Too Short for a Blog Post, Too Long for a Tweet 158

Here are a few excerpts from a book I recently read, "Unified: How Our Unlikely Friendship Gives Us Hope for a Divided Country," by Tim Scott and Trey Gowdy.

TIM

It didn’t take long for me to become aware of the media’s high interest in the two new black Republicans, Allen West and me. The Republican House leadership encouraged us to be as visible as we felt comfortable with on the issues that mattered to each of us. It was an incredible opportunity for them to have two African American Republican members of Congress. The demands were intense. I had total autonomy to decide how involved or uninvolved I wanted to be, but the volume of media requests was constant—and often through the roof. 

I quickly decided that I did not want to become the guy who represents “the conservative black perspective” on every issue. Allen and I both wanted to find our own stride, determine our own answers to the issues, and just be ourselves in the political climate. Yet I wanted to answer enough of the questions and respond to enough of the interviews that my voice would be heard where it could possibly make a difference. This created a tension that began to take its toll. With such a steady stream—or torrent—of opportunities, it was difficult to decide which interviews to take and which to decline. No matter how many times I said yes, I was still turning down 95 percent of the requests. 

Trey brought so much truth to that dilemma. He always encouraged me to guard the brand I had created. Trey is very purposeful, and he reminds me to be that way as well. He told me that I did not have to accept the requests and assignments that were not in my best interest. He was very sensitive to the reality of politics and race, and he knew that while it might be helpful to the party to have a black Republican speak out on any number of issues, it might not be helpful to me as an individual. 

I’ll never forget Trey’s advice that evening when I was feeling exhausted. In a lot of ways, it cemented our friendship and set a pattern for how we would speak into each other’s lives as friends. He said, “Tim, you worked your tail off to get here. No one up here endured what you did to get elected to the US House. You challenged a highly competitive field in a primary, and almost nobody up here was knocking on doors in the Charleston heat to get those votes. You have earned every bit of the political capital you have. Don’t let others spend it. Don’t take on every issue simply because it is better for the party to have you as a spokesperson. Don’t let other people use your political capital, unless you decide you want to. You decide if, when, and where to spend it.” 

That was exactly what I needed to hear.

TREY

From a personal standpoint, what Tim really needed was someone he could trust, someone who would listen to him, someone who could possibly understand what he was going through, even if I had not experienced it myself. From a practical standpoint, all he really needed was some help prioritizing his time. On top of that, he just needed to be reminded that he had earned everything that had come to him—and it was therefore his to invest, conserve, and employ. 

After that conversation, I remember thinking, I have finally contributed something to this guy who, a week ago, I didn’t think needed anything. He seemed to have everything. (Then again, we know that no one truly has everything, regardless of appearances.) 

Here’s the moral of the story, for me: I don’t care how great things may appear to be going in someone else’s life; we all need somebody we can trust, that we can be fully candid with, and who will give us the best advice for us and not just for them. 

TIM 

If you know anything about the historic city of Charleston, it isn’t difficult to imagine why Dylann Roof chose the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church as his target. Known as Mother Emanuel because it birthed other AME churches, the church has endured more than its share of tragedies since its founding in 1816. Back then, all churches in Charleston were required to have a majority white membership, and blacks were allowed to meet for church services only during the day. African Americans were routinely harassed and forbidden to learn to read. Denmark Vesey, one of the church’s founders, was implicated in a slave revolt and was later executed after a secret trial. 

Six years after the church’s founding, the original church building was burned to the ground by whites who were angry about black progress. The black congregation continued to meet in secret until the end of the Civil War, and then they rebuilt Mother Emanuel. In 1969, Coretta Scott King led a march from Mother Emanuel during the infamous hospital workers’ strike. Throughout the church’s history, great speakers such as Booker T. Washington, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and the Reverend Wyatt Tee Walker of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference often chose to speak at Mother Emanuel because of its historic importance. Mother Emanuel is a place of significance, history, and influence. 

Perhaps a tougher question to answer is this: What led a young man to believe that starting a race war was possible in 2015, fifty years after the passage of the Civil Rights Act? The question is difficult, not because we don’t know the answer, but because of what the answer says about where we stand as a nation. 

Dylann Roof saw the cracks in the foundation of our society, where people have begun to retreat into their own echo chambers, removing themselves from the melting pot into individual bowls based on “identity.” Republicans, you watch these channels and read these news outlets over here. Democrats, your channels and news outlets are on the opposite side of the dial. The tragic deaths of more than a few black men, from Trayvon Martin to Michael Brown to Walter Scott, have inflamed racial tensions to levels not seen in decades. We have divided ourselves by religion, race, and relativity, with statements such as “That may be your truth, but it’s not my truth.” We are divided by gender and geography, by ideology, identity, and every idiosyncrasy we can imagine. Research even shows that conservatives are relocating to live where other conservatives live, and liberals are moving to liberal cities.  We are decoupling our nation’s amazing diversity. 

And yet, through the tragedy at Emanuel, there came a glimpse of the future we must choose. The families of the Emanuel Nine could have shown the world their anger; they could have given Dylann Roof exactly what he wanted. However, their faith and righteousness showed us all another path. They called for peace and unity. On national television, they forgave the man who killed their mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters. Because of them, Charleston came together in a way not seen before in my lifetime. The eyes of the nation turned to South Carolina, expecting more violence and death, and instead they saw a celebration of life and the power of faith. 

We must see to it that the Emanuel Nine did not die in vain. We are the American family, first and foremost, and that is a bond that we cannot allow to be broken. We must find ways to overcome the sensationalism, the anger, and the divisiveness that have cast a shadow over our nation. 

Clementa Pinckney and I planned to work across partisan lines for the betterment of all. I won’t allow those plans to evaporate just because he’s gone. And I won’t accept racial discord as a fact of life. I want to honor Clementa and the eight other precious souls who went to join the Lord that Wednesday night.

TREY

Now I felt those emotions coming back. I wanted to go to a church with people of color because I needed to be with folks who would share and reflect my anger. I wanted to be with people who would shake their fists in the face of God and, like the prophet Habakkuk, ask how a merciful, loving God could possibly allow wicked to prevail over good. 

I chose to attend a service at Cornerstone Baptist Church, pastored by my longtime friend the Reverend Charles J. J. Jackson. Pastor Jackson had been a source of comfort and guidance when I was a prosecutor. I liked him. I respected him. I hoped he would capture the anger and cynicism of what had happened in Charleston. So I drove to his church, fully expecting to step into a congregation of people who were angry along with me. 

I could not have been more wrong. 

I parked in the church parking lot and walked toward the entrance with my head down. When I entered the church vestibule, a young black couple greeted me and politely asked if I was visiting. When I said yes, they welcomed me and invited me to sit with them. Though my intention was to remain as inconspicuous as I could, I think I assumed they probably knew who I was. I had grown up in Spartanburg and now lived only a few miles away. I had been a district attorney in town, my father was a doctor there, my wife is well known in the community, and I was currently their congressman. I had even visited the church before, and I had friends who attended regularly. Surely they knew who I was, and I presumed that’s why they felt comfortable befriending me. 

As we sat down in our pew, some friends from Cornerstone began to stop by to say hello. First an older black man, and then a younger couple. Each one shook my hand and thanked me for visiting. After the third person stopped by our pew to speak to me, a pattern became evident. The woman who had first invited me to sit with her family turned to me, smiled, and asked, “Excuse me, but who are you? People seem to know you.” 

At that moment, a stunning awareness hit me: This couple who had invited me to sit with them during the church service had no idea who I was. When I walked into the building that morning, I was a white stranger entering their black church community just four days after a white stranger had murdered nine black people at a church. Still, they had welcomed me without hesitation. How could they be so warm and trusting with a white visitor so soon after that unspeakable tragedy? Hadn’t they learned from the vulnerability of the church members in Charleston? Surely they would be on guard for any new faces, wouldn’t they? Surely they would be suspicious of a random white visitor. Surely they would not have been so hospitable unless they knew me. Right?

Tears began rolling down my face as the service began, and I experienced the broadest spectrum of emotions. I felt humbled by their grace and trust. I felt enraged because innocent people who dared to welcome a stranger had been killed. I felt anger that God had let these people die while they studied the Bible. Most of all, I felt ashamed that I was angry in the presence of such humility, trust, and grace. The real victims—black Christians—were the ones opening their arms, welcoming a stranger into their circle, and inviting him to worship alongside them. 

Cornerstone Baptist Church was exactly the wrong place for me to go to wallow in anger and question God. Instead, Reverend Jackson preached a beautiful sermon on forgiveness, faith, and trusting God. 

I did not want to hear any of it. I needed to hear all of it.

TREY 

Not long after Tim and I were elected to the House of Representatives, he taught me an important lesson about how we should respond to people who oppose us. I think it’s also a good first step whenever we want to reach across lines of division to establish relationships with people who may not be charitable toward us at first. 

In those early days in Washington, we both spent too much time reading comments and criticism on the Internet and social media. It’s probably unavoidable at first. You don’t want to miss a question, or a comment, or a criticism. You eventually learn not to be terribly concerned with what someone who has never met you thinks about you; but when you are brand new to politics, you probably obsess a little too much. So when a writer in South Carolina wrote a gratuitously nasty blog post about Tim, I was infuriated. 

Anyone can have a voice on the Internet or through social media, and I’m just fine with that. If you want to criticize a vote, have at it. If you want to critique a policy position, take your best shot. But this post crossed the line in its attack on Tim’s character, and I was very upset on his behalf. 

Now, if it happened today, everything would be different. I would not have read the blog in the first place. If I did, I probably wouldn’t go down to Tim’s office. I wouldn’t distract him with such nonsense. I would stay quiet and hope he hadn’t seen the article. But when you are brand new and don’t know any better, you read and react. 

Tim’s office back then was one floor below mine in the Longworth House Office Building. So I hurried down the stairs, walked past his receptionist, and went straight into his office. 

“Have you read this?” I said. 

I can’t recall now if he had, but it didn’t take long for me to brief him on the content. I said, “I’m sick of this. It’s time to do something about it. It’s difficult for a public official to seek legal redress over defamation, but something must be done.” 

“You’re right,” he said. “Please close the door and have a seat.” 

I thought, Now we’re making some progress. I finally got Tim Scott fired up enough to respond. I closed the door, and Tim said, “We’re going to pray for this person.” 

“No, I’m not,” I said. I don’t typically pray out loud anyway, and I certainly wasn’t about to start then. “You can, but I’m not.” You have to be pretty angry to refuse to pray with someone. But I wanted action, not a prayer. 

Tim shrugged and said, “Well, will you sit with me while I pray?” 

So I sat with him. And I listened as he prayed for someone who had written words that were intentionally calculated to be hurtful. He prayed earnestly for this man who had tried to defame him, who had treated him like the enemy. 

Without making a point of it with me, Tim simply modeled what Jesus teaches: “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”  But he didn’t pray where others could hear it and say what a great guy Tim Scott is. He prayed behind closed doors with earnestness and fervor like he was praying for good health for a dear friend. The contrast was not lost on me. I was not the victim, but I was angry. Tim was the victim, but he forgave and prayed for the person who had wronged him.