Listen, but Remember to Speak Up
Why Christians must balance empathy with testimony in conversations with non-believers
There's a peculiar practice that has settled over American Christianity in recent decades—a well-intentioned but ultimately self-defeating impulse to retreat into a perpetual listening mode when engaging with the broader culture. In coffee shops and faculty lounges, at dinner parties and community meetings, I've watched thoughtful Christians bite their tongues, nod sympathetically, and offer only the safest of platitudes when conversations turn to matters of ultimate meaning. Somewhere along the way, many have confused attentiveness with silence, as if the highest form of faithfulness were merely nodding along, hoping that presence alone communicates the gospel.
Listening is essential, but it is not sufficient. Christianity is not simply a therapeutic presence—it is a truth claim. It speaks to the deepest questions of existence: Who are we? What’s gone wrong? Is there hope? The biblical narrative insists that God has entered history in Jesus Christ and has decisively altered reality. To withhold that conviction is not humility; in fact, at it’s best it’s a quiet retreat, and at worst it’s sin.
This is especially dangerous in a cultural moment where everyone is encouraged to “live their truth” but discouraged from suggesting that truth might extend beyond the self. Christians who only listen risk confirming the suspicion that faith is nothing more than a lifestyle accessory, not a life-altering revelation, and conforming to a behavior that withholds the gospel.
Into this vacuum, Christians bring something genuinely counter-cultural: the radical proposition that human beings are made for relationship with the divine, that our deepest longings point beyond themselves, that suffering can be redemptive, that forgiveness is possible, that love is stronger than death. These aren't merely personal opinions but truth claims about the nature of reality itself.
David Foster Wallace once remarked that “everybody worships.” The only question is what. Non-believers, no less than believers, are forming their lives around visions of the good, the true, and the beautiful. When Christians listen without speaking, they leave these visions unchallenged and unilluminated by the hope of the gospel.
Yet too often, we treat these insights like family heirlooms—precious but private, to be admired in the safety of our own homes but never displayed where they might sparkle in the public light. We've forgotten that love of neighbor sometimes requires the courage to disagree with neighbor, that genuine respect for others includes the assumption that they can handle our deepest convictions without falling apart.
Scripture itself pushes against this reticence in multiple ways. In 1 Peter 3:15, believers are instructed to "always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect." Notice the balance here: there's an expectation of articulate explanation coupled with a manner of humble engagement. The text assumes that Christians will be asked about their hope—presumably because they're living in ways that provoke curiosity—and that they should be ready with more than a shrug and a smile.
This passage suggests that faithful witness involves intellectual preparation, not just emotional availability. It implies that our neighbors deserve more from us than passive listening; they deserve access to the reasons behind our joy, our peace, our strange capacity to forgive. The gentleness and respect mentioned here aren't about avoiding substantive claims but about making such claims in ways that honor the dignity of those who hear them.
Similarly, in Acts 17:16-34, we find Paul in Athens—perhaps the most intellectually sophisticated city of the ancient world outside of Alexandria—engaging directly with philosophers and religious thinkers. Luke tells us that Paul's "spirit was provoked within him as he saw that the city was full of idols." But rather than retreating into silent prayer or limiting himself to charitable deeds, Paul enters the public square and begins reasoning with anyone who would listen.
When brought before the Areopagus, Paul doesn't simply share his personal testimony and ask what others think. Instead, he offers a systematic argument about the nature of God, human purpose, and divine judgment. He quotes their own poets, engages their philosophical categories, and builds bridges to their existing understanding—but he doesn't stop there. He calls them to repentance and proclaims the resurrection of Jesus. Some mocked, others wanted to hear more, and some believed. But Paul gave them something substantial to respond to.
This passage reveals a crucial principle: respectful engagement doesn't require ideological neutrality. Paul shows genuine interest in Athenian culture and thought, but he doesn't treat all religious and philosophical positions as equally valid. He listens carefully enough to quote their own sources back to them, but he also makes clear truth claims that challenge their fundamental assumptions about reality.
Perhaps most challenging of all is Jesus's commission in Matthew 28:18-20: "All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you." This isn't a suggestion for the particularly bold or a special calling for professional clergy. It's a universal mandate for all followers of Jesus.
The Great Commission assumes that Christians have something specific and essential to share with the world—not just a posture of listening or a commitment to social justice, but actual content that needs to be communicated and embraced. The verb "teaching" implies more than modeling; it requires articulation, explanation, and patient instruction in ways of thinking and living that may be foreign to those who hear. This doesn't mean Christians should become obnoxious proselytizers or abandon the art of genuine conversation. But it does suggest that faithful witness requires more than therapeutic presence. It demands the courage to make truth claims, to offer reasons, to invite others into a way of seeing and living that may challenge their current assumptions.
Speaking up does not mean shouting down. It means articulating one’s convictions with clarity and gentleness, offering a counter-narrative that honors the listener while still testifying to the possibility of new life in Christ. Real dialogue is not a one-way confessional booth where Christians sit silently while culture unpacks its doubts. It is a mutual exchange in which both parties risk vulnerability.
The path forward is the harder but richer way: to listen deeply, then to speak faithfully. Because in the end, silence may feel polite, but it can never be redemptive.