This was no ordinary academic ceremony, though. It was a rare opportunity to hear from one of this century's true humanitarians. Not to mention the winner of the 1984 Nobel Peace Prize. I hadn't been back to Seattle University since I crossed that same stage more than ten years ago under the light blue tassel of that school's Institute of Public Service. As I walked through the campus, I was surprised at how much this urban campus at 12th and Madison near Seattle's Central District had grown up over the last decade. The new Chapel of St. Ignatius and the new School of Law are two of the many new bright spots at one of the nation's oldest Jesuit universities.

Tutu smiled and rocked from side to side to the sounds of one of Africa's most recognizable musical exports before he accepted his honorary degree from Father Steven Sundborg, S.J.

As Tutu rose to the podium in Seattle University's traditional red and white clerical collar, he impishly grinned at the standing-room-only audience.

"I want to thank you for that humdinger of applause," he said. "Before I start today, I want to tell you about my name. People tell me it is a nice, little name. Tutu. Yes, I think so, but what if my name was something else, like Mister Uh-Click-Uh? Would you still think of it as a nice name?"

I noticed a smattering of laughter from people probably remembering the African movie that introduced unique African names with clicks and sounds to the world, "The Gods Must Be Crazy."

"I want to wave a magic wand and turn you all into honorary South Africans for this afternoon."

He waived his imaginary wand over the crowd and began a two-hour address that ranged from solemn introspection and sorrow to the promise of hope and back again. While his address sounded more like a graduate school seminar, "Reconciliation and the Global Community at the Start of the New Millennium," Tutu was, at times, stand-up comedy style funny or pulpit-exhortationally energetic.

"I want to bring you the thanks of millions of people in my country today. How can we say to you thank you, thank you, thank you and thank you?" Polite applause spread, but it sounded just like the white-gloved, muted applause I've heard at the opera or symphony. The 68-year old Tutu changed that in a heartbeat.

"I want to say thank you. Do you really think that if you wanted to thank people who helped you from bondage to freedom that you would do it sitting down? I want you to help share in our joy and let them know in South Africa that we are here. Would you clap sitting down?" he asked incredulously.

If the sounds of that rafter-shaking spontaneous applause didn't reach Cape Town, its spirit did.

Archbishop Tutu is archbishop emeritus on the Diocese of Cape Town and is the William R. Cannon Visiting Professor of Theology at Emory University in Atlanta. He's the author of several books, including last year's No Future Without Forgiveness. In 1996, South African President Nelson Mandela chose Tutu to lead the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, a two-year investigation designed to bring peace to both victims and perpetrators of the apartheid system.

I found his stories shocking, but his courage superhuman. Particularly due to the daunting health problems Tutu has faced. Last year, he was diagnosed with prostate cancer and he's been plagued with thrombosis in both legs. There were no signs of either ailment today, and I prayed for his health as he continued to talk about his work on the Truth and Reconciliation Commission.

The audience grew solemn as he talked about how many millions of people have died in world wars and ethnic conflicts, including the Holocaust. Tutu also talked about how technology has helped wars to spread, particularly with the invention of the atomic bomb and napalm.

He cited two events that turned the tide of the last century toward a hopeful new millennium: the world uniting to defeat the Nazis in World War II and the emergence of democracy in places like his native South Africa.

"Humans have an incredible capacity for evil," he said.

"Each one of us here could be a torturer. They looked like you and they looked like me. They were husbands and fathers. They looked normal. They did not have horns coming out of their heads and they did not have tails. Until you heard them say: 'oh my yes, we abducted him and shot him in the head. We burned his body for seven to eight hours because it takes this long for a human body to burn and we had a barbeque over there on the side. We were drinking beer and burned two different kinds of flesh, cow flesh and human flesh.'"

He turned his attention to young people and talked about dreams. Many of Tutu's dreams have become reality in his lifetime. For example, he likened his first visit to a South African voting booth at age 62 to a spiritual experience. For a people shut out of the opportunity to elect their own leaders for generations, the power of the vote is one of the ways black South Africans can chart their own destiny.

His dreams of a dismantled apartheid system also came true with the election of President Mandela.

"Let us not forget," Tutu said. "That even extremists among us were once children, too, and they had the hopes and dreams of a child at one time."

"Why can't we act like we are members of one family?," he asked rhetorically. "That we are all part of the same family. In this family, there are no outsiders. Only insiders. Insiders all. If we believed we were one family, we wouldn't be talking about budget surpluses and how to spend our surplus. We would think about helping each other and each according to ability and each to their need."

"Let me say that this is a new millennium and we should think of ourselves as family. Not if we had the right type of eyes. Even the most repellent hobo would be welcome. Remember, Jesus was a radical, too."

He spoke of forgiving torturers who told their story before the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Tutu also suggested that America think of reconciling its own struggles with race, and that forgiveness would be one of the first steps to take.

Tutu even laughed about his own health problems. He talked about the positive side of having a life-threatening illness and how he had not "stopped to smell the flowers" along the way.

"I realized that I might be seeing these flowers for the last time and my life changed after that. Life is so wonderfully precious and it took an illness to make me see that. The world has a new quality now. I began to think to myself, I have been richly blessed."

As I left the Connolly Center to the harmony of Ladysmith Black Mambazo, I, too, felt richly blessed. Richly blessed to be in the company of a man who helped shape the future of his country through prayer and non-violence. I was happy to be a part of his family that afternoon, and in an Old Testament kind of way, happy to be called to his table.


© 2000 - Eric Steiner