St. Simon and St. Jude Day I — Like the Dew

The Quiet Strength of a Gentle Word

May my teaching drop like the rain, my speech condense like the dew; like gentle rain on grass, like showers on new growth. 

— Deuteronomy 32:2

On October 28, the Church commemorates two of Jesus' apostles, Simon and Jude. We know relatively little about either man. Simon is identified as “the Zealot,” although precisely what that designation meant in his lifetime remains uncertain. Jude, sometimes called Thaddaeus, is traditionally identified with the disciple who asked Jesus why he intended to reveal himself to his followers and not to the world (John 14:22). Jesus answered by speaking of love, obedience, and the remarkable promise that God would make his home with those who love him. What an interesting pair of apostles to remember as we consider the manner in which we share our faith! One bears a name suggesting zeal; the other is remembered for a question that invited Jesus to explain himself. Perhaps there is room in the life of faith for both passionate conviction and gentle, searching conversation.

In today's reading from Deuteronomy, Moses offers a beautiful image of teaching and proclamation. His words are to fall like rain, settling upon the earth like dew, nourishing the grass and encouraging new growth. How different this seems from the fiery oratory we so often associate with powerful preaching! Many of us enjoy a sermon that gets the adrenaline flowing, that stomps on a few toes, that brings an audience to its feet. There can certainly be a place for passionate proclamation. Moses himself was no stranger to confrontation, and Scripture does not portray him as incapable of anger. Yet here he imagines his teaching not as a thunderstorm that sends people running for shelter, but as moisture that gently nourishes the earth. Dew is especially remarkable. We seldom see it forming. We simply wake in the morning to discover that the grass has been watered.

I think of my friend Arvel Tate, Jr., known affectionately as Junior to those who know him, although he is now well into his eighties. Junior is not a professional preacher. Yet I have heard him fill the pulpit when needed, and I have watched him teach Sunday school. He is not loud or boisterous. He doesn't depend upon dramatic gestures or an imposing personality. He is gentle, humble, and unassuming, yet there is something unmistakably strong and authoritative about his presence. He smiles more than he frowns. And I have said many times that I would rather hear Junior Tate speak softly and sincerely from the heart than listen to an award-winning preacher whose theological credentials and command of biblical languages are the envy of the profession. That is no criticism of scholarship, which can enrich our understanding of Scripture enormously. But learning and eloquence cannot substitute for the quiet authority of someone whose life gives credibility to his words.

I sometimes wonder whether Christianity would encounter quite so much hostility in our culture if more of us approached others with the gentleness Moses describes. Certainly, people have thoughtful and legitimate reasons for questioning religious claims, and not every skeptic's objections arise from an unpleasant encounter with Christians. But I have seen enough bitterness, ridicule, and mutual suspicion in our public conversations to wonder whether we Christians have sometimes helped create the very resistance we lament. We can become so determined to win an argument, defend a doctrine, or demonstrate the errors of another person's thinking that we forget the person standing before us. We may leave someone thoroughly impressed by the strength of our convictions, but scarcely touched by the love that is supposed to animate them.

Over the past several weeks, these reflections have repeatedly returned to the importance of gentleness, patience, presence, and genuine conversation. We have considered the difference between cultivating good fruit and merely pulling weeds, between showing up for others and simply making plans to do so, and between asking questions that encourage understanding and questions designed to embarrass. Now Moses offers us another image for the same journey. We need not abandon conviction to become gentle. Simon's zeal and Jude's willingness to ask questions remind us that faith can be both passionate and inquisitive. But passion need not become intimidation, and certainty need not become contempt. Sometimes the strongest testimony we offer is not the argument that leaves someone speechless, but the kindness that makes someone willing to listen.

And so I find myself asking whether my own words fall like dew or strike like hail. When I speak about my faith, am I trying to nourish something in another person, or merely demonstrate the strength of my own beliefs? Do I leave people feeling encouraged to grow, or simply overwhelmed by the force of my convictions? Perhaps the most effective preaching is not always the preaching we remember hearing. Sometimes it is the preaching whose effects we discover much later, when we realize that something within us has quietly begun to grow. Like dew gathering on the grass overnight, the most enduring work of faith may happen without applause, without spectacle, and without anyone noticing exactly when it began.

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