He was oppressed, and he was afflicted,
yet he opened not his mouth;
like a lamb that is led to the slaughter,
and like a sheep that before its shearers is silent,
so he opened not his mouth.
– Isaiah 53:7
Now Jesus stood before the governor, and the governor asked him, “Are you the King of the Jews?” Jesus said, “You have said so.” But when he was accused by the chief priests and elders, he gave no answer. Then Pilate said to him, “Do you not hear how many things they testify against you?” But he gave him no answer, not even to a single charge, so that the governor was greatly amazed.
– Matthew 27:11-14
There are so many techniques that can help us listen better. Just for fun, let’s start with the hardest one out of all of them: silence.
I’m talking about a particular kind of silence in a specific context. Silence in general–just the act of keeping your mouth shut–is definitely a helpful listening aid. But it’s not the hardest. The specific kind of silence we’re talking about here is: silence before an accuser. It’s the silence of Jesus on trial, the lamb led to the slaughter who did not open his mouth.
Sometime around my son’s second birthday, I started to notice a subtle change in the way he cried. Before then, his wails and screams had been pure distress. He would bawl his little baby heart out, let loose with all he had, because his world felt like it was ending, and there was nothing to do but cry.
After the change, he would cry just as loudly as ever, but there was a shift in attitude. A new message was being communicated. Little baby had been crying: “I’m so very unhappy!!!!” New terrible toddler was crying: “Look, Mommy, I’m sad, why aren’t you making me feel better????”
Ok, maybe it’s been my imagination all this time. But I swear to you, the little kid learned how to accuse me with his cries. It was all tone of voice and facial expression. He didn’t need to say a single word, but the message came across loud and clear: “I’m upset, and this is your fault!!”
It’s amazing how being accused has such an instant effect. With little baby cried, I felt so much compassion for what he was going through. He was just a small human expressing his pain! And it was so easy (sometimes) to be the kind, patient mom who would “shhh” and cuddle and hold until the distress was pacified.
After the shift to terrible toddler accusations, the first hint of a cry would drive me off the wall. I would feel my heart harden, my mouth turn down, my tone of voice grow harsh. Even when I tried to gentle myself and approach with the same compassion that came so easily earlier, I couldn’t help but react viscerally in anger, because I was being accused! My kid was calling me a bad mom!
There’s just something about being accused. It shuts down all listening processes. It puts me into defense mode, shields up, claws out, here, let me give you all these reasons why your accusations are the farthest thing from the truth.
What’s going on here? Why do accusations bother us so much? Let’s look at some examples of everyday accusations:
“There are dishes in the sink.”
“We started fifteen minutes ago.”
“You have a B- in French this grading period.”
What would your response be to hearing these statements? I’ll tell you mine:
“Yeah. And?”
“I’m really sorry, I got stuck in traffic.”
“It was so unfair! The teacher made our very first test so hard that the highest grade in the class was a D-.”
Three different examples of how we often respond to accusations.
1. Go on the offensive: Someone is accusing me, so I’ll accuse them right back. “There are dishes in the sink.” That’s what’s said. I hear: “Why haven’t you done the dishes yet?” So I respond with: “Who says it’s my job to do the dishes? Do them yourself!”
2. Apologize, and give a reason to explain the behavior. “We started fifteen minutes ago.” I hear: “You’re late. You’d better have a good reason.” So I explain. “I wasn’t being lazy. I wasn’t being inconsiderate. I wasn’t doing it on purpose. Look, I have a legitimate reason for being late that everyone can empathize with.”
3. Blame a third party. Or a flaw in the system. Anything to shift responsibility off of me alone. “You have a B-in French.” I hear: “You’re failing. You must have done something wrong.” In this example, especially, (which really happened to me in 6th grade) it’s almost impossible to imagine NOT trying to answer this accusation. Because it really wasn’t my fault! Because I did everything right! I got the second highest grade in the class on that test! It was the teacher’s first year, and she had no idea how to calibrate her tests to a beginner’s level. I felt so strongly about it at the time that I still remember these details, 19 years later: the injustice of getting in trouble when I did everything right is so overwhelming that it felt impossible to stay silent.
And yet that’s exactly what Jesus did.
He stood before the Jewish council, before Pilate, before the crowds in Jerusalem. He let them throw false accusations at him all night long. And he didn’t say a word to defend himself.
Why?? What does he gain by staying silent? Why would he do it then, and what possible motivation could I have for trying to imitate him now?
I don’t exactly know why Jesus stayed silent then, but I can tell you for right now: imitating him will drastically improve our relationships with people. Let me explain.
We’re bad communicators, guys. We all are. We feel one thing and say another. We don’t want the real worry on the inside to come out on the outside. And so we put up all these blinds. So many, in fact, that we’re usually not aware we’re doing it at all.
Take my examples of everyday accusations. Each person saying those things was expressing something they felt. But the thing they felt was not at all the thing that I heard.
“There are dishes in the sink.” I heard: “Why didn’t you do the dishes already?” But they felt: “I just got home from a long day, but I feel like I can’t relax, because I see something that needs to be done.”
“We started fifteen minutes ago.” I heard: “You’re late. You’d better have a good reason.” But they felt: “People don’t care about this project enough to get here on time. I feel alone.”
“You got a B- in French this grading period.” I heard: “You’re failing. You must have done something wrong.” But they felt: “My daughter has so much potential. If she doesn’t live up to it, then I feel like I’m failing her as a parent.”
These are hypothetical translations, but you get the idea: what we say at first is usually very different from what’s underneath.
Now, a normal conversation will often help get at the truth. For instance:
“There are dishes in the sink.”
“Honey, is that really the first thing you have to say to me when you get home?”
“Sorry. I just had a long day, but I feel like I can’t relax, because I see something that needs to be done.”
“Well, don’t worry. I’ll do them later, so you go relax.”
That’s how things often go. Communication isn’t a once-off. You don’t have to get it right the first time, because you can keep trying to get at the underneath, keep asking, keep expressing.
But, self-justification shuts the process down.
“There are dishes in the sink.”
“Yeah. And? What’s your point?”
“Nothing.”
“Ok, fine.”
Hence the need for silence. It’s not a permanent silence. We don’t have to take vows. But it’s a breath. It’s a moment of recalibration. It’s sidestepping the accusation, and looking for the feeling underneath.
“There are dishes in the sink.”
*Silence.* I feel accused. It’s not only my job to do the dishes. And he knows that. So there must be some reason why he’s saying this right now.
“Honey, is that really the first thing you have to say to me when you get home?”
Silence in the face of accusation. When Jesus was finally nailed to the cross, he said, “Forgive them, Father, for they do not know what they are doing.” I think he was able to say this about his accusers and executors because: he had spent all night silently listening to them. Not to the accusations–but to the real people with real fears and worries underneath.
The Lowest Place 