When I was in grad school, I had a teacher who taught a class called “Counseling Skills” or something to that effect. I kind of rolled my eyes when I realized I had to take that class, because I had the arrogance to believe I knew how to listen, how to care, and how to communicate compassion already and didn’t need a class to help me. The lesson in humility, though, was not given through the class material itself, but by the professor. This man walked in to talk to a bunch of new students who were all prospective counselors, and approached with such gentleness it stopped me in my illusions of grandeur and made me pay attention.
In thinking back to this kind man, I realize that he taught me how to listen because he actually listened in class. Sure, he taught the lessons, but then he would calmly entertain questions and treat each student with such value and worth that you instantly felt like you mattered—even if your question was really stupid. He never looked like he was trying to come up with an answer while listening, but would take the question with a minute of consideration so he could truly take in everything the person was saying.
I came to find out throughout the semester that this man was dying of cancer. He didn’t tell us, but once in a while when he would have to miss class, the substitute informed us that he would be doing that occasionally when he didn’t feel he could have enough strength to teach. And yet, there was never a demand for respect or honor, but a continued communication of his students’ value as he approached with gentleness. I watched him deteriorate throughout the semester, and attended his funeral the next year after he went to be with Jesus face-to-face. I remember thinking how it must feel for him to be present with the One his soul loved so much, and who had always listened to him.
What I realized through this class was that listening was important for relationship. I felt more connected to this professor than most others throughout my seminary experience. I believed he wanted to know me as an individual and didn’t treat me as just a number. I want to listen the way he did. I want to listen to people, and I want to listen to Jesus as He talks to me too. I am learning to listen to God, as so often I approach with so much chatter, so many demands and so much urgency. And He listens to all of it with a gentleness my professor learned from Him. But I want to listen to Him as well, as I grow deeper in relationship and really get to enjoy conversation rather than a monologue on my part.
I think of Mary as she sat at the feet of Jesus, while Martha was busy preparing for guests. Martha wasn’t wrong for preparing, but Mary was choosing to listen first. I want that to be my attitude—listening to Jesus throughout my day so that His words can flow through every task I do.
God speaks, and He says we know His voice as His sheep. I want to know it more and more, tuned to it like I can identify my husband’s voice across a room full of people. My great desire is to listen well, hearing my Savior’s words to me no matter what else is going on. Let’s quiet the other voices that yell at us all the time, making space for us to hear our Shepherd.
And the sheep recognize the voice of the true Shepherd, for he calls his own by name and leads them out, for they belong to him. John 10:3b