Can we hear the truth from anyone, or does it require mutual trust and other factors?
When Pontius Pilate asked Jesus “what is truth?” Jesus remained silent. Why did not Jesus speak truth to the greatest power of his day?
My father was an intelligent man, filled with experiential wisdom and personal insight. It was hard accepting some of his truth, because of my often rebellious, even passive/aggressive nature. Yet he was my father, and our relationship was not fully based upon mutual respect, but typical parent/ child power dynamics.
When I entered a recovery house called the Alano Club in 1987, I often went to the sharing rooms where the people with the best insight and stories around recovery hung out. One of the wiser men, whose name was Tom, would always wait to speak until almost everybody in the room had spoken, and he would subtly, and not so subtly, challenge or embellish all previous monologues around substance abuse and spiritual recovery issues. One day I courageously spoke out about my point of view, and Tom eventually spoke to my point if view and deftly skewered it, humiliating me, I challenged him about it at the end of the meeting, and he commented to me that I may not be recovered enough to appreciate the general feedback that Tom always offered. I discontinued my attendance at those meetings, and found more welcoming meetings in other locations.
I often write about important issues regarding spirituality, healing, toxic masculinity, toxic capitalism, toxic religion, and toxic politics. Even after 8 years of writing, I still get almost no feedback from readers about these most important issues, I believe that the reader treats my writing like I did to my father, and like I did to Tom.
Perhaps I need to be more like Jesus, and be silent in the face of the troubling issues of the day.
Yet I must speak truth to power, for that is how the truth motivates me.
Truth and Silence: A Dance of Power, Trust, and the Human Heart
Can the truth truly be heard without the foundation of trust? Does the vibration of truth exist in isolation, or is it a mutual current flowing between two entities capable of receiving and transmitting it? Perhaps truth is not just spoken but shared, requiring a bridge of mutual faith and openness to cross its depths.
When Pontius Pilate faced Jesus and asked, “What is truth?” the silence reverberated louder than words. Was this silence a denial of Pilate’s question, or was it the ultimate expression of what truth demands? Pilate stood as a vessel of earthly power, symbolic of domination and authority, conditioned to hear only what served him or provided a political advantage. Jesus, on the other hand, carried what we might call an eternal power, one that transcends the temporal world. Was his silence a recognition of the futility of delivering pearls of truth to a consciousness unprepared to receive them? Or perhaps it was truth itself, in distilled form, conveying that no answer could encapsulate the infinite.
The interplay between truth and silence also reveals itself in more relatable dynamics, such as family relationships. My father, a man of wisdom forged through experience, often shared truths that cut through the fabric of my young, rebellious ego. Yet, I resisted. Not because his truths lacked merit, but because, like many children, I lived under a power structure that inherently complicated trust. The parent-child relationship, while rooted in care and often love, is rarely built on mutual respect in its societal archetype. Instead, it often reflects dynamics of authority and subordination. How, then, can truth thrive under such conditions if both giver and receiver are navigating unseen barriers of pride, rebellion, and misunderstanding?
The echoes of this dynamic followed me into the circle of recovery in 1987. At the Alano Club, I encountered Tom, a man with sharp wit and deep insight, whose truths, though often profound, felt more like arrows than invitations. His words humbled me, publicly dismantling my arguments and beliefs. Was it possible that Tom wielded truth as a weapon rather than a healing salve? Or was my ability to receive the truth clouded by my own insecurities and fragile recovery? Either way, the bridge between us crumbled, and I found myself retreating to spaces where the approach felt gentler, more welcoming, although perhaps less challenging.
Reflecting on these moments, I see that truth often exists in a precarious dance with trust. Without trust, truth can feel invasive, even harmful, like an undesired visitor forcing their way into a private home. When spoken in isolation of empathy, truth risks becoming an act of power rather than liberation.
And yet, trust alone does not guarantee that the truth will be fully delivered or appreciated. Even in the most intimate or sacred connections, truth has the peculiar ability to destabilize. It reveals fissures in the walls we build around ourselves, demanding we see beyond our illusions. It’s no wonder, then, that silence sometimes feels like an easier choice. Silence respects boundaries. Silence doesn’t have to explain itself. Silence might even reflect the humility of knowing when truth will fall on deaf ears.
But silence, too, carries its risks. Jesus’s silence before Pilate may have carried divine purpose, but for us, silence in the face of falsehoods, injustices, and distortions of power can result in complicity. To speak truth to power requires courage, and yet it also demands timing, nuance, and, where possible, a listener willing to engage in its possibilities.
After eight years of writing about spirituality, healing, and the toxins embedded in our modern world, I continue to encounter silence from readers. It feels strikingly similar to my youthful response to my father and my resistance to Tom. Perhaps they, too, are not prepared to receive the truths I share. Perhaps my words land as unwelcome challenges rather than compassionate invitations.
But should I retreat into silence, as I did with Tom and his recovery circle? Should I echo Christ before Pilate and simply allow the world to interpret the void? I find myself haunted by this question. Is my silence a form of humility, or is it a withdrawal from the responsibility of bearing witness to truth?
The truth, as I understand it, is relational. It is not static or singular but dynamic and alive in the exchange between human hearts. Speaking truth is an act of profound faith—not only in the truth itself but in those to whom it is spoken. And so, I continue to speak. Not because I know it will be received but because truth is its own motivator, calling forth action from the depths of being.
To remain silent feels tempting in a world fraught with noise, distortion, and skepticism. But to speak the truth, even when it feels futile, honors something far greater than individual understanding. It honors the very nature of the spirit. For silence and truth are not enemies; they are partners, each holding sacred space for the other. The wisdom lies in knowing which to choose at any given moment and having the courage to act in alignment with that choice.
