: It means we talk this through. Are you willing to do that? Take a breath, get behind the scenes, really dig into this.
Frank: Sure, I’m always willing to do that.
Molly: That’s another thing I appreciate about you. So, what does it mean to you that our organization is called the Community Consensus Project?
Frank: Actually, it rubs me the wrong way.
Molly: Because…
Frank: Because I’m a fighter, and consensus sounds so wimpy.
Molly: Hmm. Have you ever thought about going over and getting a job at Fight Back?
Frank: Jeez no. Those people are scary.
Molly: So you like the people here?
Frank: Yes! Very much.
Molly: And you like what we’re doing?
Frank: Absolutely, that’s why I hounded you till you gave me the job.
Molly: Tell me, do you see anything gutsy about consensus?
Frank: Hmm. I never thought about it that way. Well, it takes a lot of patience. It means you have to keep gathering people in, over and over again. I’ve watched you do that. I know it’s not easy.
Molly: Do you see us as being wimps or do you see us as taking a stand?
Frank: No, you definitely take a stand. You do it without kicking butt, but you do it. Maybe I don’t really understand what you’re doing in those meetings.
Molly: I really like the fight in you. I like your moxie. We need that. And I think if you decided to learn consensus, the gutsy version, you could be masterful. You could become one of the best leaders in this community. So here’s a challenge for you: Do you want to go for that? You can take a moment to think about it, if you like.
Frank: I don’t need a moment. I never saw it that way. I know we’re the ones who get things done. Fight Back does great demonstrations, but they’re worthless when it comes to the negotiations where the real stuff happens. Yes, I’d like to be a negotiator, if it means I get to take a stand instead of wimping out.
Molly: Okay, you’re on. We don’t tolerate wimpy negotiators. There’s too much at stake. Let’s put together a development plan for you.
Sometimes, though, a parting of the ways is right for all concerned, and this can be discovered through advocacy.
Frank: …in the moment, I decided I had to make an executive decision.
Molly: What about going over and working at Fight Back? Think about it for a moment. Fight Back and us are like the odd couple. They do great demonstrations. And then when the councilmembers see us coming they’re so glad we’re not Fight Back they welcome us in. Would Fight Back be more of a match for your spirit?
Frank: It might be. I’ve known those guys from grade school on up. I do like the spirit there, the camaraderie, their kind of street gutsiness.
Molly: I want you to be in a place that’s really a match for you. You have so much to contribute to this community, it doesn’t matter what organization you’re working for.
Frank: Okay, how about if I go over there this afternoon and catch Lefty and talk with him about this? Start feeling it out. Is that okay?
Molly: Yes, and there’s no rush. Take the time you need. I want this to work for you.
Frank: Okay. Hmm.
Molly: What?
Frank: Just had an idea.
Molly: I appreciate that about you, how you’re always thinking.
Frank: Well, I’m thinking if I joined up with Fight Back, I might start doing community trainings on how to take a stand. Too many groups around here are too submissive. They could do a lot better.
Molly: The community needs that.
Frank: And I think, having worked here and appreciating what you do, I could help turn Fight Back into a more sophisticated ally for you.
Molly: That would be a blessing indeed. So we’ve got a deal?
Frank: Deal!
Sometimes a firing, even when you’re doing your very best advocacy, simply ends up as a firing. But still, advocacy can bring empathy and kindness to the situation. The primary reason fired staff bad-mouth the organization for months afterwards or harass the director with hateful emails, is that during the firing they felt judged and shamed. The advocacy approach sweetens the conversations and sometimes prevents further trouble and lasting damage.
Frank: …in the moment, I decided I had to make an executive decision.
Molly: I know you to be a sincere person, and I’m guessing that you took the action that in your heart you believed was best.
Frank: Yes, that’s really true. I know I wasn’t following the game plan, but I’m an initiator. I have to be able to make decisions on my own whenever I feel the need to do that.
Molly: I get that…and it’s not a match for us. Remember, we’re the Community Consensus Project. Your desire to be independent of the team is the opposite of who we are. And here’s the dilemma. Everything I know about you says you’re a fighter and you have a particular, individual way of fighting, and that’s really you, and it’s not something you’re interested in changing. True? Not true?
Frank: You nailed it, yes, this is really me. What you see is what you get. And what you’re seeing is what you’re going to get today, tomorrow, and the day after.
Molly: So what I’m hearing is that you’re not a match for the Consensus Project and we’re not a match for you.
Frank: Here’s what I’m about. I’m going to engage in struggle with the leadership of this organization. I think it’s time to change the name and change the mission. That’s a stand I’m taking, and I’ll fight for it. Don’t try to change my mind, it won’t happen.
Molly: Okay, that’s very clear, and thank you for being so clear, and I’m deciding right now that you can’t work here anymore. We need people who are a match for our mission. We can’t be fighting internally while trying to negotiate consensus in the community on difficult, controversial issues. Our work is super challenging so we need a coherent team.
Frank: Wow, that feels sad all of a sudden.
Molly: For me, too. We need fighters in this community. We need you in this community. You’ve got so much to offer. I just can’t see how you can make the difference you want to make through the Consensus Project.
Frank: Look, I could stay and be your devil’s advocate. I could be the one to keep you on your toes.
Molly: What’s your opinion about the quality of our programs?
Frank: Your programs are good, really good.
Molly: We don’t need anyone to keep us on our toes, we do that ourselves. Do you know what would happen if you stayed and were at odds with us, making our lives harder?
Frank: You’d get used to it.
Molly: Not in the least little bit. We’d resent you—and we’d let you know about it. And then you’d resent us. And we’d be miserable and you’d be miserable. And we deserve better and you deserve better. And besides we don’t do resentment. We have a policy against it.
Frank: A policy?
Molly: Frank, don’t you want to work in a place where you can make a genuine contribution and be happy and have people be happy with you?
Frank: Sure. But it’s never worked out that way.
Molly: I’m sorry to hear that. Really sorry. But what if you could fix that? How much would it matter to you?
Frank: A lot.
Molly: I’m wondering if you could use your intense energy to do a super proactive search for a workplace that’s a total match for you.
Frank: Maybe I could. I usually take the easiest job to get. Maybe I need to look harder.
Molly: That makes sense to me. So now it’s time for us to talk about how you’re going to leave.
Frank: Is that really the only choice?
Molly: You’ve got three options. One, you get on our team and stay with us. But that means really getting on our team. Putting your heart into it. At this point I’m not hearing that at all. Or, two, you resign. Or, three, I let you go.
Frank: So it’s really over?
Molly: Yes, it’s not an option to stay here and fight with us. If you want to think about it overnight and tell me tomorrow if you’d like to resign or be fired, that’s fine with me.
Frank: Okay, I’ll sleep on it. No, wait, I don’t want to get fired. Are you sure there’s no way to work this out?
Molly: I just heard you take a very strong stand for fighting with me and my team. Was that just bluster or were you for real?
Frank: I’m always for real.
Molly: Well, then.
Frank: Okay, Door Number Two, I quit. Give me the resignation.
Molly: You’ve got it. Now, one last thing. What will you tell your family and friends about why you’re leaving your job?
Frank: I don’t know. I don’t want people to think I had to leave. That would be embarrassing. What would you suggest?
Molly: In our conversation, we’ve discovered that you’re not a match for our organization, but also that our organization is not a match for you. So what if you just told people you realized the Consensus Project is not really right for you? And tell them that you’re going to look for a place where you can make your best contribution and be happier. Which I’m guessing is actually true.
Frank: It is. Next job I take I do want it to be a really good match. Thanks for that idea. I can make that work.
Molly: You’re welcome, and best wishes.
Match is one of my top ten favorite words because it takes the judgment out of a conflict while still acknowledging the reality of the conflict. “We’re not a match” points to difference without making anyone wrong.
I know five executive directors who used match language during a firing and at the end of the conversation, the fired person got up and gave the ED a hug. Now, maybe you wouldn’t want a hug, but still, these instances show the kind of magic that advocacy can sometimes bring to a conflict. Sometimes.
Next let’s switch gears and look at a situation where two people find themselves on opposite sides of a division, but a little bit of effort, really not very much effort at all, turns that opposition into the beginning of a friendship.
Noah: I can’t stand it when you say you don’t believe in hope. What’s wrong with you, Abby? You’ve got to believe in hope. And if you don’t you should keep it to yourself because otherwise you’ll be a bad influence on people.
Abby: Don’t you want nonbelievers to be activists? Don’t you want us working hard to make things better?
Noah: Only hope can make things better.
Abby: We could debate the pros and cons of hope, but what if instead we take a minute and look for common ground? For example, I’m scared about the future, really, really scared. How about you?
Noah: Sure, I’m scared.
Abby: Does that count as common ground?
Noah: But we handle our fears so very differently.
Abby: We do, but let me ask you this. You believe in hope and you do everything you can to make things better, is that correct?
Noah: Yes.
Abby: I don’t believe in hope, but I do everything I can to make things better.
Noah: You really do?
Abby: Yes, I do. And which is more important to you, hope or action?
Noah: How can you have action without hope?
Abby: What if I volunteered with your organization and you got to see for yourself that someone who does not believe in hope can still be a dedicated activist? Would that be helpful to you in any way?
Noah: We need all the people we can get. Especially people with the kind of experience you’ve got.
Abby: How strong is your belief in hope?
Noah: Strong. Really strong.
Abby: It’s not like you have to talk yourself into believing in hope when you get up every morning?
Noah: No, I really believe in it. I don’t waver.
Abby: Last week I offered to volunteer at your sister organization, but the director told me she didn’t want me around. I asked her why and she said, “Because my belief in hope is shaky and you’re so clear about not believing that I couldn’t handle having you here.” I appreciated her honesty, so I honored her wishes and left. That’s why I’m coming over here to see if I can work with you. You’re the only other group in our region recruiting people to run for office.
Noah: I can handle you as long as you don’t try to evangelize me.
Abby: I’m not an evangelist. How about you?
Noah: Oh, I guess I am a bit.
Abby: How about if I promise not to evangelize you but I give you permission to evangelize me all you want?
Noah: That doesn’t seem fair.
Abby: It’s not, because you’d be wasting your breath. I’ve been a nonbeliever for many years. It goes deep for me. I really believe in it.
Noah: You believe in nonbelief?
Abby: Yes. But if you want to try to convert me, go for it. I won’t even argue back. I’ll just ask you questions.
Noah: What kind of questions?
Abby: Questions about you. Like, what does hope give you?
Noah: That’s easy. It gives me energy. It keeps me going.
Abby: When I believed in hope, it drove me hard. It burned me out. Does that ever happen with you?
Noah: Sometimes. I have to keep an eye on that.
Abby: Do you believe it’s okay for hope to drive someone so hard they have no time for their loved ones and they end up losing their family?
Noah: Oh, god, no. Nothing could make that okay.
Abby: It sounds like you have very strong feelings about this.
Noah: I do.
Abby: Me too. I hate it when activism destroys a family. That just feels so wrong. Here’s another question. Do you want hope to be real?
Noah: I already believe it is, but to answer your question, yes, I do want it to be real.
Abby: Well, I want hope to be real, too. I wish it were. It’s just that I don’t believe it is or can be. Another question. How do you feel about me not believing in hope?
Noah: I feel sad for you.
Abby: Well, I feel sad for me, too. I miss feeling hopeful. I miss the energy of it. Not believing is not an ideological thing for me. It’s personal. It’s simply who I am now. I don’t really care to engage in debates about hope. What I love is doing good work with kindred spirits. And I don’t need everyone in my life to be a nonbeliever. Not at all.
Noah: I feel sad for myself sometimes.
Abby: What makes you sad?
Noah: We work so hard and so often we lose.
Abby: Do you ever find it hard believing in hope?
Noah: Not so much believing. It’s just that some days it’s really hard to keep my spirits up.
Abby: Well, I have days when I find it hard to be a nonbeliever.
Noah: More common ground?
Abby: I think so.
Noah: Okay, come work with us. Let’s try this out.
Abby: How about if we make an agreement? If you’re ever feeling down on a particular day come find me and I’ll do everything I can to help you reclaim your hopeful spirit.
Noah: Okay, and I’ll do the same for you. Meaning I’ll help you find peace with being a nonbeliever.
Abby: I’d like that.
Noah: And if you ever decide you want to return to hope, if you want to get it back, come talk to me. I’ll be your go-to guy. I’ll put you on the fast track back into the fold.
Abby: And if you ever wake up one morning and find you’ve lost hope, really lost it, come talk with me and I’ll show you the ropes. I’ll show you how to live over here on the far side. I’ll do everything I can to make sure despair doesn’t get you.
Noah: But, hey, what about this? What if fate messes with us? What if you come back to hope but on exactly the same day I lose it?
Abby: Okay, funny guy, well then we’ll already have had this conversation, and all we need to do is reverse it, which will save us time, and we’ll still be okay with each other. So, are we ready to get me started on my first assignment?
Noah: You bet.
Does advocacy always work? Yes, it does. I don’t mean that it always wins the other person over or gets them to do what you want. For some people, like those who have to deal with very difficult attackers on a regular basis, it doesn’t get them the result they want most of the time.
So why, if it has such serious limitations, am I so taken with it? Because advocacy always works, meaning it’s always good for our souls.
