The soul is shy and risks unrobing only in the safest of rooms.

Such a room can be created by a listener whose attunement and gentle presence give us the courage to risk being seen. 

Modern spiritual directors — who, despite the name, do little directing—aim to create these safe spaces largely through reflective listening, a modality that offers many gifts: the gift of hearing our own hearts, the gift of discerning God in our lives, and the gift, sometimes, of discovering we already know what we need to do. 

Yet for all the value reflective listening provides, sometimes what’s needed is diagnosis and concrete direction. Advice. Counsel. 

I’m not talking about a book someone pushes into your hands when a hug would have done more good. I mean a word—a shot of practical wisdom injected into the place of need by someone with the loving authority and permission to do so. 

The letters of 17^th-century French archbishop François Fénelon gave such words to those seeking his spiritual direction.

“I have noticed,” he wrote to one directee, ​“a tendency in you to talk about problems rather than abandoning yourself to God and leaving them with Him. And you will be better off both physically and spiritually when you quietly place everything in God’s hands.”

Out of context, that sounds curt and insensitive. The reason such a pointed word could help rather than harm is because of relationship and character. Fénelon was beloved by royalty and peasants alike, and he welcomed both with equal dignity. He was known for being approachable, gentle, and humble. By all accounts, people enjoyed him and he enjoyed them. Most who received advice in his letters had first known compassion in his face.

Centuries later, we who meet Fénelon only in books can still feel something of his tenderness even in his toughest advice. How many times have I picked up my tattered copy of The Seeking Heart for an encouraging word and found not only a word that comforts but a word that stings and brings relief — like a lance of a loving doctor.

In the right context, at the right time, and with the right love and motivation, we can give these kinds of words to one another. 

One time an older musician, a follower of Jesus I deeply admire, invited me and my wife to lunch. He spent hours listening, visiting, and being present. Then, somewhat suddenly, in a moment freighted with the Holy Spirit, he looked me dead in the eyes and said words I’ve never forgotten — words that named a broken condition and a practical way in which to combat it. Some traditions call this a prophetic word — a telling of truth that transcends and descends; it originates from a higher plane and penetrates to a deeper place. More than simply a listening ear, I needed that word… a word from someone who saw in my unrobed soul things I could not see and — rather than ignore or shame — helped to mend the wounds the unrobing revealed.