I spend most of my day listening. It is something so simple and yet so difficult. It takes enormous energy to listen attentively, paying attention to what is spoken, what is left unspoken, what one’s body language is conveying where the silence falls. It takes restraint to stop oneself from interjecting one’s own ideas when they aren’t solicited. But this simple act is powerful when it comes to caring for others. Not a day goes by that a person doesn’t mention the significance of simply being heard—not being fixed or corrected, but heard. Every day I am increasingly more convinced that listening is at the center of the Christian life. But it is not without its costs. One must be prepared when beginning to hear others’ stories. Suddenly issues become people with families, hopes, and heartache. Suddenly our cathedral of theological constructs looks more like a house built on the sand. More often than not, when I take the time to truly listen, my theology is dismantled, piece by piece, for our God cannot be contained by walls of eloquent words. The sacred practice of listening becomes a distillery of faith. I have found that I believe more and more in less and less. Love the Lord your God and love your neighbor as yourself. I wonder how many severed relationships, church splits, or cultural division would be restored with this one powerful practice.

Imagine what it would be like if someone came to the leaders with a complaint, and the first words of response were, “Can you say more about that? I want to understand where you are coming from. I have time.” Imagine if someone acted out sinfully and the first step was to say, “Tell me your story.” What if, when someone cried out that an act or practice is ________-ist (race, sex, sexual orientation, conservative, liberal, etc.), the first response was not defensiveness or judgement but, “Help me see this from your perspective. I want to understand.”

As a white, educated person of privilege, I do my best to pay attention to the places where I am defensive. This is often a sign, I feel vulnerable and afraid. I try to resist the urge to circle the wagons and form a hedge of protection. Rather, I am trying to be open, acknowledge my vulnerability and fear, and hear myself if you will. When I practice hearing myself without judgement or defensiveness, I am more apt to be able to hear others. When I can acknowledge my own vulnerability, sin, limitation, conviction, I am more likely to patiently and generously listen to others.

This may initially sound like a convictionless approach to relating with others. Some may even find it to be disingenuous to their beliefs. May I offer you another perspective? What if this act of listening comes from a place of humility? What if we removed the pressure to convert the other to our preconceived ideas of morality or faithfulness and chose to love them for who they are instead of who we want them to be? The same could be true in the reverse. What if we offered ourselves honestly and were loved for who are rather than who others think we should be? My experience tells me that when I listen long enough, others invite me to speak into their lives where it is appropriate. And I when I feel heard, understood, and loved, I am more receptive to others’ input.

This takes a great deal of practice, restraint, and trust. It requires me to trust God to be at work in another’s life. It requires me to relinquish my hubris of believing that I have a deeper insight into God’s work in another’s life than they do. It also provides space for the other to practice listening and looking for God to be at work in their life. I’ve picked up an old favorite of mine, The Journey is Home by Nelle Morton. She writes of the significance of “hearing one to speech.” She writes of God’s central act of hearing the people of God. She invites us to imagine a style of preaching that “was not to deliver the Word but to place [one’s] ear close to the pulse of the people, [that] a new kind of pentecost would be possible.” Come, Holy Spirit. Come.