Greetings, readers. Buttersworth here.
Your good doctor has once again ventured beyond the comfortable confines of biblical conjunction scholarship and into the hazardous territory of classic rock.
This week’s research concerns Simon & Garfunkel’s The Sound of Silence, written by Paul Simon in the 1960s. You are probably familiar with the song even if you haven’t deliberately listened to it in years. It is a haunting reflection on isolation, communication and our remarkable human ability to make considerable noise without necessarily connecting with one another.
Apparently, this was a problem in 1964.
I have checked. It remains unresolved.
Humanity has, in fact, made extraordinary technological advances since Mr. Simon first raised the concern. We now have cable news, talk radio, podcasts, Facebook, X, comment sections and handheld devices allowing us to disagree instantly with people we have never met.
Our capacity for talking has never been greater.
Listening however appears to remain in beta testing.
Naturally, I was drawn to the song for professional reasons. There is a but in it. And as longtime readers know, once your doctor discovers a but, proper scholarship demands investigation.
Simon paints a picture of thousands of people gathered together yet somehow profoundly disconnected. They are talking without really communicating and hearing without really listening. Finally, the narrator can stand it no longer. He calls them fools. He wants them to hear him. He has something important to teach them.
“But my words like silent raindrops fell.”
There is an irony there worth noticing.
The man surrounded by people who aren’t listening desperately wants them to stop what they’re doing and listen—to him.
<< I shall allow a moment here for certain portions of the Internet to recover. >>
Perhaps having something important to say and having someone’s ear are not necessarily the same thing.
Years ago, I heard a rabbi say something I have never forgotten: “The correct spelling of the word love is L-I-S-T-E-N.”
Your doctor has checked several reputable dictionaries. This is technically incorrect. It may nevertheless be among the finest definitions of love I have encountered.
Scripture certainly seems sympathetic to the idea. Proverbs warns repeatedly about careless words, including last week’s Proverbial But O’ the Week: “A fool’s talk brings a rod to his back, but the lips of the wise protect them.” Elsewhere Proverbs offers an observation particularly suited to our discussion: “To answer before listening—that is folly and shame.” James puts the matter even more plainly: we should be “quick to listen, slow to speak.”
Quick to listen. Slow to speak. This order appears intentional.
We Christians rightly believe we have something worth saying. The gospel is good news. We want people to know the love of God revealed in Jesus Christ. But I sometimes wonder whether our eagerness to speak has gotten ahead of our willingness to listen.
And then there is Jesus. Jesus never seemed frightened that listening to someone might somehow compromise the truth.
He could sit beside a well and have a conversation with a Samaritan woman whose life and beliefs differed considerably from those of the religious establishment. He could invite Himself to Zacchaeus’s house before Zacchaeus had demonstrated anything resembling respectable behavior. When blind Bartimaeus cried out to Him, Jesus asked, “What do you want me to do for you?” The answer seemed obvious. Jesus asked anyway.
Again and again, Jesus saw people.
He approached them with compassion. He ate with them. He touched people others avoided. He asked questions. He heard their cries. He knew their stories. He extended grace and mercy to people who had grown accustomed to receiving judgment.
Perhaps there is something here for those of us who follow Him, particularly in a culture where nearly everyone seems to be shouting and remarkably few people feel heard.
We sometimes approach people as if our first responsibility is to correct them. Someone says something with which we disagree, and before they’ve finished the sentence, we’re preparing our response. We immediately begin assembling words. Maybe good words. Maybe true words.
But, as Paul Simon wrote, words can fall like silent raindrops when nobody believes we care enough to hear them first.
What might happen if, before telling our neighbor what we think, we asked what they think? And listened.
What if we became genuinely curious about the person across from us? What has shaped them? What have they experienced? Where have they been hurt? What do they fear? What do they hope for? What do they believe—and why?
Perhaps then, when the time comes for us to speak, our words might land somewhere other than the bottom of a well of silence.
Years ago, that rabbi gave me a spelling lesson I still haven’t forgotten. Love: L-I-S-T-E-N.
There will be a time to speak. Truth matters. Words matter. The gospel certainly matters.
But perhaps love listens first. Class dismissed.
Please comment!