One true apology teaches a life lesson

"It's hard to step on someone's toes when you're washing them." I'm not sure who said that, but I witnessed that wisdom in action when I attended a Thespian conference in Salina last weekend. Kansas drama students had come to give speeches, hoping that we theater directors would vote for them to represent our organization in Wichita at the state gathering in January. By scripting poems and raps, rewriting Broadway tunes, and tweaking famous movie scenes, these teenagers made themselves vulnerable before us and their fellow Thespian school representatives.

Following their auditions, we split into two groups, directors in one room and students in another. Votes were counted and results written down. Later in the afternoon when we reconvened, Max, our state leader, read the names of the four winners, telling each of them to stand as their names were called. As a Shawnee Mission South Thespian was announced, her classmates began celebrating with her. Three other students were announced, all followed by the same fanfare. I was surprised with each winner, simply because I didn't think those representatives had been as creative as others.

I wasn't the only one surprised. Several other teachers soon made it clear that something was wrong. One of the vote-counters ran up to Max and whispered something to him; he had read from the wrong list. The four names he announced were not the winners.

What happened after that was a life lesson for everyone there. Max apologized with one of the most sincere apologies I've ever heard. He was on the verge of tears as he asked for the students' forgiveness, telling them that he would never, ever intentionally embarrass anyone like he had embarrassed them. Later that afternoon he repeated that apology. Several theater teachers began yelling, "We love you, Max," but he could hardly make eye contact.

The following Monday I emailed my friend and told him that he gave us all an opportunity to see a true apology that day, one without pointing a finger at the ones who wrote the names or handed him the wrong sheet of paper. Max had taken full responsibility. As we left Salina that day, I heard no one speak anything but kindness about Max. Both directors and students alike realized that he was truly devastated by what he had done, and I told him so.

There are few experiences more humbling than asking for forgiveness. Max's example made me question when I had last completed my "I'm sorry" with "Please forgive me." When those three words are spoken with sincerity, no matter what offense has been done against us, some -- if not all -- of the layers of anger or resentment seem to miraculously peel away.

I wonder why we don't readily apologize when we offend our Heavenly Father. Why is it so much easier to justify our mess-ups, point the finger at someone who caused us to err, or ignore our sins altogether? God is deeply wounded when we fail to obey Him, yet when was the last time we said, "Father, forgive me," and meant it? And were tearful because of what we had done? And were repentant enough that we were changed because of it?

Last Saturday wasn't about winners or losers. It was about foot washing. Max washed a lot of feet that day, but he also taught a lot of Kansas Thespians, including me, to do the same.