A few days ago, I received a phone call that went roughly like this:
CALLER: “Hey, Buddy?”
ME: “I’m sorry; you have the wrong number.”
CALLER: “Is this Tyco?”
ME: “No. You have the wrong number.”
CALLER: “Is this [blah-blah]-8591?”
ME: “No; it’s 8571.”
CALLER [annoyed]: “Are you sure?!”
Playing back this 20-second anecdote in my head, this is an encounter with someone who was wrong, was informed he was wrong, who persisted in his wrongness, and then — when presented with evidence of his wrongness — became angry with the messenger.
Does that sound familiar?
Today’s Gospel selection from John is another example of Jesus in that scenario, where he tries to teach his audience that they are slaves to sin. They rebuff this insight and argue against Jesus’ insight into the Father: “Our father is Abraham.” Jesus replies, “If you were Abraham’s children, you would be doing the works of Abraham. But now you are trying to kill me, a man who has told you the truth that I heard from God; Abraham did not do this. You are doing the works of your father!”
In fact, twice in today’s Gospel does Jesus note “you are trying to kill me” . . . and, as the Lenten season draws to a close, we know how that ends. (Or, more correctly, we know the beginning of the ending of that story.)
Now, I’m not suggesting that my brief encounter with a stranger on a phone is in any way comparable in magnitude to the trials faced by our Lord and Savior. But, rather, I note that this unwillingness to listen illustrates a facet of humanity that’s been present from . . . well, not Day One, but certainly sometime shortly after Day Seven. Ignoring God’s unquestionably true insight, Adam and Eve chose to close their minds and open their mouths, and the penalty they paid is one that’s a burden to us all.
For years, I struggled while talking, desperate to fill the silence with any kind of noise, even if that meant a lot of “um”s or “er”s. “Um, I was wondering, er, if you could, um, that is . . .” It was a really annoying. And one day I had an epiphany: I didn’t need to talk. At least, not all the time. I can take a moment of quiet to formulate what I’m going to say, and then say it. If I’m in the middle of a sentence and I realize I need to clarify or add a salient point, I can pause. Silence isn’t deadly. In an absolute worst-case scenario, my speaking voice has these long pauses that make me sound like William Shatner — an actor who’s more successful than I’ll ever be.
As I grew older, I realized much of what I “had” to say didn’t really need to be said at all . . . or, at least, not at the moment I conceived of it. It’s okay to be quiet . . . to — dare I say it? — listen.
You’ve probably heard the adage that God gave us two ears and one mouth because we should be listening twice as much as we talk. But think about other aspects of listening. Our sense of hearing is one of the few that continues to absorb and process information even when we’re asleep. (See 1 Samuel for an amusing take on how God uses this fact to touch us: “Speak, LORD, for your servant is listening.”)
Even before they’re born, babies can hear while in the womb. (I remember startling our son by talking to him in utero.) After they’re born, babies spend way more time listening than making noise.
During the Mass of the Sacrament of Marriage, the betrothed couple says far fewer words than the priest . . . hopefully setting the standards of listening for a successful marriage.
The Lenten season is a time of enforced quietude. We’re supposed to clear our lives of distractions, and even our Mass celebrations have musical instruments pared back.
Listening is not the absence of talking. It is an action unto itself . . . one that arguably takes more skill and courage than speaking.
Today, I recommend recalling a time when listening really made a difference in your life. Maybe you truly listened to the anguish of a friend, offering insight that wouldn’t be possible if you immediately jumped to your platitudes. Or maybe someone listened to you, taking the time to truly understand your troubles or your joys.
Then, at least once a day for the rest of Lent, I recommend really recognizing the power of listening. Ask a loved one how they’re doing, and really listen. If there’s something important you’ve been putting off telling someone who needs to hear it, humbly ask them to listen to you.
In your prayer life, make sure to include a period where you’re just open and calm with the Lord, listening for the Spirit’s insight or reflection in your life (or if you already have such a period, consider lengthening it). Perhaps listen to your own prayers with fresh ears; are you asking for that which is godly, or that which is comfortable or earthly? Reflect on how many miracles of Christ began with him listening. Reflect on how the act of listening can provide you with a chance to get closer to Heaven.
If you have eucharistic adoration opportunities in your parish, consider availing yourself of them. The silence of the presence of Christ can be awe-inspiring. Also consider the Sacrament of Reconciliation, which is beautiful with a priest who truly listens and cares.
By listening, you may hear things you don’t want to, like those who distrusted God when He spoke in front of them; also like them, your inclination may be to discount, disbelieve, or shut down the conversation. Be careful with that impulse. Understand that listening doesn’t mean agreement or acquiescence; you don’t need to agree with (say) a family member who belittles your faith. But by listening to them, you might get to the root of their fears or concerns (“I think you think you’re better than me” or “I fear you’re judging me”), which may be incorrect and correctable.
The time of Lent is almost over. Soon, the joyous din of Easter will fill the air, and — for many — our Lenten season will be discarded and soon forgotten.
But it’s not too late. We’re still in the quiet time. Don’t let this moment pass.
Listen.
Today’s readings: Dn 3:14-20,91-92,95; Dn 3:52-56; Jn 8:31-42
