Thin Air, High Hope

I have been hearing a line of thinking lately within certain Christian circles: that there are specific viewpoints we just can’t talk about anymore without people getting offended. Subjects that have become unapproachable without people getting angry or defensive. Some people call that strong disagreement; others go as far as to call it persecution. I think there may be some truth here, but I also think there are important questions that we might not be asking ourselves.

Because yes, there are topics that stir emotions immediately, that feel so raw and tender that even brushing up against them makes people react. I get that. I know I have those kinds of places within my own heart. It’s those things that are closest to my identity, or the ones I feel like I can’t quite fix, or the questions I haven’t settled for myself: those are the things that are hardest to hear unfiltered thoughts from  someone else.

So yes, these are deep waters. Hard waters. But what bothers me is how quickly we seem to write off those reactions with lines like, “They just don’t want to hear the truth,” or “That subject is off-limits because they’re clinging to something else.” It feels too dismissive.

If I’m honest, what I often see looks a little different: Christians charging into conversations with their truth, swinging it like a sword, and then being surprised when someone says, “That hurt,” or “You swung too hard.”, or even “You seem dangerous”. And I know, even saying that might sound like an attack in itself, and I don’t want it to. My heart is troubled in every direction right now. But I do think we have a higher responsibility when it comes to how we speak and act. That’s what we signed up for when we said Jesus would be Lord, that his standards would be our standards.

And the thing is, Jesus wasn’t reckless. He was intentional. He spent so much of his time not just talking, but doing. Healing. Walking. Sharing meals with people. Slipping away to pray. Even napping. We don’t know the conversations he had with his disciples in the quiet moments, but what we do know is this: the ones considered sinful and outcast, the ones who were told their very existence was a threat in that day, they were drawn to him. They weren’t drawn to the religious gatekeepers. That contrast makes me pause.

It makes me wonder if sometimes, when people resist what we’re saying, it’s not that they don’t want truth. Maybe it’s that we haven’t stopped to consider how we’re presenting it. I think of it like food. If I cook meal after meal and people keep pushing their plates away, do I blame their taste buds? Or do I stop and take a bite myself, double-check the recipe, see if I missed an ingredient? Of course, sometimes people just won’t like what I serve. But I would hope that’s the last conclusion I’d jump to, not the first.

And no, I’m not saying we change the essence of the food, swapping out steak for chicken. Truth is still truth. But if people spit it out, maybe it’s worth asking if I made it bitter by accident. If I forgot the seasoning. If I served it cold.

And this is where the story of the woman caught in adultery comes to mind. People often point to it as proof that Christians should always speak the hard truth, because Jesus does say, “Go and sin no more.” But what I notice is how much happens before those words are ever spoken.

She’s dragged out, maybe with hardly anything to cover herself, standing there at the absolute height of shame. Jesus doesn’t start by naming her sin. He bends down and writes in the dirt, pulling the crowd’s eyes away from her exposed body. Then he turns the spotlight on her accusers, making each of them face their own hearts before they can keep looking at hers. One by one, the stones drop, and the crowd disappears.

And only then, when she’s no longer a public spectacle, does he look at her directly. He asks her a question that gives her back her voice: “Has no one condemned you?” And when she says no, he restores her dignity first with, “Neither do I condemn you.” The truth, “Go and sin no more”, comes only after she has been protected, shielded, and seen.

So yes, truth is spoken. But it’s wrapped in protection. It’s framed by grace. It’s carried in the restoration of her dignity. And that makes me wonder: if I rush in swinging with truth first, am I really following Jesus’ way or am I skipping over all the love he layered in before the words were said?

I hear people say, “It’s about the message, not the messenger.” And yes, there’s some truth there. Prophets in the Bible gave hard messages that weren’t received. But if my heart says, “It doesn’t matter how I say this, only whether they accept it,” then maybe I’ve never really had the other person’s heart in mind. Maybe it was always about my intent, not their good.

So I don’t know. I don’t have a tidy conclusion. I just keep circling these questions. If Jesus is my model, then truth and love can’t be separated. And if that’s the case, then maybe love means not just insisting the words be spoken, but also caring deeply about how they’re spoken, how they land, and whether they draw people closer or push them further away.

If you’d like to read a little more around this topic, here is an interesting article by Tim Keller. https://gospelinlife.com/article/how-should-christians-speak-in-public/