The inspiring “March for Our Lives” protest, instigated by the nation’s high school students, prompts this reflection, beginning with a beautiful story about Archbishop Desmond Tutu.
As a nine year-old child in South Africa, he was walking down a sidewalk with his mother. At that time, the nation’s apartheid customs, if not laws, dictated that when a black person encountered a white person on the sidewalk, the black person was to step into the gutter and nod their head to the white person as a gesture of respect. Desmond and his mother encountered a white man that day, only it was he, the white man, who stepped off the sidewalk and tipped his hat to Desmond’s mother. Desmond asked her who the man was. She answered an anglican priest, a man of God. At that moment young Desmond Tutu knew that he would become an anglican priest, and even more importantly, a man of God.
In my youth I never met anyone who left that sort of impact on me. I certainly wanted to. I craved encountering an iconic figure whose impression would be so indelible my destiny would be revealed. I’m sure I’m not alone in that wish. What I know today is that I’m blessed it wasn’t granted.
Oh, there were models of navigating the world effectively, but none captivating enough to alter my top career aspiration of saint (and cowboy). The connection I wanted was with all of existence, not just society.
My hunger to make sense of things on terms eternal couldn’t be satisfied by looking in the usual places of church, school and family. It took many years to learn what a blessing that was.
I was forced to look within. One event I consider the turning point of my life.
I was 15, attending a seminary. It was October, a month into my third year. Virtually everything about the place was uninspiring. Not mean, just lifeless. I knew it was time to leave. I called my parents to tell them. My father came to visit. He said that if I left the seminary he’d put me in the Army.
That night, I said to myself, “You will never feel worse than this.” (I was wrong, of course, but the feeling of betrayal was devastating.) I thought, “This is the moment that will define your life. Either you will assume responsibility for yourself, or you will allow others to do so.”
A few days later, in a dream, I phoned an attorney in the town where the seminary was located in upstate New York. I didn’t know him. I only knew that he owned the small radio station that served my hometown thirty miles away.
I said, “I don’t want to tell you my name, but would you be willing to answer a question?”
He said, “I’ll do my best.”
I said, “I’m a student at the seminary, and I want to leave. My father says if I do, he’ll put me in the Army. Can he do it?”
“No, he can’t,” the attorney said.
I said, “Thank you very much.”
“Someday I hope you’ll tell me who you are,” the attorney said. “You’re going to be fine.”
Traumas of even greater magnitude were soon to come. Yet in the glow of that conversation I became not exactly an adult, but aware that somehow I could make my way. I could fight for my life.
I had met the person I wanted to be.
Myself.