On a rainy summer evening in 1997, I joined about 40,000 other men for the opening night of a Christian men’s conference that held the same ethos as a football game. The speakers claimed our masculine voices had been quiet for too long. They insisted the Bible teaches that silent men are weak, and strong men must be heard as the dominant voices in our families, churches, and communities.
Today’s brash online personalities sell machismo to young men and boys, many of whom are slipping behind in key social metrics. Broader society shares many of the same fundamental assumptions about what constitutes manhood. Stereotypical masculinity, whether labeled natural or toxic, tends to be equated with aggression, outspoken leadership, and emotional detachment. A supposed “real man” remains quiet only to camouflage his physical pain or mental distress.
The Bible, though, abounds with righteous men whose silence was integral to their faith. Godly men in scripture used silence to protect the vulnerable, create space for women to be heard, and collaborate in response to God’s call. Men and all people of faith can find inspiration and wisdom for daily living in these examples of silent fidelity.
When St. Joseph discovered Mary’s pregnancy, he could have demanded answers. Lesser men would have verbally abused Mary and defended their own reputation. Rather than shaming her, Joseph decided to end their relationship quietly. An angel instructed him to follow through with the marriage, and Joseph set aside doubts and obeyed the angel, even if it meant being perceived to father a child outside of society’s norms.
The traditional roles of speech and silence are reversed in the marriage of Zechariah and Elizabeth, the elderly parents of John the Baptist. When the archangel Gabriel announced Elizabeth’s pregnancy, Zechariah demanded answers: “How shall I know this?” Instead of lauding him as an outspoken man, Gabriel removed Zechariah’s faculty of speech for the duration of Elizabeth’s pregnancy.
Once Elizabeth gave birth, she named their newborn son John. The couple’s family assumed Zechariah would veto his wife, but he acquiesced to her. She decided, he submitted, and his voice immediately returned. In silence, Zechariah learned humility, which created space for Elizabeth’s voice to be heard—and scripture describes them both as righteous and blameless (Luke 1:6).
Silence was also vital for the ministry of one of the Bible’s wordiest men. Moses balked when the Lord instructed him to confront Pharaoh. “I am slow of speech and slow of tongue,” he told God (Exod. 4:10). Perhaps Moses had a speech disability, feared provoking the king, or a combination of both. Regardless, Moses depended on Aaron to speak for him, which permitted the brothers to collaborate as they “spoke to Pharaoh king of Egypt to bring the Israelites out of Egypt” (Exod. 6:27).
Their sister, Miriam, whom scripture calls a prophet, participated in their leadership team. God spoke through her in jubilant song after Israel crossed the Red Sea (Exod. 15:20, Mic. 6:4). Moses’ original reluctance to speak opened avenues of cooperation and celebration that benefitted the entire community.
When King Saul sought to assassinate David, Saul’s son, Jonathan, hid David and remained quiet concerning his whereabouts. The irrationally jealous monarch responded by cursing Jonathan and hurling a spear at him.
Jesus sets the ultimate standard of silence as fidelity beginning with his nativity. In The Life of the Virgin, seventh-century theologian St. Maximus the Confessor wrote that Jesus “entered into the Virgin’s holy womb silently and . . . he put on human flesh from her, and so he went forth easily and supernaturally.” For Maximus, silence was mysteriously essential for Jesus to receive the incarnation of his divinity from his mother.
Jesus regularly used silence to heal. After my son’s death, I found particular solace from the story about how Jesus secluded the family of Jairus from the wailing crowd to raise their lifeless daughter.
On another occasion, Jesus employed silence to save a woman from a mob of enraged men who had accused her of adultery. They shouted scripture, insisting she should be executed. Jesus ignored their noise, wrote on the ground, and hushed them. The horde slowly dispersed, and Jesus tenderly consoled the woman.
By staying quiet, Jesus invited marginalized voices into dialogue. He listened to a Samaritan woman and assented to the request of a Syrophoenician woman after she outdid him in lively debate.
Jesus remained silent when he was arrested, tortured, and put on trial. It is little wonder the earliest Christians understood Jesus as a “lamb that is led to the slaughter and like a sheep that before its shearers is silent, so he did not open his mouth” (Isa. 53:7).
In all these stories, men overcame the fear of being ignored, misunderstood, or harmed in their faithfulness to God. This means the silence of Christian discipleship is not only for men; it is a virtue for everyone who follows Christ, especially those in positions of responsibility.
I have experienced silent fidelity emerging from a profound love that allows me to voluntarily hand over the mic, trusting the Holy Spirit to convey an inimitable message through someone else—especially someone whose voice has customarily been muted or I may disagree with.
Practicing faithful silence involves what Simone Weil described as “negative effort.” This inner fortitude restrains the impulse of wanting to be heard, thereby opening a capacious expanse into which the Spirit of God can utter a creative word through someone else.
Developing the prudence vital for silent fidelity requires turning off the phone, and it cannot be performed by artificial intelligence. Although I frequently fail, disciplines such as Ignatian exercises, centering prayer, and eucharistic adoration help me foster the courage to check myself when tempted to speak up unnecessarily.
Still, remaining silent can feel like capitulation to the corrosive clamor of contemporary existence. Silence can perpetuate violence, conceal inequities, and prevent wholeness. Domestic abusers count on silence. Corrupt church officials have covered up misdeeds with secrecy. People—especially adolescents—often hide their mental health issues because they fear the stigma of asking for help. As politicians hurl bombastic insults and explosions drown out voices calling for peace, algorithms push customized commotion.
How can goodness be heard by keeping quiet? Yet silence as an expression of holiness is neither complicity nor withdrawal. It is the faith and hope necessary for engagement, reconciliation, and salubrity.
In church, prayerful silence is integral to synodality. Pope Leo XIV has approved this model of ecclesial encounter, allowing those who have historically spoken the most to hear others whose views have largely been neglected. The Synod of Young Adults in the Diocese of Phoenix provided venues for church leaders to pay attention to young adults and collaborate on ways for the church to better accompany them.
Local Catholic parishes provide ideal settings for silent fidelity. In some parishes, clergy unilaterally set agendas and make decisions without meaningful lay involvement. However, clergy can lead like Moses by stepping back and empowering lay parishioners to participate in leadership.
Fathers are uniquely situated to model Christian manhood. We can demonstrate that virtuous silence does not preclude boys from stating their opinions, articulating their needs, or participating in traditional male activities. Instead, it is an invitation to embody the example of Jesus who, in his self-giving, was not only true God but also true man.
There is no one-size-fits-all spirituality for men or anyone. Wielding speech or silence as weapons of cruelty, harassment, or derision always replaces the logic of Christ with spiritual swagger, regardless of who is doing it.
Authentic Christian discipleship recognizes there is a “time to keep silent and a time to speak” (Eccl. 3:7). For me, knowing what time it is involves failing, learning, and readjusting. But silent fidelity is not attained by doing nothing; it is discovered in the din and bustle of daily life.
This article also appears in the July 2026 issue of U.S. Catholic (Vol. 91, No. 7, page 41). Click here to subscribe to the magazine.
Image: Joseph’s Dream, Crypt of the church of Gargilesse, Photo by Daniel Villafruela/CC BY-SA 3.0
