Courageous Listening
Dear friends,
It’s probably an understatement to say that the past several weeks have been a difficult and heartbreaking time to live in the Twin Cities. We have watched neighbors dragged from their homes and workplaces; heard stories of children separated from their parents and of parents unable to leave their homes to get diapers or formula; and, once again, been forced to reckon with a violent killing close to home. And yet, in the midst of fear, anger, sadness, and pain, there have also been moments of care, connection, community, and courage—moments that have regularly brought tears to my eyes, warmed my heart, and reminded me why I am proud to call Minneapolis home.
As Cindy mentioned in her article last week, we have been in conversation about these themes—Preaching Courageously and Listening Courageously—for several months now. In our early discussions, it felt like a way to speak to the polarized moment in which we are living and to the important work so many of you are doing to bring messages of hope, justice, peace, and God’s love to the communities you serve. And for those of us who are not preachers (or not preaching regularly), we wondered what it means to receive these messages in a tense and often divided world. As Cindy so honestly named, however, so much more has happened in our midst. Over the past few days, I have found myself asking: What does it mean to listen courageously in a moment like this, when words themselves feel inadequate?
You will not be surprised to hear that, as a psychologist and yoga teacher, I believe courageous listening begins by listening to our bodies. Those of us who are deep feelers tend to take in everything around us (in therapy I will often use the image of a sponge). We watch, we listen, we pay attention because we care deeply—and at the same time, we are not endless reservoirs. Especially in moments like this, it is essential to notice our own warning signs and—here is the courageous part—to take seriously the need to tend to ourselves. That might mean calling or texting a trusted support, carving out time for a spiritual practice, getting to the gym, or finding some other way to “wring out” and re-regulate our nervous systems. The more attuned we are to ourselves, the greater our capacity to truly hold what others are sharing.
A second key component of courageous listening is the ability to sit with discomfort. I often hear pastors talk about receiving feedback that their sermons “aren’t uplifting enough.” That longing is understandable, yet our sacred texts, our history, and our current reality do not always lend themselves to simple or happy truths. We are called to wrestle with challenging and even troubling passages, with the injustices and harm we have inflicted on one another, and with the inequality and brokenness that persist in our world. As tempting as it may be to want everything wrapped up neatly with an optimistic bow, much is lost when we present a pretty package. It is in the struggle and the wrestling that we can discover deeper truths—about ourselves, about one another, and about how God is at work within and among us.
A third practice that supports courageous listening is hope—not as optimism or certainty, but as an ongoing, active stance. Many of us are hearing—from clients, parishioners, friends, and colleagues—a deep sense of pessimism about the future. Recent polls echo this reality, pointing to widespread concern about the economy, political division, and global crises such as climate change. In a New Year’s Day essay in The New York Times, psychologist David DeSteno suggests that this discouragement may be, in part, rooted in how we understand hope itself. When framed primarily as belief in our own agency and a clear path toward a goal, hope falters when goals feel unattainable. DeSteno invites us instead to view hope as a practice: doing good, sustaining effort, and resisting despair even without guaranteed outcomes.
In this spirit, this past Friday, I attended an interfaith prayer service hosted by Temple Israel in South Minneapolis, where faith leaders from Minnesota and around the country gathered to offer their presence and their prayers. In her message to those of us gathered, Bishop Mariann Budde, shared words from Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s eulogy for the four young girls killed in the 16th Street Baptist Church bombing:
Now I say to you in conclusion, life is hard, at times as hard as crucible steel. It has its bleak and difficult moments. Like the ever-flowing waters of the river, life has its moments of drought and its moments of flood. Like the ever-changing cycle of the seasons, life has the soothing warmth of its summers and the piercing chill of its winters. And if one will hold on, he will discover that God walks with him, and that God is able to lift you from the fatigue of despair to the buoyancy of hope, and transform dark and desolate valleys into sunlit paths of inner peace.
May we continue to listen—to our bodies, to one another, and to God—with courage, honesty, and hope.
