The following is indebted in concept to Dr. Steve Hake, professor of literature at PHC, who probably didn’t originate it, but was the first to explain it to us clearly and memorably.
“Gentleness” is a virtue. It is not included in the list(s) of the Seven Virtues, though it shares aspects of meekness or patience. The OED refers to it mostly by linking it (in accordance with its etymology) to gens (L.), and the concept of breeding or family, and thus by extension good breeding or noble family, and thus to good behavior. The Confucian concept of “the gentleman” (junzei) has some connections here as well; it likewise moved from a descriptor of social rank to a measure of “virtue, culture, talent, competence, and merit” (The Analects of Confucius, tr. Simon Leys, note 1.1, p 105, largely quoting Lewis, Studies in Words, 21-23).
Dr. Hake takes a simpler and slightly different tack, and defines gentleness as “perfect strength under perfect control.” The obvious (some might say facile) reading of this would pertain to physical strength, and indeed the examples that come to mind are most clear and memorable when they are physical. I will begin but not end there.
In the first episode of the fourth season of Smallville (“Crusade”), Clark Kent is (once again) not quite himself. Actually he has the Kal-El-induced version of amnesia, and has been discovered in a cornfield by Lois Lane and shuffled off to the local hospital. He is, as he repeatedly tells her, “fine”—in fact he insists on leaving. She bars his way, babbling on nervously about her Nicorette gum. After about the third time he’s pushed away from the door, he’s had enough. He starts walking out again; Lois blocks him again. “Whoa. Where are you going?” Clark, very blankly: “I’m leaving.” Lois, smugly crossing her arms: “Well, you’re gonna have to get through me first.” Upon which Clark looks her over, claps his hands on her shoulders, lifts her as high as the lintel, swivels her off to the side, sets her down, and strides out the door. Lois blinks once or twice, darts a glance after him, and then gives a crooked little smile, half wry, but half pleased. That was really cool.
Now, she doesn’t know that Clark could have thrown her through all three floors of the Smallville Medical Center. But we do. And even as a blank-faced, emotionless Kryptonian, he doesn’t do it. He uses exactly the amount of force required to do what he must, and no more. And that’s impressive to her, and to us. To be fair, he has been a trifle rude; but nevertheless he has been gentle. His strength is perfect; so also (in this instance, at least) is his control.
Or picture Bob Parr (“Mr. Incredible”) hefting a thirty-foot statue and sweeping it towards a closing wall of lava—and then, frantically but unhastily and utterly silently, putting it back again. Incredible strength; zero violence. And therein lies also part of the meaning of grace.
It is impossible to possess true gentleness without true strength (just as it is impossible to possess grace in the “giving” sense without having something to give; or in the “fluidity-of-motion” sense without possessing strength, control, and balance). There is no credit to the man who is not violent because he is a weakling; just as there is no credit to the barnacle that is not vicious because it has no mind. Conversely, there is no credit to the brutish wife-abuser, even if he has exercised zealously for his musculature; just as there is no credit to the faithless steward simply because he has not spent his single talent (for burying it is likewise a waste), or to the successful terrorist because he possesses great cleverness and resolution (for he has used them in the service of a wicked cause).
Strength is a talent and a gift. Those who have been given it at all have a duty to perfect it. They also have a duty to use it judiciously, temperately, and for good ends.
Every normative man has a measure of physical strength which on the average is greater than that of women. It does not follow that women have no need for strength or gentleness (just as it does not follow that men have no use for beauty or modesty), but because of their greater strength, and because of their greater tendency to abuse it, gentleness in the present sense is, I believe, a peculiarly, or at least foremostly, masculine virtue.
Perhaps this does not mean that men have a greater capacity for gentleness than women. (I do however wish to distinguish between gentleness and tenderness.) Perhaps gentleness is a more masculine virtue simply because it comes to men only with much more difficulty. Perhaps the command “Husbands, love your wives; wives, respect your husbands” was given because those two elements are what our sexes respectively need most (not solely), and have the most trouble showing towards each other. Women have very little difficulty in loving and in showing love. I suspect they have similarly little difficulty in using wisely and moderately whatever strength they have. Men struggle both with showing love and with perfecting and controlling their strength; but because of their role and their duties, it is imperative that they do so.
This may mean exercise. It may mean self-defense training. It may mean discipline and self-restraint in diet. It probably means all of these things: and not only in the physical senses. They apply to the intellectual, spiritual, and moral realms as well, for these too require strength and control. A debater can be wholly brutal to his opponent, and that in polished and polite phrases. A philosopher or scientist can be rashly speculative and hypothesize wildly, “just for fun”—but to the detriment of his more impressionable students. A thoughtful artist can evaluate everything he reads and sees with careful criticism, and yet view an imbalanced and unhealthy amount of the dark and twisted; and his own work will be tainted.
A weakness out of control is rarely harmful. Frequently it is amusing. But a strength out of control is fearsome, in direct proportion to its might. Stalin was not terrifying because he was a madman, but because he was brilliant madman with the world’s largest country subject to his whim, spite, and paranoia.
We must learn control. We must learn the efficient and timely application of the proper amount of force. We must learn focus. We must learn not to value strength for itself, because it is awesome, but to value it because by it we can do right.
There is, of course, a sense in which we are all very weak. And there is a sense in which we cannot be strong “in the power of His might” or in any other way until we have recognized, admitted, and in some way accepted our weakness—and also surrendered it. There is a sense in which “His power is perfected in weakness; therefore I will rather boast about my weaknesses, that the power of Christ may dwell in me”; but then there is also a sense in which we have power within us: either the limited but still awesome power of the natural human being, or else the limitless power of the supernatural God.
Does it follow, however, because God can and does give us His supernatural power, that He invariably prevents us from abusing it? That He will take it away the instant we attempt to use it for ourselves and spare us all consequences of our greedy choice? I do not know for certain, but I suspect not. He has not prevented us from abusing the natural power He has graced us with; why should he prevent us from misusing the gifts or the power of the Spirit? And that is a fearful thought.
Here, too, we must learn control. We must learn that self-control which is the final gift and fruit of the Spirit. It will look like many things. Sometimes it may look like a white charger and a panoply of silver armor and a host a million-strong behind. Sometimes it will look like a lamb to the slaughter.
The lamb is pathetic because it is weak and helpless. But the Lamb is majestic, because “all power is given unto me in Heaven and in Earth”—and yet He was silent, meek, and humble.
He was gentle.
