A FEW days after Tony Campolo died (News, 22 November), a producer for Radio 4’s Sunday programme rang to ask whether I would be interviewed. But, since there would be Radio 4 listeners who did not know who Tony was, what could I say to paint a quick picture of the scope of his influence?
I told them this: “When you walked into the bedroom of the residential care home in which Tony lived, following a huge stroke, for the last few years of his life, on the wall by the door, hung two photographs. The first of Tony, as a young teen, with Albert Einstein (Tony had won the opportunity of spending a day being taught by him); the second was of Tony and Peggy, his wife, with Bono [the singer of U2], who often spoke of Tony’s influence on his life and work.”
The researcher laughed: “That will do it.” I smiled, then added that Bill Clinton, whom Tony regularly advised, first about cities and poverty, and then, famously, following the scandal around the President’s “relationship” with Monica Lewinsky, on a pastoral basis, didn’t even make it onto the wall.
Tony was a pastor, a scholar who combined and applied the insights and skills of a sociologist and a theologian, an author, a teacher, a Baptist minister, and simply the funniest and most compelling public speaker, communicator, and social-justice campaigner I have ever heard. Here was a man who was doing the job as well as talking about it. This, as I would learn, was one of the core principles shaping his whole approach to life: orthopraxis.
I STILL remember the first time I heard Tony speak as though it was yesterday. In my world, as a young Baptist minister, filled with what were often predictable and pedestrian Sunday sermons, Tony was an exploding bomb. In fact, I reached the point at which I was simply longing for him to stop — not because I was bored, but the very opposite: I was so energised that I felt I just couldn’t sit still any longer. God was speaking so directly to me through his words; I had to get up, get out there and do something about it.
A few years later, I was invited to speak at an event organised by the Baptist World Alliance in Harare, Zimbabwe. I couldn’t believe that I had been asked to be a speaker at an international conference: a first for me. But then I heard that Tony had also been invited. I felt as though I was walking on air.
On the second night, Tony was the mainstage speaker. Once again, I sat in the audience spellbound, not only by his communication skills, but much more by his obvious authenticity and his sheer passion to serve Jesus. The problem was that, the next evening, I was billed as the keynote speaker.
So, in the morning, when I spotted Tony in the conference speakers’ lounge, I told him the truth. “I’m supposed to be speaking this evening. I can’t. I’m so proud that I’ve been booked as ‘an international speaker’, but I can’t be sure that I am doing this to build God’s Kingdom or my own little reputation. So, I’d like you to take my place. Let’s go see the conference organisers and agree it with them now.”
Tony looked straight at me and barked. “No. Get over yourself. This is about something much bigger and more important than you. If you have a gift, don’t you dare not use it! Get on with it. And we’ll have a drink afterwards to talk about it.”
I learned some great lessons that day about God, and my responsibility to use my gifts, as well as keeping myself accountable. But I also learned another important lesson about Tony. As kind as he was, he was also blunt. I am convinced that it is that courage which, through the decades, allowed him to maintain his integrity and to be a speaker of such truth to power.
TONY first came to the UK in the early 1980s to speak at Spring Harvest, having been invited by one of its founders, Pete Meadows, who had been mesmerised when listening to a cassette tape of him preaching in the United States.
From there, his impact and influence grew in churches and denominations across the spectrum, no more so than among Evangelicals, as he challenged their status quo by insisting that social justice was an essential element of all authentic Christian faith, and that social responsibility — around issues such as poverty, racism, and the environment — was as central as personal spiritual renewal.
Typical of this unique approach was one of his famous talks, first delivered in the UK, at Spring Harvest, in which he said: “While you were sleeping last night, tens of thousands of children died of starvation or malnutrition.” He paused. “And most of you don’t give a shit.
“What’s worse”, he added, as his audience absorbed the shock, “is that you’re more upset with the fact that I said ‘shit’ than the fact that those children died last night.”
Tony was a prophet who was masterful in his use of hyperbole as well as humour to drive home his point.
But, while some, like me, embraced Tony’s perspective as a challenge to greater inclusivity and authenticity, others worried that it was encouraging an abandonment of traditional Evangelical doctrines. And some of his most progressive stances — for instance, his announcement in 2015 of his support of same-sex marriage — created huge debate on both sides of the Atlantic within the Evangelical community, and led to a loss of support for him and his work in some quarters.
As he found himself banned from stages and churches, however, he would often remind those who opposed him: “A career public speaker is not what I’m called to be. I’m called to be a critic.
“On the day of judgement, I won’t be asked, ‘Campolo, did you believe in the Virgin Birth — tick a box: ‘Strongly believed’, ‘Believed’, ‘Disbelieved’, or ‘Strongly disbelieved?’ No. Christ’s going to ask me: ‘Did you feed the hungry? Did you welcome the stranger? Did you clothe the naked? Did you care for the sick? Did you show up for those who were in prison?’”
It’s been my privilege to have spent my entire adult life learning from Tony, first at a distance as I listened to and watched him on a stage. Then, later, through the honour that was mine as he became my mentor. And, over the past 25 years or so, as a dear and trusted friend, and an inspiring collaborator.
Looking back, perhaps the depth of our bond, and of my sense of loss at Tony’s death, is simply because we shared so much: both founders of not-for-profits dedicated to the fight for social justice; both Baptist ministers; both seeking to live out what it means to pray and work for the Kingdom of God; both raised in Evangelicalism, yet both struggling with the tension of belonging to, yet at times being publicly rejected by, the Evangelical establishment.
I can’t be sure. But what I do know is that I loved Tony, and that, beyond all doubt, he has been the greatest influence on my theological development and sociological understanding, and, in turn, on the practice and growth of Oasis, the charity that I founded and still help to lead.
Tony used to tell me that, when he died, all he wanted on his tombstone was a list of those whom he had inspired to live for Jesus and make a difference. Well, whatever else, one thing is certain: that is impossible. No one makes tombstones that big.
The Revd Steve Chalke is the founder of the Oasis Group of Charities.