My family lore includes a story about a nephew. When he and his family pulled into the driveway at my parent’s house one American Thanksgiving Day, he was first out of the car, first into the house, and first to greet his grandparents. Instead of a hello, however, he announced for everyone to hear, “Grandma, I don’t like pumpkin pie.”

Over my years in China, I’ve sat at many tables where food was served that was not to my liking. Since trumpeting my dislike is no more polite in my second culture than it is in my first, I usually practice avoidance. I’ll let a dish pass me by on the lazy Susan while filling my mouth with other food, or I’ll take a small amount on my plate and then bury it under as yet uneaten vegetables. If my avoidance seems to disappoint my hosts, I’m willing to try something even though I’d rather not. In fact, not long ago, I realized that I can confidently peel shrimp, removing the head, legs, and tail in China, but have no idea how shrimp is eaten in my home country. Not a fan of seafood, I’ve never had it there.

Once at a banquet, goose head was served. Every time the plate passed me by, I busied my mouth with other food, but the host caught on to my ruse. He picked one up with his chopsticks and turned to me with a challenge: “Why haven’t you tried this? It’s delicious.” I replied honestly, “I don’t know how to eat it.” When he demonstrated by eating both what was outside and inside the head, I had no choice but to pick one up and nibble around the skull until I could safely bury it on my plate.

When I’m sitting around a table in China, I’m also served a smorgasbord of ideas, some to my liking and some not. Most of my friends know from our personal interactions that I follow Jesus and to some extent how that influences my life. They don’t need me to keep blaring my ideas through the bullhorn of my beliefs. Instead, in some cases, I try to practice avoidance. Making negative assessments of their government or society, for example, is not my right. Commenting on their sin or judging some other group’s loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear (which I’ve done…in Chinese) is thoughtless and unkind. With some ideas, I’ll bury my thoughts and just listen. With others, I’m willing to nibble, or at least I hope I’m willing to learn from their perspectives and even reshape my own.

In some cases, I feel compelled to qualify almost everything I say through the bullhorn of my beliefs. Two situations, however, have taught me the value of silence. The first came in the form of a friend who was struggling with an issue. At one point over a meal earlier in our relationship, I felt led to answer a question by saying, “I think you can guess how I feel, but let me know when you’re ready, and I’ll share my thoughts with you.” In the intervening years, I had time to solidify my ideas and how to communicate them appropriately (even reading a book on the topic). And over many meals, he had time to learn that my friendship and support were genuine and not contingent on his change. When he finally heard my ideas, he felt disappointed but not dismissed, discouraged but with dignity intact.

In a different situation, my bullhorn was taken away because I didn’t have the language to amplify my ideas. My student Dong’s mom had attempted suicide. In an effort to encourage both of them, I visited their rural home and brought my sister along. Over two nights, we slept on a hard cement platform bed and used a hole-in-the-ground toilet buzzing with bees. We ate our meals on a table outside, and in the growing darkness afterwards, we walked. When Dong, her siblings, and mine were far enough ahead, Mom grabbed my hand and began to talk. In a Chinese dialect I didn’t understand. Without much choice, my proclivity to give advice was silenced, and I mostly listened, interjecting a comment or question at times (and praying I wasn’t completely missing the point). By some miraculous change in our tongues and ears, Mom found encouragement in our conversation and began a journey toward Hope and Peace.

Around the table, there’s a time to talk and a time to be silent. I don’t have a problem with the first. The second becomes an issue when I forget about the banquet Host and His deep love for the world. He doesn’t need us to defend Him by qualifying every idea or repeatedly trumpeting our beliefs. He’s quite capable of speaking for Himself, clearly, aptly, and right to the heart. Silencing our bullhorns, slow to speak and quick to listen, opens the door to His voice calling, convicting, and comforting weary souls.

Photo by Thắng-Nhật Trần: https://www.pexels.com/photo/close-up-of-megaphones-17619961/