There is something to be said for the “civility” of “polite” society. Those who claim membership are proud of their good manners, careful tone, and the capacity to smile while “politely” disagreeing. It sometimes manifests when we call strangers “Sir” and “Madam” long after such titles have ceased to mean anything practical. It is all quite charming. And, if we are not careful, it is quite dangerous.
For civility, you see, is not the same thing as kindness. It may even be its opposite.
Civility can be used to welcome, but it can also be used to exclude. It may build bridges and it may also serve as a velvet rope, quietly cordoning off who belongs and who does not. It can become a sort of cultural choreography in which everyone knows the steps but not everyone was invited to the rehearsal.
I have seen people silenced not by shouting, but by protocol. I have seen difficult truths smoothed over with gracious turns of phrase. I have heard voices dismissed with a smile and a “Thank you for your contribution.” The table remains formally set but someone has been quietly uninvited.
That is violence. Not the dramatic kind that leaves a wound one can photograph, but the slow erosion of one’s dignity by way of etiquette.
Nowhere is this more evident, perhaps, than in the genteel spaces of power university boards, ecclesiastical synods, government panels where one is permitted to speak only if one does so “appropriately.” Anger is uncouth. Passion, suspect. “Tone” becomes a gatekeeper, a way of deciding whose pain is allowed a microphone.
“Don’t be so emotional,” we say, when what we mean is: Don’t make me uncomfortable.
I recall a meeting in which a young student challenged the colonial origins of a college tradition. Her voice was measured but firm. She quoted history, offered alternatives. When she left, a board member leaned towards me and murmured, “Well, that was rather confrontational.” I blinked. Confrontational? She had been respectful, informed, even gentle. But she had broken the unwritten code: she had told the truth too plainly. That, it seemed, was the real breach of civility.
Here lies the heart of the matter: civility, when elevated above justice, becomes a kind of violence itself. A way of saying, “You may speak your truth, but only if you do so in a way that allows me to remain comfortable.” It is a form of control disguised as courtesy.
Of course, there is much to be said for manners. I am, after all, a product of a home that taught me to wait in line, to write thank-you notes, and to avoid chewing with my mouth open. These things grease the wheels of social interaction.
The problem arises when manners become moralised, when civility is used to demand deference. When it is used to police emotion, to tone down righteous anger, to sanitise the experiences of those who have been wounded. In such cases, civility becomes a mask for dominance. It allows harm to persist, so long as no one raises their voice about it.
And so, I offer an invitation.
For the next seven days, observe the language of civility around you. In meetings, conversations, classrooms, worship services, public discourse.
- Who is asked to speak more gently, more calmly?
- Whose voices are considered “reasonable,” and whose are dismissed as “too much”?
- When you disagree with someone, how do you frame your response? Are you engaging their ideas or managing their tone?
And beyond this, ask yourself: where might I be using civility to avoid discomfort? Where might I be prioritising harmony over honesty?
At the same time, notice the power of true courtesy, the kind that honours rather than silences. The elder who listens without interrupting. The host who ensures the shy guest is heard. The leader who welcomes critique with grace rather than defensiveness. These are not just good manners, they are radical acts of hospitality.
Let us not discard civility, but redeem it.
Let us wield it not as a shield against truth, but as a framework for honouring the dignity of every voice even, and especially, the inconvenient ones.
There is such a thing as fierce politeness: the ability to speak hard truths with care, to challenge without contempt, to disagree without dismissal. This, perhaps, is the civility worth keeping. Today at lunch my wife said it beautifully, “clarity is kind”.
Not the kind that smooths over harm.
But the kind that helps us speak the truth in love.
And listen, when love sounds like lament.
