In classic understandings of rhetoric, the latter is seen, inter alia, as polemical, even agonistic, with the emphasis on a rhetorical passion for that which is at issue. Cicero often compared the training of the orator with that of a gladiator. According to him, wise rhetors was [sic] always acutely aware of dangers threatening individuals and the state as a whole, and had no other option but to join the rhetorical fray, which added to the inherently combative tenor of the persuasive profession. In this sense, those speaking out on public affairs, could not sidestep its clamour and divisiveness (Cicero 1970, De Oratore, 3.17:210).

A first dimension of preaching as inter-facing would indeed be to literally face one another in order to face the truth. It could also assume the form of a face-off, that is, a ‘prophetical’ speaking of the truth in the face of the (powerful, threatening) ‘other’. When the ‘other’ is also on the ‘other side’, there must be a face-to-face, transgressive, rhetorical inter-action, or rather inter-dialogue (the latter of course being a tautology!).

In a remarkable letter, which could in fact be described as a type of ‘prophetical sermon, speaking truth to power’, and which remained unpublicised for more than three decades, Tutu addressed the then Prime Minister P.W. Botha, and confronted him about the forced separation of white and black people in South Africa in no uncertain terms – specifically in terms of the forceful removal of between 2 and 3 million black people from their homes (Tutu 2011:142–147; see also Cilliers 2016:1–13). This letter was written on 05 July 1979 – a time of sociopolitical turmoil in South Africa as seldom experienced before (see Cilliers 2004:161–181; eds. Gilliomee & Mbenga 2007:330ff.; ed. Müller 1980:510–520). The tension of this catastrophic phase of South African history forms the contextual background of the letter.

In a moving fashion, Tutu appeals not only to P.W. Botha’s Christian belief (‘as one Christian to his fellow Christian’; Tutu 2011:142), but he makes liberal use of passages of Scripture, and he ends the letter by stating that he will continually pray for P.W. Botha and his colleagues, ‘that you may be instruments of his divine gracious will in this beautiful land which we all love so deeply’ (Tutu 2011:147). It is exactly within this profound theological framework that Tutu speaks some of his sharpest words of confrontation, of struggling with the system of apartheid (Tutu 2011):

In 2016, in retrospective, I wrote the following, inter alia, concerning this rhetorical outrage and plea of Desmond Tutu (Cilliers 2016):

At least three characteristics of a transgressive rhetoric can be seen at play here working in unison: firstly, the language of confrontation, of interruption; secondly, the language of consolidation, of integration; and thirdly, the language of rhetorical passion. The link between the seemingly opposite forms of language (of confrontation and consolidation) can be found in the emotive mode – the above-mentioned emphasis on rhetorical passion – in which Tutu speaks, using phrases such as ‘the moral aspect that has shattered me’, ‘I am deeply agitated and angered by what I have seen’ and so on. It is from this emotive centre – that is linked to a shared basis of Christianity, and not to be misunderstood as emotionalism – that Tutu can confront, but also consolidate; can interrupt, but also integrate.

Although South Africa is a predominantly Christian country (about 77%), there has always been a plurality of religions, co-existing peacefully next to one another. In our country, one finds a plethora of religious expressions – the Abrahamic (Jewish, Christian and Muslim) tradition, with the African Independent Churches (AICs) being one of these, combined with many Eastern religions and other complex and nuanced strands, representing a mixture of all of these.

In the above instance, Tutu specifically argues on the basis of his and P.W. Botha’s Christian beliefs. Many of his ethical stances are however also applicable to other religions and non-Christians. He keeps on insisting that ‘God is not a Christian’, and that there is a moral core to the universe – of importance for people of all races, but also beliefs (Tutu 2011:3ff.; 206ff.). In the letter quoted above, he also argues on the basis of (supposedly) shared, universal values, that is, the dignity of all human beings, for instance, when he states: ‘that human persons are treated as if they are less than that’; ‘about the dumping of people as if they were things’; ‘all which makes people less than what God intends them to be’ and so on. These arguments would have resonated with all the major religions in South Africa, and even the so-called non-religious.

Tutu ironically, or rather in a rhetorical ingenious way, expresses his shock that P.W. Botha and the apartheid government could be guilty of the unthinkable, of not acting, but even worse, not knowing of these moral, universal and Christian values, when he states ‘that I believe you and your colleagues must be unaware of’. In short: how on earth could you not know about these matters?

This is transgressive rhetoric – the grammar of the gladiator – at its best.

Facing the other in our search for liberation in South Africa was, and still is, of paramount importance, but even here we should not underestimate the role that power played, and still can play. Inter-facing can easily become a power play – an inter-facing with masks on, the masks of furthering one’s own agendas and guarding vested interests. One may face the other without in fact revealing one’s true face. In contrast to this (Cilliers 2010):

It is exactly in this regard that Ubuntu comes to our aid: as a cultural philosophy, it affirms unity and at the same time values and endorses diversity. Louw (2002) puts it poignantly:

In order to achieve the consensus of Ubuntu, you therefore need dialogue and mutual exposure, a genuine reciprocity in which you encounter the difference of the other’s humanness so as to inform and enrich your own. This reciprocal space is formed through a respect for the particularity, individuality and historicity of the other (Louw 2002:13f.).

Or, to put it in other words, inter-forming is all about the quality of the ‘we’. In this sense, the basis of (shared) Christianity that Tutu employed above is strengthened through his particular usage of ‘we’ – in which he guards over the dignity of all the role-players that constitute this ‘we’.

Seen against this background of a reciprocal ‘we’, the prophetical-political preaching of Archbishop Desmond Tutu has been described as being inherently dialogical, as opposed to authoritarian communication. His hallmark has indeed been herrschaftsfreie Kommunikation, a form of communication that operates from the basis of love and compassion as opposed to being judgmental to listeners – even love towards the ‘enemy’, the oppressor (Pieterse & Wester 1995:57ff.). In the letter to P.W. Botha, quoted above, this tension is palpable: on the one hand, Tutu expresses anger and indignation; on the other hand, he does not denigrate the humanity or dignity of what could be called his ‘enemies’. He even promises to pray for them, given the fact that ‘we’ share not only certain Christian beliefs, but also this beautiful land called South Africa.

This passion for a true ‘we’ can be heard throughout the ministry, sermons and writings of Desmond Tutu. In a remarkable sermon on Psalm 77, preached a week before the first general elections in 1994 in South Africa, Tutu (1994), for instance, declared:

Throughout the sermon, one hears this rhetoric of inclusive language, of ‘we’, of ‘black and white together’. As in the following (Tutu 1994):

Indeed:

Of course, Tutu knew that this form of rhetorical border-crossing and facing the other within the South African context in which he preached could be a risky, even outright dangerous affair. This type of rhetoric can only be believable when we leave our comfort zones and barbed-wired security enclaves, and, in the spirit of kenosis, encounter the victimised and dehumanised other not only to transform their plight, but also to be transformed ourselves.

Tutu knew from our South African experience that ‘meaning’ could only be found in relationships, specifically also relationships with the seemingly ‘meaningless’ members of society, the victimised and ostracised – those being treated as less than human. ‘Meaning’ lies in giving up and giving away, in the enrichment of forming and being formed, in inter-facing that implies inter-forming.

In accordance with the Ubuntu epistemology that underlines the contingency of meaning, however, every achieved ‘state of inter-formation’ needs to be critiqued ideologically, repeatedly. This we have learnt the hard way (Cilliers 2006):

In any endeavour to practise an Ubuntu homiletics, the hermeneutics of inter-flow continuously calls for an openness towards communal interpretation of biblical message(s), in contrast to sermons that offer a single perspective as if it was eternal and unassailable. In this way, inter alia, preaching in post-apartheid South Africa is called upon to demythologise whatever new, destructive myths may appear on the scene. This will have to be an ongoing process, a perpetual practice of a hermeneutics of inter-flow, in which supposed fixed beliefs and notions on all sides of the South African spectrum can be scrutinised and held up to the light.

The biblical text obviously has an important role to play in this scrutiny, but not only in the hands, and through the perspectives, of a select few or an exclusive clan. The ecumenical church, in the broadest sense of the word, also has an important role to play in this regard. In 1994, the birth year of our democracy, I wrote the following about ecumenical hermeneutics (Cilliers 2006):

This seems to me to be truer today than ever before.

For Desmond Tutu, the call towards inter-facing and consequently inter-forming has always been of paramount importance, as indicated above. But the call does not stop here. There is also the need to take the shared values, in particular those that were mutually formed through inter-facing and inter-forming further, in view of a shared vision for the future. The role of inter-futuring in fact permeates the rhetoric of Tutu.

‘Futuring’ is of course a very broad term, but is often used to indicate the shared efforts at exploring the possible scenarios pertaining to the future. It could be described as the act, art or science of identifying and evaluating possible future events. For Tutu this meant to think beyond the inhumanity of apartheid, to imaginatively point towards a society where indeed ‘all of us, black and white together, belong in the family of God. We are brothers and sisters, we are one’ (Tutu 1994:261–263).

In a remarkable sermon, preached by Desmond Tutu at the funeral of Steve Biko, his preaching becomes a type of prolepsis of God’s promises, a celebration that God is faithful in keeping these promises (Tutu 1983):

Again, with the rhetorical repetition of ‘Black and White together’, expressed in a time where the exact opposite was the order of the day, Tutu crosses boundaries and faces others, but in such a manner that he takes his listeners forward, towards the future – a future that has already broken into the present as novum: black and white together ‘have already overcome’. This, in my opinion, is inter-futuring, par excellence.

Even in the anger of indignation, as also expressed in the letter to P.W. Botha, we already hear:

‘We want justice, peace, and reconciliation in our land’ (Tutu 2011:143–146).

Or, in the sermon preached a week before the first general elections in 1994 in South Africa, referred to above (Tutu 1994):

This is a message of liberation by God, which opens up new, often surprising alternatives to the status quo, and so creates hope (Pieterse & Wester 1995:69–70).

But for Tutu, not only facing one another from across our divides, but also facing a child is the only way in which we can inter-face our future. For him, the future of South Africa has always been linked to this form of inter-facing, that is, to our faces, and in particular to our children’s faces. It is no wonder that Tutu often links the future to children. ‘When we see the face of a child’, he says ‘we think of the future. We think of their dreams about what they might become, and what they might accomplish’ (Tutu n.d., viewed 08 February 2021, from https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/desmond_tutu_454157). For him, the future is tomorrow’s child – to borrow a phrase from Rubem Alves. For him, as for Alves, to hope is to hear the melody of this future. Faith is to dance it (Alves 1972:195).

In a playful manner, children imagine and anticipate an alternative world. To be a child is to play. Through their play, children call for new paradigms, and surprising re-configurations – without them knowing it. Through their play, they breathe new life into archaic forms; lifting and shifting that which seems immobilised and immoveable. Exactly for this reason, the dimension of inter-forming is also a gift, given by children. In children, so Tutu argues, the masks and pre-set agendas fall away: ‘Children are a wonderful gift. They have an extraordinary capacity to see into the heart of things and to expose sham and humbug for what they are’ (Tutu n.d., viewed 28 March 2021, from https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/desmond_tutu_403397).

In short, children inter-face in such a manner that they inter-form not only one another but also the future. They are specialists in inter-futuring.