In our age of instant communication and endless platforms for self-expression, the Christian virtue of humility finds one of its most challenging—and most necessary—expressions in the simple act of conversation. James 1:19 offers us a striking counter-cultural mandate: "Let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger." In a world that celebrates quick comebacks and confident opinions, this ancient wisdom calls us to something far more difficult: the humility to truly listen.

Active listening is fundamentally an exercise in humility because it requires us to acknowledge a profound truth: we do not have the full picture. When we enter a conversation with genuine openness to another person's perspective, we admit that our understanding is incomplete, that we might learn something, that we could even be wrong. This stance directly opposes the pride that so easily creeps into our interactions, the pride that assumes we already know what the other person will say, what they really mean, or why they're mistaken.
 
The pitfall James warns us against—being quick to speak and quick to anger—reveals how naturally we gravitate toward a posture of self-defense rather than understanding. Assumptive listening is pride disguised as dialogue. We hear only enough to formulate our rebuttal, listening not to understand but to refute. Our minds race ahead, crafting responses while the other person is still speaking. We listen through the filter of our own certainties, hearing only what confirms or threatens our existing views.
 
True humility in conversation looks radically different. It means creating space within ourselves to receive another person's words—not as ammunition for debate, but as a window into their experience and understanding. It means resisting the urge to interrupt, to correct, to insert our own narrative before we've fully grasped theirs. It means asking clarifying questions not as rhetorical traps but as genuine attempts to bridge the gap between our perspective and theirs.
 
This kind of listening is costly. It requires us to set aside our agenda, to quiet our internal monologue, to resist the gratification of being heard in favor of the harder work of truly hearing. It demands that we acknowledge the limitations of our own understanding and remain open to having our minds changed. In short, it asks us to decrease so that another might increase—a profoundly Christ-like posture.
 
When we practice humble listening, something remarkable happens: our conversations become encounters rather than exchanges. We discover the image of God in perspectives different from our own. We create the conditions for mutual understanding, even when agreement remains elusive. We demonstrate the self-giving love that marks authentic Christian community.
 
The call to be "quick to hear, slow to speak" is not a call to passivity or the abandonment of truth. Rather, it's an invitation to pursue truth through the difficult path of humility—recognizing that understanding someone doesn't require agreeing with them, but it does require granting them the dignity of being truly heard. In a divided world desperately in need of healing, perhaps nothing is more revolutionary than Christians who genuinely listen, slow to speak and slower still to anger, embodying in their conversations the humility of the One who listened to publicans and sinners, who heard the cries of the marginalized, and who, even from the cross, listened to a thief's plea for mercy.

Justice, in the Christian tradition, extends far beyond courtroom verdicts and legal fairness. Thomas Aquinas described justice as "the perpetual and constant will to render to each one his right," a virtue that fundamentally recognizes the dignity and worth inherent in every person. This recognition transforms how we engage in disagreement, making our conversations not battlegrounds for ego but sacred spaces where truth and understanding can flourish.

Anatol Rapoport, though not writing explicitly from a Christian framework, articulated principles that embody this deeper justice. His rules for constructive criticism insist that before we critique another's position, we must first restate it so clearly and fairly that our opponent says, "You've understood me better than I understand myself." We must acknowledge points of agreement and name what we've learned from them. Only then may we offer critique.
 
These rules challenge a fundamental injustice we regularly commit: denying others the dignity of being fully understood before we critique them. When we rush to rebut, cherry-pick the weakest parts of an argument, or reduce complex positions to strawmen, we commit a form of intellectual theft. We rob people of their full humanity, treating them not as image-bearers of God worthy of careful attention, but as obstacles to overcome or opponents to defeat.
 
The first reflection question—"Do I give others the dignity of being fully understood before I critique them?"—strikes at the heart of conversational justice. To truly understand requires humility, patience, and a suspension of our defensive instincts. It means listening not to formulate our counterargument, but to genuinely grasp what another person thinks and why. This is the intellectual equivalent of "love your neighbor as yourself"—we extend to others the same careful hearing we desperately want for our own ideas.
 
The second question—"Can I name at least one good point or insight I've learned from someone I strongly disagree with?"—tests whether our disagreements serve truth or merely our pride. If we've never learned anything from our ideological opponents, we haven't been listening; we've been performing. Scripture tells us that iron sharpens iron, but that sharpening requires genuine contact. When we acknowledge truth wherever we find it, even in uncomfortable places, we practice both humility and justice, recognizing that wisdom isn't the monopoly of our tribe.
 
The final question distinguishes between two fundamentally different approaches to disagreement. Do we approach conversations as "opportunities for mutual discovery or as arenas to 'win'"? This distinction reveals our underlying theology of truth. If truth is something we possess and defend, conversations become competitions. But if truth is something we pursue together, even—perhaps especially—with those who see differently, then disagreement becomes collaboration. We become fellow seekers rather than opponents.
 
Justice in conversation, then, means granting others what is rightfully theirs: the presumption of good faith, the careful hearing of their full position, the acknowledgment of their insights, and the respect of genuine engagement. It transforms disagreement from a zero-sum game into a mutual ascent toward truth. This is not weakness but the costly strength of Christian love—meeting others not where we wish they were, but where they actually stand.

We've all been there. Someone makes a statement that strikes us as wrong, puzzling, or even offensive. Our first instinct is often to dismiss it, to argue against the weakest interpretation of their words, or to assume the worst about their intentions. But what if we approached these moments differently?

The Principle of Charity, a cornerstone of philosophical discourse, invites us to do something counterintuitive: when someone's words are unclear or seem problematic, we should interpret them in the most reasonable, coherent, and sincere way possible. Rather than asking "What's wrong with what they said?" we ask "What's the best, most rational version of what they could mean?"
 
This isn't about being naive or abandoning critical thinking. It's about extending the same grace to others that we hope they'll extend to us. After all, we've all misspoken, failed to articulate a thought clearly, or had our words taken out of context. The Principle of Charity recognizes our shared humanity—that good people sometimes express themselves imperfectly, and that understanding requires effort from both speaker and listener.
 
In our current climate of polarized discourse and quick reactions, this principle feels both ancient and urgently needed. Social media has conditioned us to respond instantly, often to the worst possible reading of someone's statement. We've become experts at finding fault and tearing down arguments rather than building understanding. The Principle of Charity offers a different path.
 
Consider how this might work in everyday life. When a colleague makes a suggestion that seems impractical, instead of immediately explaining why it won't work, we might ask: "What problem are they trying to solve? What insight might they have that I'm missing?" When a family member expresses a political view we disagree with, rather than attacking a strawman version of their position, we could seek to understand the values and experiences that shaped their perspective.
 
This doesn't mean accepting every argument or abandoning our own convictions. Rather, it means engaging with the strongest version of someone else's thinking before we critique it. It means assuming, until proven otherwise, that the person we're talking with is sincere, thoughtful, and trying their best to communicate something meaningful.
 
The benefits of this approach extend beyond individual conversations. When we consistently apply the Principle of Charity, we create spaces where people feel safe expressing half-formed ideas, asking difficult questions, and thinking out loud. We reduce the fear of being misunderstood or attacked, which so often keeps us from saying anything at all. We build trust, and trust is the foundation of every meaningful relationship and community.
 
Perhaps most importantly, practicing charitable interpretation changes us. It cultivates patience, humility, and intellectual generosity. It reminds us that truth-seeking is a collaborative endeavor, not a competitive sport.
 
This week, I invite you to experiment with the Principle of Charity. When you encounter a confusing or provocative statement—whether online, at work, or around the dinner table—pause. Take a breath. Then ask yourself: "What's the most reasonable version of what this person might mean?" You might be surprised by what you discover, both about others and about yourself.

Last week, Bishop Eckman named me as pastor of St. Benedict the Moor Parish. Previously, I served as parish administrator, a temporary appointment that, by its nature, focused more on maintaining stability than envisioning our shared future. Now, with the blessing of a six-year assignment, we can truly engage together in long-term planning and discernment for our parish family. I am deeply grateful for this opportunity to walk with you, and I look forward to cultivating together a community that discerns prayerfully, builds consensus, and learns from one another through authentic, face-to-face encounters.

In our world today, we are surrounded by two dominant models of decision-making. In the political arena, decisions are made by majority rule, winners and losers are declared, and the minority voice is often silenced once the votes are counted. In the business world, decisions flow from power structures, influenced by those who hold the greatest resources or authority. But as the Church, as the Body of Christ, gathered here in this parish, we are called to something radically different.
 
When we gather as a parish community to discern the future direction of our ministries, our outreach, and our shared life together, we do not come as competing factions seeking to win or dominate. We do not come as interest groups lobbying for our preferred outcomes. Instead, we come as brothers and sisters in Christ, seeking together to discover what God is calling us to do.
 
This is the heart of consensus-based decision-making rooted in spiritual discernment. As Pope Boniface VIII wisely taught, "What touches all ought to be considered by all." When our Pastoral and Finance Councils gather to discuss significant decisions, whether about pastoral initiatives, resource allocation, or future directions, they will engage in a prayerful process that honors every voice and seeks the movement of the Holy Spirit.
 
Consensus is not about everyone agreeing on every detail. Rather, it is about reaching a substantial commitment to move forward together, even when we each might have approached the question differently. It means that after prayer, dialogue, and reflection, we can each say: "I see the validity of this direction, and I can live with it and support it for the good of our parish family."
 
This process requires attitudes that are counter-cultural: openness rather than rigidity, honesty rather than political maneuvering, patience rather than the demand for quick decisions, and respect for truth in everyone rather than determination to dominate or win. It asks us to set aside our individual preferences and instead ask: What does God want for this parish? How does this serve the Gospel? Can we each publicly support this decision?
 
The beauty of this approach is that it builds genuine unity. When we take the time to listen deeply to one another, to pray together, and to seek God's will rather than "my" will, we grow closer as a community. The process itself becomes as important as the decision, because it strengthens the spiritual bonds among us.
 
This same spirit should infuse every aspect of our parish life. When we plan celebrations that are unique to our culture and heritage, our social gatherings, our community events, we should see them not merely as activities to organize efficiently, but as opportunities for evangelization, moments of grace, openings for connection, for welcoming the stranger, for sharing the joy of our faith. Every parish meal, every cultural event, every coffee and doughnut hour after Mass must become a threshold where someone might encounter Christ.
 
This is slow work. It requires trust, prayer, and commitment. But it reflects who we truly are: not a political party, not a corporation, but the living Body of Christ. In a world of division, competition, and power struggles, may our parish be a sign of hope. This community makes decisions not by counting votes or measuring influence, but by listening together for the voice of the Spirit and walking forward united in love.

As we continue our journey together as a parish family, we are called not only to gather in worship but also to accompany one another in faith. The quality of our relationships, whether in casual conversations at work, at home, or at school, or during parish committee meetings or ministry gatherings, directly reflects our witness to Christ's love.

During the synodal process, the U.S. bishops offered us a valuable gift: the RESPECT framework for Christian conversation. This simple acronym provides a roadmap for transforming how we communicate with one another, turning ordinary exchanges into opportunities for grace.
 
RESPECT stands for Responsibility, Empathy, Sensitivity, Pondering, Examining, Confidentiality, and Trust.
 
When we take Responsibility for our words and feelings without blaming others, we practice the humility Christ modeled for us. Instead of saying, "You always make me feel ignored," we might say, "I feel hurt when my ideas aren't acknowledged." This small shift honors both truth and charity.
 
Empathetic listening means truly hearing another person's heart, not just waiting for our turn to speak. When a friend or co-worker shares an opinion or concern, we listen to understand their perspective rather than immediately defending our position in opposition to theirs. This is how Jesus listened, with full attention and compassion.
 
Being Sensitive to different communication styles acknowledges that we are wonderfully diverse. Some of us process thoughts out loud; others need silence to reflect. Some speak directly; others communicate more subtly. Recognizing these differences prevents misunderstanding and builds bridges across generations and cultures.
 
To Ponder before speaking is to create sacred space between stimulus and response. Proverbs reminds us that "even fools are thought wise if they keep silent" (17:28). In our conversations with friends and family, taking a breath before responding can prevent hasty words we later regret and allow the Holy Spirit to guide our tongues.
 
When we Examine our assumptions and perceptions, we acknowledge our own limitations. Perhaps the coworker or casual acquaintance who opposed your idea isn't being difficult; they may have historical knowledge or concerns you haven't considered. Self-examination is the beginning of wisdom.
 
Confidentiality builds the trust necessary for an authentic community. What is shared in our small groups, pastoral councils, or one-on-one conversations should be held in a way that allows relationships to deepen.
 
Finally, Trusting ambiguity means accepting that we don't always need resolution or agreement. We can hold tension together, recognizing that our unity is found in Christ, not in uniformity of opinion. Life in our families, parish, and society in general should not be about winning arguments, but about walking together toward God.
 
These virtues aren't merely communication techniques; they're expressions of love. When we practice RESPECT in our family, friendships, and parish interactions, we create spaces where people feel valued, heard, and accompanied -- exactly what Christ calls us to do.
 
This week, choose one element of RESPECT to practice intentionally. You might be surprised how this simple framework can transform not only our family and community life, but the life in our parish into a more faithful reflection of the Body of Christ.

Have you noticed how hard it can be to have a real conversation these days? So many discussions—whether about faith, politics, or everyday life—quickly turn into arguments. People talk past each other, assume the worst, and leave feeling even more divided than before. 
But as followers of Jesus, we’re called to something different. St. Paul says we should “speak the truth in love” (Eph. 4:15). That means we don’t just argue to win or prove we’re right. We try to understand, to listen with humility, and to see the image of God in the person we’re talking to, even when we don’t agree.
 
The Christian virtues coupled with listening skills explored in this column over the next few weeks are also practical tools for better conversations; they are ways to listen, ask questions, and find common ground without watering down our own beliefs. But these aren’t just “communication tips.” They come straight from our faith.
  
Imagine what our communities would look like if we led the way in having these kinds of conversations. Family dinners would still have disagreements, but they wouldn’t end in silence or shouting matches. Church meetings would be places where people could wrestle with difficult questions. Parish discussions would be places where people actually come to listen and understand one another, rather than each person standing on their own soapbox and assuming the worst about those who disagree.
 
This isn't about being "nice" at the expense of truth or avoiding hard conversations altogether. Jesus himself had plenty of difficult discussions. But he engaged with curiosity about people's hearts, not just their opinions. He asked questions that opened doors rather than building walls. He saw beyond the surface arguments to the deeper longings and fears underneath.
 
When we practice charity, humility, justice, and compassion in our conversations, we're not just using good communication techniques; we're bearing witness to the Gospel. We're showing that it's possible to hold strong convictions while treating others with dignity. We're demonstrating that love and truth aren't enemies but partners in a divine dance.
 
The world is watching how Christians handle disagreement. They're tired of seeing us tear each other apart while claiming to follow the Prince of Peace. But they're also hungry for something better; a way to talk across differences that doesn't require anyone to check their brain or their heart at the door.
 
We can start small and try these approaches in our next difficult conversation, whether at home or in the parish. We can listen for understanding before speaking to be understood. We can ask genuine questions and look for the grain of truth in what someone else is saying, even if we disagree with their conclusion. We can choose charity over cleverness.
 
Our conversations won't solve every problem or bridge every divide within our church or society. But they can plant seeds of understanding in rocky ground. They can model a different way of being human together. And sometimes, in the space between speaking and listening, we might just encounter the God who calls us to love our neighbors as ourselves, even when our neighbors see the world very differently from us.
 
The question isn't whether we'll have difficult conversations; the question is how we'll handle them. Difficult conversations are unavoidable. The question is whether we'll have them in ways that honor Christ and serve our neighbors. This is not a decision that we make once and for all. It is a decision we must make repeatedly. The choice is ours to make, one conversation at a time.

There is a family of Christian virtues that comprises the conversational disciplines, shifting our focus from winning to understanding. Some of these disciplines are well-known in philosophy and psychology, such as steelmanning, Rapoport’s Rules, and Socratic questioning. In contrast, others originate from the pastoral and spiritual tradition, including empathic reframing, narrative exchange, and shared inquiry. In future columns, I will explore each of these disciplines through the lens of Christian virtues, making them more than mere conversational techniques.
 
For instance, through the lens of Christian virtue, Steelmanning becomes an exercise in charity—choosing to represent another’s position in the strongest possible form because love “rejoices with the truth” (1 Cor. 13:6). Perspective-taking becomes an expression of empathy, mirroring the Incarnation itself: God entering our experience to redeem it. Epistemic humility involves recognizing that we are pilgrims on the way, seekers of truth who rely on the Spirit’s guidance, rather than our own certainty.
 
These practices echo the way Christ himself engaged others. He met people where they were (John 4), asked probing questions (Matt. 16:15), told stories that invited reflection (Luke 15), and even listened to those who opposed him (Luke 20:1–8). He never reduced a person to their argument; he saw them in their full humanity.

Why It Matters for the Church

The Church today faces divisions not unlike those of Corinth—splits over politics, identity, culture, and conscience. When dialogue devolves into defensiveness or contempt, the Body of Christ suffers. What we need is not more rhetorical force but deeper spiritual formation: learning to engage one another as fellow pilgrims, not as ideological adversaries.
 
If we practice these virtues, we will build trust in fractured communities, create space for evangelization by removing needless barriers, and help Catholics (and Christians broadly) engage the wider world with both conviction and compassion.
 
In a parish context, this means fewer heated arguments and more fruitful discernment. In ecumenical or interfaith contexts, it means moving beyond stereotypes to real relationships. And in personal conversations, it means discovering that even our fiercest opponents are image-bearers of God, worthy of our patience and love.
 
The goal is not to erase differences or silence convictions. Christians are called to witness to the truth boldly. But how we witness matters. As St. Peter exhorts: “Always be ready to give an answer… but do so with gentleness and reverence” (1 Pet. 3:15–16).
 
These columns are an invitation to that gentleness and reverence: to see dialogue not as a battlefield but as holy ground, where we encounter our neighbors and, in them, we encounter the presence of Christ.

We are living in a time when our nation and our world are held captive by divisiveness and violence. The violence of our times, as in other periods of crisis before us, is a time when everyone wants to speak, but few know how to listen. Knowledge of the virtues of listening would prevent a pattern of dehumanizing those with whom we disagree. Yet we can disagree without resorting to censorship and, in the most extreme cases, murder if we learn how to imitate our Lord. Our Lord modeled the practice of listening to others and engaging them when he encountered the woman at the well in Samaria and his own dejected disciples, after the resurrection, on the road to Emmaus. We need to learn this “Emmaus” form of listening, which Pope Francis called “the apostolate of the ear,” if we expect to participate in healing the wounds in our society and our Church.

In this and future articles, I intend to explore how the listening skills that work in the secular world have even greater potency when they are attached to their corresponding Christian virtues. In a polarized age where every conversation seems to teeter on the brink of debate, the Christian call to “speak the truth in love” (Eph. 4:15) can feel impossibly difficult. Many of us have been trained—by our culture, our politics, even our habits of thinking—to win arguments rather than to understand. We come to dialogue armed with soundbites, eager to correct, defend, and refute. Yet, as disciples of Jesus Christ, we are called to something deeper: to be peacemakers (Matt. 5:9), ambassadors of reconciliation (2 Cor. 5:18), and seekers of wisdom (Prov. 4:7). The articles that will follow, in future Sunday bulletins and on our website, will be an invitation to recover that deeper calling. They will be an exercise in discipleship as much as in communication.
 
These articles will begin with a simple premise: most of our disagreements are not only about the conclusions we reach, but also about the assumptions, experiences, and values that shape how we see the world. To engage others well, we must first learn to meet them where they are, listening not only to what they say but to the deeper concerns that give rise to their words.
 
In the Christian tradition, this is more than a communication skill—it is a spiritual discipline. To truly listen is an act of humility: a recognition that I do not possess the whole truth. It is an act of justice: giving my neighbor the dignity of being heard fully and fairly. It is an act of charity: willing their good by striving to understand them as God understands them. I hope you will travel with me on this journey.